The hares and pheasants barely sufficed to whet the appetites of the three werewolves. They devoured the meat in a few swift bites, hardly tasting it.

  Wild mountain goats, however, proved far more satisfying. Their thick hides and ample flesh, when slow-roasted over an open flame, released sizzling drips of fat that hissed into the fire, sending waves of tantalizing aroma through the forest. Even the birds in the trees were lured into a chorus of greedy cries.

  It wasn't until they had stripped an entire roasted goat to the bone that Draven finally paused, a trace of grease still glistening at the corner of his mouth. He glanced down at the picked-clean skeleton and suddenly understood.

  "No wonder there's a food shortage everywhere," he muttered. "These beastfolk eat like bottomless pits."

  The journey resumed. Overhead, the Ghost-faced Owl swept silently through the skies as a scout, while the trolls trudged along as their steadfast vanguard.

  For several days, their passage was smooth—too smooth. It felt as if the very land had softened its heart toward them.

  Three days later, they finally halted atop a high mountain to rest.

  Standing at the cliff's edge, Draven gazed down at the winding trails below and realized they were nearing the edge of the succubi's central domain.

  From this height, the entire basin unfolded like a map beneath them. The succubi resembled tiny insects huddled at the bottom of a great bowl, encircled on all sides by towering mountain ranges.

  Selene City had long vanished from view, replaced by dense forests and endless green stretching to the horizon.

  The soil here was rich, the water abundant. Were it inhabited by humans, this basin would've long since been transformed into a thriving agricultural heartland.

  But alas, beastfolk were not cultivators. They couldn't even erect proper structures.

  Makeshift shelters sprawled across the land—crude huts of branches and hides, pitiful excuses for habitation. Urban planning was nonexistent; even a decent road was nowhere to be found.

  Draven sighed, his disappointment deepening. This wasn't the first time he'd been let down by the beastfolk, but never had the disillusionment struck him so acutely.

  "What a waste," he muttered. "This land in their hands is a crime against nature."

  Even so, his eyes involuntarily swept across the vast green basin once more. For all his frustration, he had to admit—the succubi had chosen their home wisely.

  The terrain within the basin was flat, surrounded by natural mountain defenses. Unless one could fly, large-scale assaults were practically impossible.

  It was no wonder that during their years in Selene City, they had heard not a whisper of war. With such impregnable geography, the succubi had enjoyed an easy, tranquil existence.

  "But terrain alone won't feed you," Draven growled under his breath. "No farming, no breeding—just hunting and raiding. These fools are starving themselves into extinction."

  He shook his head and turned away, unwilling to look any longer upon such squandered land. His gaze drifted toward the distant mountains.

  He had known more mountains lay ahead, but he still couldn't help but pray that his own future domain wouldn't be carved from such godforsaken wilderness.

  The sight of the jagged peaks unsettled him. They loomed like the spines of ancient beasts, imprisoning the land in oppressive silence. Draven narrowed his eyes, irritation gnawing at his chest.

  "If they give me land like this," he muttered, "I might just weep on the spot."

  They said his future territory would lie in the hills—but the word hill felt ominously misleading.

  He could only hope the "hills" resembled mounds more than mountains. Maybe then he could clear some fields, grow some crops, and avoid starvation.

  Once they entered the mountains, their pace slowed considerably—not only due to the treacherous paths but also because their pack beasts were cumbersome and unfit for such terrain.

  Bred for open plains, these creatures now struggled along narrow trails, wheezing like overworked oxen, ever on the brink of tumbling down the steep slopes.

  To prevent the caravan from falling into chaos, Draven took the lead himself, charting a course through the rugged terrain. With a map in hand, he switched to the Ghost-faced Owl's vantage, using its aerial view to search for passable routes.

  Sharing the owl's vision spared him much toil—had he relied solely on human eyes, they would've circled half the mountain range in vain.

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  Eventually, he located a serviceable path and paused at the summit to carve a few rough markers into the rock as a guide for the others.

  The wind tugged wildly at his cloak. He called for the Ghost-faced Owl to scout ahead and then bounded down the scree-strewn slope, stones shifting beneath his feet.

  The further he went, the more he felt like a contestant in some savage survival challenge. His hide garments had been slashed by brambles, and thorny twigs clung to his shoulders like trophies of his struggle.

  Swearing under his breath, he yanked them free. The needles pricked his fingers sharply, stoking his rising temper—until a ripple of unease suddenly washed over him.

  The Ghost-faced Owl was sending back a strange emotion—nervous, jittery, laced with a tinge of fear.

  Draven froze. He closed his eyes and slipped into the owl's senses.

  The world sharpened at once. Nestled in the limbs of an ancient tree, the Ghost-faced Owl crouched with wings tucked tight, peering through the dense foliage at a clearing below.

  There, a small group of figures fled in panic—their movements frantic, faces contorted in terror as though pursued by some unseen horror.

  Draven squinted, trying to make out their features. When he caught sight of the fluffy, twitching ears perched atop their heads, he froze.

  Then, without hesitation, he snapped back into his own body and tore through the underbrush, not even pausing to pull out the thorns from his skin.

  He unslung his battle-axe and charged toward the direction of the owl.

  "Foxkin!" he shouted.

