When Bran and Rurik proposed seeking so-called greater and fresher pleasures at the tavern, Draven refused without hesitation. He had no intention of squandering his precious magical core on such meaningless indulgences.

  Seeing the disappointment etched across their faces, he merely sighed faintly.

  What a joke—was this the time for revelry?

  The tavern was ablaze with light, the air thick with the mingled scents of alcohol, sweat, and perfume.

  Scantily clad female demi-humans drifted between tables, their laughter shrill and eyes seductive.

  Their exaggerated movements resembled a performance, while the drunken beastmen, eagle-men, and lizardfolk around them behaved like frenzied beasts, utterly devoid of reason.

  Draven fixed his gaze on the scene, his Adam's apple bobbing as he instinctively wiped the corner of his mouth.

  But he quickly turned away, hoisting the two swaying companions and striding out of the tavern.

  They returned to their modest stone dwelling, a cramped space so narrow one could barely turn without brushing against the walls.

  No bed, no furniture—only tattered animal pelts carelessly strewn across the floor, exuding a damp, acrid blend of sweat and mildew.

  In one corner lay dried meat scraps and broken bones, remnants of their meager meals over the past days.

  This was their home, their "territory," where they had dwelled for years.

  Draven dumped the two drunkards onto the pelts and stood at the doorway, hands braced on the doorframe as he tilted his head toward the night sky.

  Half obscured by heavy clouds, the other half revealed a crimson moon, as if steeped in blood, casting a cold, eerie glow across his hardened visage.

  He reached out a hand and pressed it against his chest, as though he could feel the fierce pulse of his burning heart beneath his palm.

  "Wait a little longer," he murmured softly, "the time is not yet right, but soon."

  His voice was barely a whisper, dreamlike, yet imbued with an undeniable yearning—not mere desire, but a long-repressed ambition, a force poised to erupt at any moment.

  As night deepened and the wind grew colder, thunderous snores filled the stone hut, yet Draven remained awake.

  ...

  At dawn, before the first light pierced the valley, a sharp knock echoed outside the stone dwelling.

  Draven, about to rouse the two still lost in slumber, halted as the knocking interrupted him.

  Bran and Rurik snapped awake in an instant, exchanging wary glances.

  Draven smiled gently, already anticipating the visitor. Had he not been certain this messenger would arrive today, he would never have disturbed his kin so early.

  He rose and swung open the rough wooden door with a creak.

  Outside stood an eagle-man, an acrid stench assaulting Draven's nostrils. The man's wings were folded impatiently, his expression one of disdain, as though offended by the smell.

  The eagle-man's nose twitched sharply at the scent inside, his face contorting as if he had swallowed a fly.

  "Could you savages not wash yourselves before speaking?" he sneered coldly, then, without waiting for a reply, spat, "The Lord summons you." With that, he turned and strode away, wings stirring a swirl of dust in his wake.

  Draven watched him depart, utterly unperturbed.

  Those immense wings shimmered like burnished metal in the morning sun, evoking the image of a high-soaring predator.

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  Yet Draven felt no fear—only a faint, amused smile playing at his lips.

  He turned back inside. Bran was still cursing under his breath: "What a damned messenger, nothing but a lapdog for the traitors! Licking Selene's claws till he's fit to be a dog!" He spat a thick gob of phlegm onto the floor.

  Draven's hand shot out, delivering a sharp slap to Bran's head.

  "Shut up, idiot! How many times must I tell you? No spitting inside!"

  Bran muttered, "Fine, fine," shuffling his feet awkwardly as if wronged.

  Draven frowned, eyeing the stain with disdain. He knew full well how filthy their hovel was, but that did not justify unrestrained filthiness.

  Rurik glanced at Draven's expression and whispered, "Leader, should we come with you?"

  Draven waved dismissively.

  "No need. You two stay out of trouble. Wait here until I return."

  With that, he donned his cloak and strode purposefully toward the Lord's Hall of Selene.

  Succubi were not a race known for martial prowess; in direct confrontation, they stood little chance.

  Their weapons were not swords nor flames, but their bodies, their tongues, their mastery over minds.

  Enchantment, seduction, assassination, corruption—these were their true arts.

  But this succubus lord was different. She had ascended the throne not by carnal power but by intellect.

  She shattered ancient traditions, dragging her people from licentious chaos.

