The young and kind-hearted Rurik followed Draven into the outside world with hope in his heart, believing he might win even a sliver of freedom for his people.

  But reality proved far harsher than he had imagined. A slave remained a slave. He had changed nothing, and found no breathing room at all.

  As for Draven, the shrewd and calculating opportunist, he had long dreamed of capturing a rare magical beast and making a fortune from it. But they hadn’t even seen a single strand of such a creature’s fur.

  They did, however, manage to kill one particularly large wild boar.

  “Well, I suppose it wasn’t a total waste,” Draven muttered to himself, staring at the bloody carcass.

  When the boarman crouched down, cracked the boar’s leg bone with his jaws, and slurped the marrow with loud, gurgling sucks, Draven’s mouth twitched involuntarily.

  He frowned. “Would this count as cannibalism?” he murmured.

  Boarmen were large and heavily built—slaves, yes, but their frames and muscles far surpassed those of ordinary humans. When they stood still, they were like living walls.

  Still, they didn’t look quite like the grotesque pig-headed beings people often imagined.

  In fact, like the minotaurs and dogmen, these beastkin didn’t differ drastically in appearance from humans.

  Boarmen had round, protruding pig ears and a mouthful of tusks, with perpetual traces of blood staining the corners of their lips.

  Coarse bristles grew from the tops of their heads, running down their backs and trailing to their tails. Beyond that, though, their facial features and limb proportions were not so different from humans.

  Minotaurs didn’t actually have giant cow heads either—they simply bore horns and bovine ears. They favored metal rings through their noses, a savage kind of ornament.

  Dogmen, by contrast, had wide, flattened noses that gave them the look of a short-haired canine. Their long, flexible ears could twitch with the faintest sounds, and their tails were short but strong.

  Those truly beast-headed monsters from legends belonged to an entirely different race in this world: the beast-demons—brutal enemies of the beastkin.

  They were less intelligent, far more violent, and could not be reasoned with.

  The appearance of the wild boar had been pure chance. Draven and the boarman Bran were walking at the front of the group when they spotted its tracks in a rugged mountain ravine.

  Draven quietly instructed Bran to circle around from the flank. Together, they trapped the boar and ended the rough hunt with a single spear to the throat.

  They dragged the corpse up a hill and stopped at a flat, wind-sheltered clearing. The site was neither too big nor too small, with an open view and few hiding spots—ideal for a temporary night camp.

  Draven circled the perimeter and, finding no scent or droppings from magical beasts, felt a mix of disappointment and relief. At least they would be safe tonight.

  He sent Bran back to inform the others, and soon the rest of the party arrived as dusk fell. They wasted no time setting up tents, lighting fires, and preparing dinner.

  Wild boar meat was a rare treat—far too good for slaves.

  Draven kept half for himself and gave the other half as payment to a troll patrol guarding the camp’s perimeter.

  The slaves were left with the organs and bones—still enough to make their mouths water.

  Yet even those offal scraps were received with grateful faces.

  In crude clay pots, chunks of cassava, offal, and broken bones boiled into a thick, greasy soup. Though the smell wasn’t exactly pleasant, it gave off an undeniably meaty aroma.

  They had no spoons, so they drank with cupped hands or gnawed bones wrapped in dirty cloth.

  The boarmen clasped the pig bones in their massive hands, gnawing and sucking with loud crunches and slurps. It was a crude, even disturbing sight—yet it also conveyed a primal satisfaction.

  Half a boar, once skinned, boned, and roasted, was barely enough for Draven, Bran, and Rurik.

  Draven noticed Rurik ate only half of his portion and carefully hid the rest.

  He saw this but said nothing—only smiled faintly.

  This world’s rules of survival were harsh.

  Kindness wasn’t weakness; adaptation was the key to staying alive.

  As long as his bottom line wasn’t crossed, Draven could tolerate such small acts of private compassion.

  It was always the clever ones you had to watch.

  Fools, on the other hand, made you feel oddly at ease.

  After dinner, as the slaves began cleaning the camp, a dogman stepped forward.

  With ears drooping and head bowed, he walked up to Draven and fell to his knees.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “Master,” the dogman Titus said softly, his voice trembling. “The other slaves have loads to carry. A few of us dogmen have idle hands. We humbly ask your permission to search the surrounding area for small game, in hopes of lightening your burden.”

  He lowered his forehead to the ground, his tone dripping with humble desperation.

  “Of course, we would not dare dream of eating your meat. But if we happen to catch anything… we beg to be allowed the innards and bones. We miserable slaves would be grateful for even a bowl of hot soup.”

  Draven looked at him—and suddenly laughed.

  He stepped forward and handed Titus a piece of roasted meat the size of a fist.

  “You're clever,” he said. “You may pick four others to go with you. But to make sure you don’t run off, I’ll have Bran send someone to watch you.”

  Titus was nearly in tears.

  He took the meat with trembling hands, murmuring endless thanks, then shoved it into his mouth in one quick bite, chewing frantically as if the meat might vanish in the next moment.

  Night finally fell.

  The wilderness after dark was even more dangerous than during the day.

