Rurik and Bran had long since grown used to Draven's odd mind—and just as used to obeying his orders without question.

  They didn't have a choice. Those who had resisted paid the price. As for the two of them, they had been getting beaten up since they were thirteen or fourteen. Now, at seventeen or eighteen, they'd been beaten into submission.

  Even though they were strong fighters now, obeying Draven's commands had become muscle memory.

  "I've already thought of the name," Draven said, casting them a quick glance, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

  He pointed at the door. "You can go now."

  Rurik, Alaric, and Ayla stood up at once and obediently walked out the door.

  Bran blinked, stunned. "Why are you leaving? We were just getting started."

  Bang! The door slammed shut from the inside. Bran winced, clutching his backside, pouting as he sniffled.

  Only two people remained in the room. Draven sat on the fur-covered ground, chuckling to himself. The space was so quiet he could hear the echo clearly—it pleased him. He patted the pelts beside him, clearly in a good mood.

  Having a large enough room was crucial. Clear echoes, unrestricted movements—perfect for practicing those complex, high-level moves.

  Right now, he was holding Viola, talking softly. She was curled in his arms, cheeks flushed, her breathing still uneven.

  "You said there's a magic array beneath the house?" Viola asked in a hushed voice.

  No sooner had she spoken than she snapped fully awake. Her slightly dazed eyes sparkled with clarity.

  "Where?" she exclaimed, practically leaping from his embrace. Naked, she scrambled to the edge of the floor, squinting as she tried to peer down below.

  The fire fox clan's magical affinity lay primarily in fire-based spells, but they weren't opposed to other magical systems. As long as the array's structure was sound, fire foxes could use it too.

  Draven watched her back, her fluffy tail swaying gently in the air, mirroring her excitement.

  He swallowed, growling low in his throat. The next second, he lunged.

  Viola let out a soft yelp but didn't dodge. Instead, her tail flared wide, wrapping around the two of them like a blazing fire.

  More chaos ensued.

  —

  The next morning, the room was quiet.

  Draven had already dressed. He glanced down at Viola, still sound asleep in the furs, and gently tucked the covers around her.

  "Sleep in a bit today," he murmured, unusually gentle.

  He pushed open the stone door, and a wave of morning chill hit his face. The air outside was damp; the sun hadn't fully risen.

  He stretched, his joints cracking audibly. He frowned slightly.

  "Really need to get a proper bed. My back's killing me from sleeping on the floor," he muttered, rubbing his lower back.

  Just then, Rurik walked up from the village entrance, a crude longbow slung over his back, a blade at his waist—clearly ready to go hunting.

  "There might be goats in the eastern woods," Draven said, pointing. "Go check it out today."

  "Got it." Rurik nodded solemnly.

  Both he and Bran had now awakened their bloodlines. Though still lacking experience, they needed to start learning how to act independently. Draven couldn't watch over them forever.

  That said, he wasn't the type to throw them to the wolves. Ragnar remained nearby, perched silently on a high point like a silent guardian. If anything urgent happened, a single wolf howl would bring them running.

  With those arrangements settled, Draven turned to his own task—resuming the territorial inspection he'd left unfinished.

  But first, there was something more important to do.

  He followed the newly paved gravel path at the village entrance all the way to the riverbank. The grass was damp underfoot, morning dew glistening on the blades.

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  Birdsong echoed from the forest by the river. Draven tilted his head back and whistled. Moments later, a ghost-faced owl swooped down from the branches, landing lightly on his shoulder.

  Ever since that unidentified water creature showed up in the river, Draven had assigned the owl to watch the shoreline. It had since made this part of the forest its permanent home.

  Partly for river security, and partly because the area was close to the village—having the owl here was like having a natural sentry post.

  A few dozen steps farther stood a massive trapezoidal boulder, about twice a man's height, standing alone at the fork in the path. That was his true destination today.

  Draven retrieved a heavy axe from his storage ring and stepped up to the rock. He raised the blade and began carving into the smooth surface.

  Stone chips flew. His breathing remained steady, each stroke precise, carving deep, straight lines. Soon, bold letters appeared on the rock face: Black Flag Territory.

  He carved the same letters on the opposite side.

  These weren't mere marks. They were a declaration of sovereignty, a symbol of ownership.

  From this day forward, this land was part of the Black Flag Territory's territory. Anyone who came would know it at a glance.

  Once the carving was done, Draven entered the nearby woods, bending down to dig up a bunch of reddish-brown roots.

  He carried the sweet potatoes over to the stone and crushed them one by one. The juice was thick and vividly red.

  He carefully packed the sticky red pulp into the carved letters—just like a craftsman finishing a dyed inscription.

  Once all the letters were filled, he took out a water skin and poured the water evenly over the markings. The juice seeped slowly into the cracks, deepening the color further.