  She embraced alliances, marriages, and trade, replacing conquest with diplomacy, violence with cunning.

  With ruthless brilliance, she forged a genuine succubus dominion upon this land.

  Draven's choice of Selene City was not due to wealth nor revelry.

  What mattered was this: possessing the rank of leader granted one the right to petition the lord for founding their own settlement.

  This was no mere rumor—it was codified in Selene's statutes.

  To Draven, it was an open door, a pathway laid bare before him.

  Not to glory, nor to riches, but to the fundamental right to survive.

  In this tumultuous land, one cannot traverse far alone. Without the backing of a tribe, even the mightiest will inevitably be worn down to nothing.

  He understood this truth all too well. Thus, despite his pride, composure, and arrogance, he knelt without hesitation before Selene's throne when the moment demanded it.

  She sat there, poised and statuesque, her demeanor as cold and unyielding as marble. Her beauty was just as the rumors foretold—so exquisitely elegant as to seem almost unreal. Her allure was not a contrived seduction but an innate grace.

  Succubi differed entirely from werewolves. They bore none of the beastly fur and bared fangs of orcs; their appearance was nearly human—skin smooth, eyes bright, movements graceful. Except for the slender, ebony tail, she was almost indistinguishable from a noblewoman of exquisite refinement.

  Draven kept his gaze lowered, kneeling with his knees pressed to the ground, listening intently to the chilling voice that descended from above.

  "What is your name?"

  "Draven," he replied curtly.

  "I have heard you refused the offer to serve within the lord's court."

  "Yes." His tone was steady, unflinching.

  Selene raised a delicate brow, her expression unreadable. "Do you realize that remaining here guarantees safety, status, and income? You are a werewolf, yet I know you have lost the support of your kin."

  This time Draven lifted his head, his eyes devoid of sorrow but filled with resolute determination. "My lady, do not underestimate the yearning of a lone werewolf bereft of his tribe."

  A faint, knowing smile curved Selene's lips. "Do you truly believe founding a village is a simple endeavor? Many have tried, but half do not survive their first year."

  Her voice was low yet carried a biting cold irony.

  "I am aware," Draven remained calm. "But I fear not failure. I only ask for a chance."

  He did not shout nor plead; he merely stood, his tone stubborn yet sincere.

  Selene scrutinized him for a moment, her gaze deepening with thought.

  She recalled the days when she herself had knelt in some hall, negotiating, enduring—all for a piece of land.

  Though she would never admit it, the wolf before her bore a spark reminiscent of her younger self. Still, she concealed her mirth.

  With a graceful wave, a shadow materialized silently before Draven, as if summoned from the very air.

  It was her shadow guard—descended from the most ruthless bloodline of the succubi clan—bearing a scroll of beast-hide parchment, which was handed to Draven.

  "The map marks the location with a red circle. Recently, a chieftain-level monster has been terrorizing the area, slaughtering scouts and disrupting trade routes."

  "Slay it. Bring me its head. Then we shall speak of your village."

  Draven accepted the scroll, fully aware this was no mere task—it was a trial, a threshold.

  Failure would mean not only forfeiture of all, but likely death before journey's end.

  Yet he hesitated not. Bowing deeply, he turned and left the hall without a backward glance.

  Outside, the sunlight was harsh. Standing beneath it, he lowered his gaze to the map, the weight of the beast-hide pressing against his palm.

  He could feel his heartbeat quicken. He had done it. He had seized the opportunity.

  This was no mere map; it was the key to his future.

  Suppressing his excitement, he strode back to the stone hut.

  Inside, Bran poured water into a pot, while Rurik lay in a corner—either dozing or feigning sleep.

  Draven burst through the door, barely containing his fervor, waving the beast-hide scroll and shouting, "We have our chance!"

  Rurik initially stared blankly, but upon seeing the map, his fingers trembled uncontrollably. He took the scroll, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the red circle.

  "Stop staring," Draven waved his hand. "I know the place. Prepare yourselves—we hunt that monster."

  There was no hesitation nor doubt in his voice—only a long-suppressed fervor and passion.

  "From this day forth, we are no longer forsaken remnants. We will carve out a domain of our own."

  Bran and Rurik said nothing, merely nodded, their eyes reflecting a long-lost spark of hope.