Since that night when Draven had threatened them, the group lost a sharp edge of hostility but gained a silent, dutiful caretaker.

  Alaric, who used to glare at Draven with hostile eyes, now kept his head down all day, reluctantly but dutifully watching over a group of small children.

  He seemed resigned, though his lips were often pressed tightly together in a stubborn pout.

  Ayla followed him like a shadow, sticking close to his side, hardly leaving him for a moment. She tugged his sleeve gently and whispered,

  "Alaric, Sister Viola said she won't really let the werewolf leader take me away."

  Alaric stiffened, as if pricked by a needle. He glanced down at her with a complicated look, then turned his gaze forward without replying.

  After a long moment, he muttered,

  "She can't even protect herself. How could she protect others?"

  His voice was low but clear, and Ayla lowered her head, her small mouth pressed into a thin line.

  The more Alaric thought about it, the more uneasy he felt. His sister, the one he had always relied on since childhood, once the brightest girl in their tribe, had now been taken into Draven's tent two nights in a row.

  He didn't want to imagine what happened inside—those were not things a child should hear.

  His heart felt like it was filled with gunpowder, ready to explode at any moment. Just then, a small child tripped on a tree root and tumbled to the ground with a thud.

  Alaric rushed forward and helped the child up, moving so hurriedly it looked like he was putting out a fire.

  The child had only scraped a little skin, but Alaric looked like he had just crawled out of hell—his face tight with worry, his breathing uneven.

  Meanwhile, Draven was still ahead scouting the path, completely unaware of the commotion behind him. He hummed a light tune, as relaxed as if on a picnic.

  He savored the memories of last night's pleasure—the warm body of the little fox girl, her unconscious scratching with delicate fingers, and her uncontrollable gasps—all vividly flashing in his mind.

  That glistening sweat, her body faintly glowing—it was like a lustful elven priestess in heat. He licked his lips and clicked his tongue with a hint of regret.

  "Too bad, dawn came too early," he muttered softly, "We only had time for three rounds last night..."

  They kept walking until they reached the mountaintop. The view suddenly opened wide, and Draven's eyes lit up.

  No longer steep ridges one after another, but a vast, flat expanse of green. Vast grasslands sparkled under the sunlight, dotted with puddles reflecting the sky like mirrors.

  The wind brought the fresh scent of earth, the sweetness of wildflowers, and the coolness of moisture.

  Draven couldn't help but throw back his head and let out a long howl. His voice was immediately echoed behind him.

  Rurik and Bran joined the howling—they could hear their leader's mood: the joy of being close to escape.

  The black wolf tribe's children, not to be outdone, howled here and there like a celebration.

  The troll chief Garruk rode over on his half-man-high wild boar, a rare smile tugging at his rough lips.

  "Looks like we're almost out of the mountains."

  After speaking, he turned and urged his men to speed up. The group quickly caught up with Draven at the summit.

  The children were thrilled as soon as they reached the top. They had never seen such a view—beneath their feet was no cold, hard rock, but soft grass.

  They ran wild, screaming and jumping, diving into the grass, some even plunging into puddles and splashing water everywhere.

  Alaric was overwhelmed. He spread his arms wide, trying to gather the wild kids like a mother hen clucking for her chicks. But the children were like slippery eels—no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't catch them.

  "Stop! Come back! You'll fall into the water!" he shouted until his throat was hoarse, but no one listened.

  Alaric's face flushed red, his eyes stinging. At only thirteen, he already looked like a worried father in advance.

  Viola came over, handed him a water pouch, and softly said,

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Take it easy, Alaric. Don't rush."

  Her eyes were gentle, her voice full of concern. Alaric didn't look at her—just took a sip and wiped his face fiercely.

  "Look at you scaring him," Viola glanced back at Draven with a slightly reproachful tone.

  Draven smirked and shrugged.

  "I never really took that girl away. He's just upset I touched his sister."

  Just then, Garruk came closer, pointing down the mountain.

  "From here down is the crocodile people's territory. Don't be fooled by this flat grassland—it's full of water holes and swamps underneath. One wrong step and you'll sink."

  Hearing this, Draven's smile faded. He narrowed his eyes, looking into the distance.

  Beneath that seemingly beautiful green field, he immediately saw what was hidden—thick aquatic plants, low and damp land. Some unnatural ripples far away suggested something moving underwater.

  "Swamp?" he frowned, eyes scanning the last few pack animals at the rear of the group.

  If it weren't for them, sending slaves with long sticks to scout ahead through the swamp wouldn't be too difficult.

  The light-footed demi-humans, as long as they were careful, could basically avoid the hidden trap mud pits.

  But the problem was the pack animals couldn't do it that way. Their heavy bodies, cumbersome steps, and the large loads on their backs meant they simply couldn't walk on the soft mud that the slaves could manage.

  If even one pack animal got stuck in the swamp, it wouldn't just mean losing that beast—it would also mean losing an entire batch of supplies.

