Over the past few days, Draven had explored most parts of the forest.

  As an experienced hunter, he knew that magical beasts wouldn't just stand around waiting to be discovered. They either hid deep in the shadows or roamed at a distance, ready to strike at any moment.

  However, Draven had learned plenty of tracking techniques to determine whether magical beasts were nearby—by examining footprints, droppings, animal corpses, or even discarded feathers and scales.

  Through these clues, he could estimate both the number and species of magical beasts inhabiting the forest.

  After a rough survey, he found the population of magical beasts to be moderate, mostly low-tier creatures.

  Draven saw no reason to waste time chasing them down; instead, he left those hunting tasks to Rurik and Bran, two young hunters who also needed to gain experience rather than constantly relying on him as their leader.

  Draven's focus was on leader-level beasts—mid-tier magical beasts he might still be able to kill on his own.

  If he ran into high-tier ones, though, he'd need a retreat plan in advance to avoid heavy casualties.

  The good news was that the forest still seemed relatively safe—rich in resources and with a favorable environment.

  This forest alone was enough to support their people and sustain a decent life.

  Just as Draven was about to patrol the last remaining sector, thinking he could finally lay to rest the unease in his heart, a chilling sensation crept up his spine.

  It was a primal warning—instinct telling him that danger was drawing near.

  Draven instantly went on alert. He knew something—or someone—had set its sights on him.

  Without hesitation, he scrambled up a thick tree, locking his legs around the trunk and gripping his battle axe, ready for a potential attack.

  He scanned the area behind him but saw nothing unusual—no prey, no enemies, nothing out of place.

  Still uneasy, he signaled to the Ghost-faced Owl nearby, instructing it to scout the rear.

  The owl, bound to him by a force contract, was compelled to obey his orders.

  Its report came quickly and confirmed that Draven's instincts hadn't betrayed him.

  Even the low-tier beasts that typically roamed this area had steered clear, meaning something far more dangerous was lurking here.

  Draven furrowed his brow and commanded the owl to continue scouting and maintain high alert.

  Relying on its keen senses, he soon picked up a faint rustling sound coming from the woods ahead.

  It was subtle—something brushing against leaves, just barely audible.

  Yet to Draven, it was the telltale sign of a living creature.

  He judged the creature to be small, but he didn't relax.

  Size wasn't a reliable measure of threat—some of the deadliest magical beasts were the tiniest ones.

  Draven swapped out his axe for a longbow.

  He knew he was at a disadvantage here and would have to force the creature to reveal itself—there was no way to strike otherwise.

  He aimed in the direction of the sound and loosed an arrow laced with a faint blood-red glow.

  It wasn't meant to hit, but to startle the creature into moving, thereby exposing its position.

  The arrow zipped through the gaps in the trees and landed silently.

  Draven, agile as a monkey, leapt from one branch to another, following its path.

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  Then, he saw a flash of green—a slender tail, emerald in color, twitching rapidly like that of a serpent.

  Draven didn't charge in recklessly. Instead, he mentally reviewed all the serpent-like magical beasts he knew.

  But this one didn't match any of them—not in appearance, nor in behavior.

  He couldn't identify the species, but he was certain of one thing: it was venomous.

  The blackened trail it left on the tree trunk was unmistakable—corrosion or scorching, likely caused by its toxic body.

  However, those charred traces provided Draven with a clue.

  With such obvious markings, finding the venomous serpent wouldn't be too difficult. As long as he followed the trail, he would eventually uncover its hiding place.

  Yet, hesitation stirred in Draven's heart. Werewolves, by nature, didn't possess strong resistance to poison. He wasn't confident he could subdue the serpent before being affected by its toxins.

  Besides, he was well aware of one trait shared by serpent-type magical beasts—they were experts at concealing their presence and tracks, making them difficult to detect. Even if he managed to track it down, there was no guarantee he could catch it immediately.

  More importantly, Draven had no idea what rank the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent belonged to.

  If its strength far exceeded his, recklessly charging in alone might just get him killed.

  Unless, of course, he brought Ragnar with him next time—his bonded beast.