  Foxkin girls—those legendary beast-eared maidens with soft, furred ears and plumed tails!

  Though he had encountered many of their kind over the years, and beast-eared maidens were no longer a novelty to him, this was the first time he'd seen a group of them fleeing in such desperate disarray.

  In Selene City, what kind of women hadn't he seen? Succubi, panther-women, lamias, cat-eared girls, dragonkin... he'd seen them all, and far too often to be impressed anymore.

  But this time, it was different.

  How to describe it? Like strolling down the boulevards of a grand metropolis, where beauties pass by in droves—eventually, your senses dull, and at most, you spare a few appreciative glances without stirring real emotion.

  But this wasn't that.

  This was the wilderness, the untamed depths of the forest, where perfection had leapt from the underbrush like a gift from the gods.

  These fox-girl maidens were lightly dressed, their figures slender, their tails fluffy and ears twitching with nervous grace. Their eyes shimmered with fear and beauty, reminiscent of the forest nymphs sung of in myth.

  And the best part? Encountering them here wasn't against the law. No guards. No lords. No meddlesome elders leaping out to scold him for indecency.

  Draven nearly burst out laughing, the corner of his mouth twitching as he tightened his grip on the greataxe and lunged forward like a toy soldier wound to its limit.

  He moved as though some unseen force propelled him, the wind howling at his feet, branches whipping past, his cloak flaring behind him like storm-tossed sails.

  "This trip's already worth it," he muttered mid-sprint, bounding over rocks and roots, his breath growing ragged, cheeks flushed, body flushed with heat.

  At last, he reached the gnarled old tree where the Ghost-faced Owl lay hidden, halting with a gasp beneath its thick branches and verdant canopy, completely cloaked in shadow.

  From afar, the fox-girls came dashing in his direction—panicked, breathless, like startled deer fleeing a blaze.

  At first, Draven thought they were merely scattering in fright. But soon he saw the truth—something was indeed chasing them.

  A pack of ape-men, hulking and hairy, muscles taut and limbs thick. They bellowed as they charged, brandishing cudgels, eyes glinting with savage hunger.

  Draven's heart sank. His brow twitched. "Damn it. These flea-ridden apes dare compete with me?"

  As the ape-men closed in, he could no longer hold back.

  With a thunderous roar, he burst from behind the tree like a thunderbolt, axe gleaming as he planted himself squarely between the pursuers and their prey.

  He wasn't one for reckless killing. He wouldn't strike without understanding the situation. But that didn't mean he lacked presence. His lupine howl carried weight, rippling through the forest and bringing a hush to the trees.

  The ape-men faltered, instinctively tightening their grips on their clubs. They stared at the sudden arrival—the towering werewolf—eyes narrowing with wary tension.

  Seven or eight blooded warriors, but none of them bore the mark of a chieftain. They could sense Draven's aura—dense, oppressive, sharp enough to prickle the skin.

  With a scoff, Draven lazily swung his axe in his palm, its edge hissing through the air with a menacing hum.

  The fox-girls finally came to a trembling stop, gasping for breath in the distance. Mud streaked their cheeks, their garments torn in places, yet they remained strikingly beautiful.

  One girl in particular—young, with star-bright eyes—spoke in a trembling voice, on the verge of tears.

  Draven's heart stirred. With a sardonic smirk, he called out, "On Lady Selene's land, and you dare run wild?"

  It was a bluff, a name-drop to shake the ape-men's resolve.

  Sure enough, they glanced at one another, eyes flickering. A few looked down, silent and uneasy.

  But Draven knew better. It wasn't guilt—it was fear. Had he been merely a blooded warrior, they would've swarmed him without hesitation.

  Forget rules and order—among beastkin, might made right.

  These fox-people were clearly refugees—old and young, sick and wounded. Everything about them screamed flight and desperation.

  Another race might've shown mercy. But ape-men? They wouldn't pass up such easy sport.

  Especially not when so many of the girls were undeniably beautiful.

  Draven's mind raced. The map he'd studied days ago had marked this territory as belonging to the ape-men. These fox-folk had trespassed—likely unknowingly.

  No doubt, the ape-men had first assumed enemy incursion, but when they saw the girls, their mood had swiftly changed. After all, the fox-kin were renowned for their beauty among beastkind.

  Even a race as brutish as the ape-men had their standards. And these girls had stumbled right into their lustful hands.

  Draven could tell—this band of foxes had no leader-class strength. Just a few aging guards holding the line. Without them, it would've already ended in slaughter—or worse.

  The thought made him grin, his lips curling into a mocking sneer.

  He hefted the axe deliberately, eyes cold as they swept over the ape-warriors. The weapon gleamed menacingly, its edge eager. He looked like a man deciding whether or not to let it taste blood.

  The ape-men exchanged glances. Their leader furrowed his brow, resentment flickering in his eyes—alongside something else. Fear.

  He muttered a curse under his breath, then looked at Draven once more. There was fury in his gaze, but also caution.

  And then, with a grunt, he turned away.

  The others followed, retreating step by step. Only once they had backed far enough did they whirl around and vanish into the forest.

  Silence returned to the woods.

  Draven exhaled, slinging the axe over his shoulder.

  He hadn't come here to wage war on ape territory. That would've been a costly mistake.