Early the next morning, Draven and his two clansmen woke up earlier than usual. In truth, they had barely slept at all during the night.

  Years of wandering had made their longing for a home almost unbearable. The excitement and nervousness they felt made it nearly impossible to rest. As werewolves, their bodies were naturally brimming with energy and stamina—ordinary sleep never fully satisfied them. Each of them lay awake, going over what the day ahead might bring.

  The night before, they had already traded away all their remaining supplies. There was nothing left to pack. They only took a few changes of clothes—light packs, but all they owned. Their weapons were already strapped to their waists, ready for any danger that might come.

  Draven stood at the doorway of their small stone shelter, taking a deep breath. His eyes lingered on the narrow, dark space. This crude little house had been their only refuge during some of the hardest days of their lives.

  He thought back to when they had first arrived—fleeing for days, barely surviving, and spending an entire week just to track and kill a low-tier beast. They had traded its hide and meat for this modest stone hut. Draven had only just awakened his bloodline back then, and facing that beast had nearly cost him his life. He had poured every ounce of strength and courage into the fight.

  But the hut could not follow them into their future. Draven knew they needed something better—a safer, more spacious place to live. With that thought in mind, he silently urged himself forward. The three of them exchanged a quick glance and a quiet smile, then stepped away from the shelter. Each step felt heavy and full of meaning, like walking into a new chapter of life.

  The sun had barely risen, and the streets were mostly empty, but that didn't bother them. They made their way to the square in front of the city lord's hall, arriving just as the guards were about to change shifts.

  The changing of the guard marked the official start of the day—when the city lord's court would begin its operations. With a calm smile, Draven approached the guards at the gate, politely asking them to report their arrival to the steward. They had come to collect the slaves and supplies they had applied for.

  The guard, clearly familiar with this kind of request, gave a casual nod and told them to wait, then strolled inside to pass on the message.

  Bran, watching the guard's leisurely pace, couldn't help but grumble under his breath—but made sure not to be loud enough to get into trouble.

  Draven gave him a sharp look and said quietly, "We've waited this many years. A few more minutes won't kill us."

  Before long, a woman emerged from the hall. She was a succubus—elegant, dressed in fine robes, with a calm and commanding air. Every step she took was graceful, and her gaze carried a quiet authority.

  Draven immediately stepped forward, stating his name and purpose. From his cloak, he retrieved a letter, several scrolls, and a metal token, offering them to her respectfully.

  Her name was Lydia—a high elder of the succubus clan and the chief steward of Selene City. Normally, someone of her rank wouldn't bother with something as minor as slave distribution.

  After all, she wasn't just any elder—she was the aunt of Lady Selene, the ruler of the city. Her status was second only to the lord herself.

  The fact that she had come out personally made Draven feel deeply honored—and a little anxious. Something about this treatment felt... unusual, like it went beyond standard procedure.

  Lydia carried herself with poise and refinement, more like a noblewoman than a typical succubus. Her attire was immaculate, her gestures elegant. Draven couldn't help but respect her. As the second-most powerful person in Selene City, her name was known far and wide.

  With her gentle concern and gracious attitude, Draven felt both grateful and slightly unsettled, as if something more was expected of him—something he couldn't yet see.

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  Lydia didn't make things difficult. Instead, she personally led the three of them to the slave storeroom.

  It was a cramped, dimly lit space—filled with everything the city lord owned. To the ruling elite, slaves were just another asset, like grain or iron, no more special than a pile of tools.

  After a brief exchange with the attendants, the heavy storeroom door slowly creaked open.

  A group of slaves shuffled out—clothes in tatters, faces hollow and tired.

  They didn't look impressive, but as they stood in front of Draven, his heartbeat quickened. Lined up before him were one hundred slaves.

  He scanned the group and immediately noticed two tall, muscular minotaurs. Beside them were two large, barrel-chested bearfolk, and a group of ten powerful-looking boarfolk.

  But what truly stunned him were the three werewolves.

  Draven's eyes locked on their ears and tails. The dark fur—so similar to his own—marked them unmistakably as blackwolves, the same subclan he came from.