  Even without magical beasts, countless threats lurked in the shadows.

  The slaves extinguished all firelight on their own—no orders were needed.

  Everyone knew that on this land, light meant exposure.

  The tents were arranged in a tight circle, with the masters and guards in the center. The slaves slept on the outer edge, their bodies forming a living barrier through the night.

  The troll sentinels each found their positions and began organizing the night watch rotation. Draven had no objections.

  He knew these trolls were seasoned and experienced. Though they were quiet and reserved during the day, they became alert as hounds once night fell.

  He could have asked Ragnar to keep watch, but deep down, he still wasn’t ready to reveal that trump card.

  It had been an exhausting day. From dawn until dusk, Draven had kept a sharp eye on the entire caravan — constantly monitoring the slaves, watching the trolls' movements, and scanning for potential threats. His mind had not rested for even a moment. Even someone like him was finally beginning to feel a trace of fatigue.

  Three werewolves huddled in a single tent. It wasn’t large — a bit stuffy, even — but at least it sheltered them from the wind and dew.

  Bran and Rurik were already sprawled out on the furs, snoring like a pair of sleeping wolf cubs, tails tucked into their arms. The scene was so peaceful it felt surreal.

  Draven looked at them and let a faint smile creep onto his lips. He didn’t wake them. Instead, he leaned against the corner of the tent, closed his eyes, and tried to let himself relax.

  But just as he was drifting toward light sleep, the air around him suddenly turned hot and oppressive.

  His brow furrowed. He sensed an unusual surge of energy rippling through the space.

  When he opened his eyes, a faint red glow filled the tent.

  “A fire?” he thought instinctively, heart skipping a beat.

  But the next second, when he located the source of the light, he was fully awake.

  Rurik’s body was glowing with a red, bloodline radiance. He was still curled around his tail, a bit of drool at the corner of his mouth — but the energy spiraling around his body was unmistakable.

  “This kid... he’s awakening?” Draven could hardly believe his eyes.

  He bent down quickly and whispered to rouse him:

  “Wake up, come on, listen to me...”

  Rurik opened his eyes in a daze, and the moment he realized his body was glowing, panic flooded his face. His eyes were wide and unfocused, like a child seeing fire for the first time.

  “Don’t be afraid. This is a good thing. You’re awakening,” Draven said in a calm, soothing tone.

  Then he kicked the still-snoring Bran.

  “Out! Your brother’s awakening. Don’t get in the way.”

  Bran, rudely booted awake from his dreams, leapt up clutching his rear. He hadn’t quite registered what was happening, but one look at the red glow inside the tent and Draven’s serious expression told him enough.

  He glanced at the tense-faced Rurik, then at Draven, nodded silently, and slipped out of the tent.

  Outside, he wrung his hands nervously and paced about, eyes darting toward the tent like a man waiting for his wife to give birth.

  Inside, Draven turned back to Rurik.

  “Steady your breath. Sit cross-legged. Don’t move,” he instructed. “Focus. Feel your heartbeat. Empty your mind.”

  In their village, bloodline awakenings were always overseen by an elder — someone to guard and guide the process.

  But tonight, it was Draven stepping into that role. He knew the weight of it. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

  He had gone through two awakenings himself, but guiding someone else through it — this was a first.

  He inhaled deeply and removed his shirt, revealing a torso covered in scars and tribal markings — a body forged in battle, a vessel shaped by bloodline power.

  He summoned the energy in his veins, and a deep red aura began to shimmer on his skin.

  Then he placed his hand firmly on Rurik’s shoulder.

  “Feel the power I’m passing into you. Don’t resist it. Let it guide you,” he murmured.

  Outside, the red glow from the tent began to intensify, faintly visible through the fabric walls.

  The slaves noticed and began murmuring among themselves, but none dared to approach.

  The troll sentinels, however, acted immediately.

  When Garruk heard that a werewolf was awakening, his expression changed.

  “Full alert!” he barked. “Surround the tent. Don’t ignore even the smallest movement.”

  He knew that such a large-scale energy surge could easily draw nearby beasts.

  Bran quickly organized the slaves into a makeshift guard. They grasped crude spears and formed several layers of human walls around the tent.

  They weren’t much in terms of fighting force — but at least they looked the part.

  Inside the tent, time seemed to freeze.

  Rurik’s body trembled like red-hot iron. His face contorted in pain, muscles twitching under his skin. His eyes were shut tight, teeth grinding audibly as he wrestled with the storm within.

  Draven knew this was the critical moment. He abruptly intensified the flow of power, both palms pressing down on Rurik’s shoulders, pouring his energy into him.

  “Focus!” he commanded.

  Rurik felt like he was at the center of a storm. A scorching current surged through his veins. Every drop of blood was alive, pulsing.

  The urge to howl, to tear, to lose control — it was overwhelming.

  But then he heard Draven’s deep, steady voice:

  “Relax your mind. Don’t fight it. Accept it. Release it.”

  The voice was like a key — unlocking a sealed door within him.

  He exhaled sharply, and the power burst free.

  His head flew back as he released a howl that tore through the night sky.

  “Awooooo—!”