  A bonded beast existed between an energy form and a physical one. Although it had its own weaknesses, its resistance to poison far surpassed that of humans or werewolves.

  Ragnar was powerful and agile—the perfect partner to help him deal with dangerous, venomous magical beasts like this.

  Just as Draven was weighing the pros and cons, considering a temporary retreat, a sudden rustling erupted in the woods ahead—urgent, rapid, like two creatures in a chase.

  The sound made his heart sink. Could there be more than just one serpent?

  The noise was shockingly close. It was too late to retreat.

  Holding his breath, eyes narrowing in focus, Draven raised his longbow and drew it taut, prepared to shoot at a moment's notice.

  At that instant, a streak of emerald green flashed swiftly before his eyes.

  Before Draven could even release his arrow, another figure—this one a dark, earthy brown—chased close behind.

  The brown figure moved like lightning. It suddenly bulked up mid-air, enveloping the green shadow in an instant.

  A muffled thud followed as the brown blur hit the ground. Draven finally saw the two creatures clearly.

  The brown one was a stocky, short magical serpent, about half a meter long. Its head was thick and solid like a block of iron, with a wide dark brown "eyebrow" marking behind its eyes.

  Its neck was slender and lined with dense red speckles along the sides. Though short and thick-bodied, it radiated strength. Its tail was stubby, and the yellow-brown coloring of its back closely resembled the forest floor—perfect camouflage.

  Yet, despite its oddly proportioned appearance, this little serpent filled Draven with shock and fear.

  It was the legendary Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent.

  Draven swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry and parched.

  The Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent was known to feed on other snakes. Its belly could expand enough to swallow giant pythons whole.

  Don't be fooled by its squat and sluggish appearance—if it swallowed Draven himself, it might not even need to burp.

  Draven cursed silently. He never imagined he'd run into the overlord of magical serpents out here.

  Just the name "Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent" was enough to chill the blood.

  Worse still, even though the serpent was right in front of him, it emitted no magical energy at all.

  It lay there motionless on the ground, appearing like an ordinary snake.

  This only made Draven more cautious. He didn't dare act rashly.

  When dealing with magical beasts, the greatest advantage was the power of the forced contract.

  But that power had limits—it could only bind beasts up to one rank above the caster.

  What if the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent's rank was far beyond his own?

  Draven's mind spun rapidly. He tightened his grip on the bowstring but couldn't bring himself to release it.

  Magical beasts were naturally alert, and this one surely sensed danger as it was being aimed at.

  The serpent on the ground clearly felt Draven's hostility. It slowly coiled its body, raising its head slightly.

  With that dark brown "eyebrow" marking above its eyes, its gaze turned sharp, deep, and menacing.

  Seeing the serpent take on an attack posture, Draven knew the danger had arrived.

  He gritted his teeth, muttering to himself, "If I'm going to die, I'm taking a shot."

  A blood-red arrow of light shot out as Draven finally released the bowstring.

  At the same time, he twisted his wrist, stowed the bow, and drew his long axe.

  With a low, thunderous roar, he activated the bloodline power coursing through his veins.

  The towering werewolf moved with leopard-like agility, leaping from the tree.

  He raised the axe high, aiming to cleave the serpent in two.

  The sequence happened in a flash—so fast it was almost invisible to the eye.

  From loosing the arrow to swinging the axe, Draven executed the moves nearly simultaneously.

  The bloodlight arrow streaked toward the serpent. The magical snake opened its jaws and swallowed the arrow whole, as if it were nothing.

  As the axe came down, the serpent leapt sideways with surprising agility, dodging it with ease.

  The axe slammed into the ground with a thud, kicking up a spray of dirt.

  Draven cursed under his breath. The serpent wasn't just venomous—it was unexpectedly fast.

  Then, the serpent twisted around and lunged at Draven with its fangs bared.

  A chill surged up Draven's spine—cold dread flooding his chest.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and activated the forced contract with everything he had.

  "Even if I die, I'll try it!" he thought.

  Suddenly, a cold, scaly mass smacked against his face with a dull thump.

  Draven knew in that moment—the contract had succeeded.