  Bran reacted first, hurrying forward to meet the three werewolves. He moved fast, too eager to wait.

  Draven followed slowly, still processing what he saw. These weren't just random werewolf slaves. They were his kin.

  This realization hit him like a thunderclap—his heart pounded in his chest, a rush of shock and joy surging through him.

  Bran and Rurik were already surrounding the three, excitedly asking questions, eager to learn who they were and how they ended up here.

  Draven, still reeling, turned back to Lydia with wide eyes and a voice thick with disbelief and hope. "These… these are really for me?"

  Lydia's face remained calm. She gave him a soft nod and said gently, "Of course. These are Lady Selene's gifts to you. Don't forget that."

  The words echoed in his mind.

  Draven stood frozen for a moment. Gratitude and disbelief tangled inside him. He knew—deep down—that this kind of favor was not something that happened by chance. This was not normal.

  Something had changed. And whatever came next, it would not be ordinary.

  According to intelligence gathered from various sources, newly appointed werewolf chiefs were typically granted a large number of kobold slaves dispatched by the lord. Occasionally, a few other beastkin might be included, but such additions were already considered a rare privilege.

  Yet among the slaves standing before him now, nearly one-fifth hailed from other races—minotaurs, ursines, wild boarmen, and even three werewolves.

  The diversity of this group far exceeded his expectations. What astonished him even more was the gender ratio among the kobolds—it was unusually balanced, with an almost equal number of males and females.

  Draven quietly speculated that Lady Selene must hold a particular fondness for him. After all, he wasn't bad-looking by werewolf standards—broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, with unwavering eyes that spoke of resilience.

  The thought made him secretly pleased, though he kept his expression composed, suppressing any outward display of satisfaction.

  Lifting the slave scroll in his hand, he held it aloft before the assembled throng and declared his ownership in a firm and resolute voice.

  To humans—frail of body and short-lived though they may be—their brilliance lay in their ingenuity. It was they who had invented the slave scrolls, capable of recording the soul imprint of each individual, allowing the master complete dominion over life and death.

  Apart from the three werewolves now being questioned excitedly by Bran and Rurik, the remaining slaves stood in dull silence, eyes vacant, seemingly unaware that their ownership had changed.

  Draven was not disheartened. He understood that trust took time, and hollow words could not rebuild shattered spirits overnight.

  Once the handover was confirmed, the guards stepped forward to unfasten the shackles binding the slaves. In that moment, they truly became Draven's property.

  Next came the distribution of supplies. But what emerged first from the second storeroom was neither food nor weaponry—it was a life-sized statue, a likeness of Lady Selene herself.

  Draven watched in silence as the guards gingerly packed it into a wooden crate, cushioned it with shavings, and secured it atop the lead beast of burden.

  One by one, weapons, rations, tents, and other necessities followed. By the time the final load was placed, all seven pack-beasts were burdened with goods.

  Speaking of the beasts, they were remarkable creatures—something between animal and magical beast. Their heads resembled oxen, yet they bore no horns.

  They were massive and sturdy, with elongated torsos and eight pairs of hooves. Their broad, flat backs seemed perfectly sculpted for carrying loads. Gentle-tempered and herbivorous, they were among the most practical creatures Draven had ever encountered.

  Just as he was about to instruct Bran and Rurik to prepare for departure, an unexpected surprise arrived.

  Lady Lydia, the steward who had earlier departed, returned—this time flanked by a fully armored ten-man squad.

  Before Draven could utter a word, Lydia spoke first. "The journey to your settlement is long. This escort will accompany and protect you."

  The words nearly made Draven leap with joy. One delight after another had filled him with indescribable gratitude and awe.

  Before him stood ten troll warriors—towering, armor-clad, armed with gleaming spears. Their faces were fearsome, blue-skinned with tusked jaws, yet they held themselves with a stern, solemn air, radiating a silent promise of protection.

  As Draven gazed at them, a warmth rose in his chest. He could not find the words to properly express the depth of his thankfulness.