  The red sweet potato pulp, which looked like mud at first, gradually changed color as the water soaked in. The dull gray began to glow, slowly shifting into a deep, vivid crimson—almost as if blood were seeping from the rock itself.

  Minutes later, the engraved letters on both sides of the stone were glowing a deep red under the morning sun, gleaming faintly. The color was so intense, it stirred a vague sense of unease, as if some ancient ritual had just been completed.

  Draven looked at the village name he had carved and grinned. He raised both arms like an artist unveiling a masterpiece.

  "This stuff really works," he murmured, clearly pleased. He knew that if it hadn't been for Viola last night—half lying in his arms, whispering to him how to use sweet potato juice as a natural dye—he would never have believed such a crude trick could produce such an eerie effect.

  "She deserves a good night's rest tonight," he thought to himself, rubbing his chin, then patted the Ghost-faced Owl beside him. "Come on, time to patrol."

  He turned toward the woods as he spoke. The owl leapt from the rock, fluttering lightly onto his shoulder, its head swiveling with uncanny agility.

  Draven glanced back at the freshly carved stone marker, a swell of satisfaction rising in his chest. Like it or not, he was a village chief now—never mind that the "village" only had a dozen or so families.

  Sure, Black Flag Territory sounded a bit grandiose, but Draven knew this was only the beginning.

  He had to keep a close eye on the forest. That bizarre terrain he had seen the other day still gnawed at his thoughts. Since he was already here, he might as well check it out.

  The forest stretched roughly seven to eight kilometers east to west. He was now near its center, only three or four kilometers from the edge.

  For the Draven of today, that kind of distance was nothing. Back in the day, it might have taken him half a day to cross, but now, just a few steps.

  The only regret was that Ragnar couldn't accompany him—someone had to guard the village.

  "One of these days, I need to contract two more large magical beasts," Draven muttered, pushing through the underbrush.

  His footsteps crunched softly over fallen leaves, sunlight streaming through the trees to strike his shoulder and axe handle. Occasionally, he brushed aside low-hanging branches as he made his way toward the forest's edge.

  Finally, at the edge of a wide clearing, he stopped in his tracks.

  Before him loomed a cliff, twenty or thirty meters high. The rock face curved inward like a crescent moon, enclosing the edge of the forest. Moss, weeds, and a few tenacious saplings clung to the cracks in the stone, swaying in the breeze.

  "That's... oddly uniform." Draven squinted at the cliff, frowning.

  The height and structure of the rock weren't what shocked him—it was the shape. The cliff stretched in a straight, uninterrupted line as far as the eye could see, as if some colossal force had sliced it with perfect precision.

  Suddenly, he remembered the scene he had glimpsed through the Ghost-faced Owl's eyes a few days ago. A knot formed in his stomach.

  "Could this really be that so-called Divine War Highlands?" he muttered, stepping forward quickly. He pulled out his axe and began clearing moss and dirt from the cliff's surface.

  The axe struck stone with a sharp, piercing ring. Soon, he had exposed a clean patch of rock. Leaning in to examine it, his frown deepened.

  "Wrong color. Wrong texture. This isn't natural bedrock."

  He stood up, grip tightening around his axe handle, mind spinning with tales of gods and the changes they had wrought upon the land in ancient battles.

  Normally, he wouldn't give such legends the time of day—but those two squid-like creatures had spoken with such conviction, even claiming their ancestors had served the Beast God.

  And this cliff, so sharply carved, was hard to dismiss.

  He kicked at the dirt by his feet, brooding for a long moment, then suddenly spat on the ground and cursed loudly, "To hell with your Divine Wars—this land's mine now!"

  He straightened up, gazing at the towering natural barrier before him, and a thought suddenly struck.

  If the forest's sides and far end were bordered by cliffs like this, wouldn't that make the area a natural fortress? A terrain-made stronghold?

  "If I built a wall across that gap in the north..." His eyes lit up, brain racing through calculations.

  This stretch of land ran twenty to thirty kilometers deep and spanned seven to eight kilometers in width. In terms of area, it was larger than many established territories.

  If he built that wall, it could become a real base of operations—fit to house people, station troops, maybe even host a magitech tower and farmlands.

  The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. His eyes gleamed, fists clenched unconsciously.

  Then reality hit him like a bucket of cold water.

  "Seven or eight kilometers of wall... how much stone would that take? How many workers?" Draven mumbled, face falling.

  "My current batch of slaves can't even patch up a fence," he muttered, scratching his head.

  He sighed and shook his head, trying to shove the unrealistic thought away.

  But it had already been planted like a seed. And every time he paused for even a second, it would sprout again, playing itself over and over in his mind.

  He slapped his own forehead. "Get real. Don't go dreaming so far ahead."