  That was no small matter. The group had been traveling rough and tough through the mountains, barely making it out.

  If their supplies were lost here, the journey ahead would become unbearably difficult, maybe impossible to get out of this cursed place.

  Draven frowned more and more as he stared at the boundless swamp ahead. It wasn't that he didn't want to move forward; he just knew all too well how terrifying this terrain was.

  The troll leader Garruk beside him seemed to sense his worries. He grinned, then raised his thick arm and patted Draven's shoulder like a drumbeat.

  "Don't worry, I have a way." Garruk said easily, with a relaxed look on his face.

  Draven's face twitched. What he dreaded most was when this guy acted like he knew everything. His shoulder went numb from the pat, as if punched. Sometimes, a troll's goodwill was hard to accept.

  "Next time, can you speak first before you move?" Draven rubbed his shoulder and muttered softly.

  The way down the mountain was actually harder than going up. The ground was soft, the stones slippery; even the demi-humans used to mountain paths had to be extra careful.

  But maybe because they knew it was the last stretch, everyone — including the slaves dragging chains — was in surprisingly good spirits.

  Finally, before noon, the group reached the foot of the mountain safely.

  Standing on the flat ground, looking back, the jagged mountain trails and knife-sharp rocks made their scalps tingle. Some kids couldn't help but complain, "Did we really come down from up there?"

  "Yeah, and it took several days!" Alaric sat down heavily with the water pouch in his arms, gulping water like he just came back from the brink of death.

  After leaving the mountain, Draven immediately ordered the group to rest on the spot. Some built fires to cook, others checked gear and pack animals.

  The little fox girl Ayla took a few kids to hide in the shade, while Alaric remained like an exhausted babysitter, eyes never leaving the kids.

  Draven took this free moment to walk over to Garruk.

  "Alright, what exactly is your plan?" He frowned, not fully trusting.

  "Don't rush." Garruk teased, a smile playing at his lips as if waiting for a good show. He stomped heavily over to the swamp's edge, took a deep breath, and suddenly let out a loud roar.

  The sound shook the ground, bubbles rose from the swamp's edge, as if something was being awakened.

  Draven didn't have time to react before his ears were struck by sharp pain. He covered his ears with both hands and scowled, retreating behind the others.

  "You're crazy! Why are you roaring? Next time at least give a warning!" Draven complained, rubbing his ears.

  Garruk glanced back and smiled, then pointed ahead at the swamp.

  "Look."

  Following his gesture, Draven saw a group rapidly approaching through the muddy ground.

  They were short but moved swiftly, almost gliding, with a strange coordination.

  As they got closer, Draven clearly saw it was a squad of crocodilian warriors.

  They wore leather armor and each rode on the back of a huge amphibious crocodile, holding spear-like harpoons gleaming coldly.

  These crocodilian warriors were about the same height as humans, at most a finger shorter than Draven. Their heads were hairless, their skin extended smoothly from forehead to back, connecting to their thick crocodile tails, smooth and tough, exuding wild strength.

  About a dozen crocodile warriors stopped ten meters away, moving in unison without a sound. Their gaze was as sharp as knives, firmly fixed on Draven's ragtag group.

  Draven was about to show some attitude when Garruk strode forward and shouted in crocodile language, stating their identity and purpose.

  After a brief exchange, one crocodile warrior turned and ran further into the swamp, evidently to notify their leader.

  Garruk returned with a relaxed expression and told Draven, "Wait a bit. Their boss will come, then we can pass."

  Draven nodded, finally understanding that Garruk's roar earlier was a greeting.

  Though wild, the method worked well. He knew Garruk wanted the crocodilians to guide them. These swamp-dwelling people knew the terrain like the back of their hand.

  "This is the succubi's turf. Everyone has to follow some rules," Draven muttered to himself.

  The trolls and crocodilians were both considered subordinate races of the succubi. In terms of status and background, the trolls were the succubi's elite guards, while the crocodilians had to respect that too.

  Sure enough, before long, the ground shook again. A larger crocodilian group slowly approached.

  They were more organized and sturdily armored than the earlier squad, all muscular, cold-eyed, radiating intense aura.

  Seeing the well-trained rows of crocodile warriors, Draven's heart skipped a beat. His mouth twitched as he looked back at his own haphazard crew, then at the imposing force ahead...

  "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, face full of mixed feelings.

  The contrast was just too strong. If it weren't for Garruk holding the fort, they'd probably have been wiped out already for looking like a threat.

  At that moment, the crocodilian leader finally appeared. He rode an even bigger crocodile, was taller and darker-skinned than the others, wearing specially made crocodile leather armor, with a necklace of bones hanging from his shoulder.

  In his arms was a succubus woman.

  Her skin was pale, eyes lazy, lips curled in a half-smile, leaning languidly against him as if nothing concerned her.

  Draven took a deep breath, put on his most standard smile, and stepped forward. Since they had to keep up appearances, there was no room to show weakness.