Imagine this: you've just woken up, and right in front of you is a steaming meal—its rich scent of blood heavy in the air, tender meat practically begging to be bitten into.

  What would you do? Of course, you'd eat it.

  That was exactly what Draven had in mind.

  He was certain that the Ghost-faced Owl was a carnivore, just like any other predator—drawn by the scent of blood, enticed by the wails of pain, and ready to swoop down for a feast.

  But as the mountain goat's cries grew weaker, its limbs twitching in helpless spasms, blood soaking the rocks and earth beneath it, Draven crouched in the underbrush, growing uncertain.

  "What's going on? Why hasn't it come down yet? Does the Ghost-faced Owl not eat goat brains?"

  He frowned, staring at the mangled corpse while muttering curses under his breath, already considering whether to switch to a new bait. A deer, maybe? Or a wild boar? Or something more unusual—like a snake?

  Just as he was about to rise, a faint, nearly imperceptible sound reached his ears.

  It wasn't the wind.

  It was the sound of wings cutting through the air. Subtle, graceful, yet laced with lethal precision.

  Draven's eyes lit up. He looked up.

  Sure enough, the Ghost-faced Owl had appeared, gliding silently through the air before the cliff face, circling slowly. Its wings were broad, its feathers snow-white and dense. But what stood out the most was its face.

  Pale as bone, marked with eerie patterns—it looked like the death shroud of a corpse, or a ghost glimpsed at midnight in a graveyard.

  "Ghost-faced Owl," Draven murmured, lips twitching into a subtle smile as he identified the creature.

  It was smaller than he expected, but also quieter, more alert. It didn't dive immediately—just circled cautiously, as if evaluating whether the area was safe.

  "Come on… just a little lower. Don't be shy," Draven whispered, pressing his body flatter into the grass, slowing his breathing until it was barely audible.

  He knew this type of magical beast feared traps above all else. They were naturally wary, and if they sensed even the slightest danger, they'd flee—and never come back.

  But this time, he wouldn't let it get away.

  His gaze was locked on the Ghost-faced Owl. He even had the presence of mind to study the strange markings on its face. It didn't look like something shaped by nature, but more like it had been copied from the nightmares of a demon.

  Ghostly, chilling—and yet strangely symmetrical, even beautiful in a way. Like a piece of art crafted from death and elegance.

  "Nature really is bizarre," Draven mused. "Though coming from a werewolf, that thought's kind of ironic."

  At that moment, the owl's behavior shifted.

  Its flight dipped lower, the radius of its circling tightening. It looked like it had finally made up its mind.

  "Lower… just a little closer…" Draven chanted silently. His fingertips trembled slightly. His heartbeat wasn't fast—but heavy. It was the tension of a bowstring pulled to the limit, ready to snap.

  Then, the Ghost-faced Owl let out a shrill cry—sharp as a blade slicing the night—and suddenly dove, swift as lightning, its target the nearly-dead mountain goat.

  "It's here!" A gleam flashed in Draven's eyes.

  At that exact moment, he unleashed his bloodline power.

  His body swelled with brute strength, muscles bulging beneath his skin like steel. With a powerful kick, he launched himself forward, a blur of black shadow racing through the grass.

  The Ghost-faced Owl sensed something was wrong. It tried to pull up, to escape back into the sky—but its dive had been too steep, the air resistance too strong. There was no time to change direction.

  Draven didn't hesitate. He activated the forced contract.

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  A surge of mental energy slammed into the Ghost-faced Owl. Its wings went rigid. Its eyes glazed over. Like a puppet with its strings cut, it plummeted—crashing straight onto the goat's mangled body.

  The unlucky goat finally stopped screaming. Its limbs gave a final twitch, and it fell still—probably crushed to death.

  But Draven paid no attention to the corpse.

  His eyes were locked on the owl now lying on the ground, dazed and twitching. His gaze burned with heat and anticipation.

  The contract had worked.

  He could feel it—a subtle pulse between their minds, like a nearly invisible thread tying his soul to the beast's.

  Fly, he thought.

  The Ghost-faced Owl trembled slightly. Its wings spread. With a flutter, it rose into the air.

  Draven watched it circle overhead—like a floating white eye—and he almost jumped with excitement.

  Return.

  The owl folded its wings and landed gently on his shoulder.

  Go.

  It flew again.

  Return.

  It came back.

  Roll.

  Dive.

  Though its expression remained cold and emotionless, the Ghost-faced Owl obeyed every command with precise, mechanical movements.

  Draven was thrilled, like a child who had just been given the perfect new toy.

  He continued testing it, issuing commands with nothing but thought—and the owl responded without delay, flawlessly executing every maneuver.

  After several rounds of trials, Draven was fully convinced: as long as he willed it, the Ghost-faced Owl would receive his command and carry it out to perfection.

  Draven called the Ghost-faced Owl over to eat—it wasn't like he was just going to use it as a toy; after all the trouble, it needed to regain some strength.

  The Ghost-faced Owl flapped its wings and landed on the wild goat's corpse. Its posture was steady and composed, like a seasoned butcher fresh from the battlefield.

  It extended its sharp claws and effortlessly tore open the goat's skull, as if ripping apart a wrinkled piece of parchment.

  The bird's hooked beak plunged into the braincase, and warm brain matter oozed out along the cracks in the bone. It sucked the viscous fluid in slowly, making sticky sounds.

  Before long, the wild goat's brain was completely eaten, leaving only an empty shell of a skull.

  The Ghost-faced Owl paused, shook its head slightly, seemingly quite satisfied with the meal.

  It lowered its head and began grooming the feathers on its chest, meticulously preening them one by one, like a soldier polishing his armor after battle.

  Draven stood nearby and couldn't help shivering. Even though he knew the contracted beast couldn't harm him, that visual impact still gave him a chill.

  It was a primal fear—like knowing a fierce beast was caged, yet still feeling tense when it stared right at you.

  "Stop thinking. Get on with it."

  Draven shook his head, chasing away the unease from his mind. Now was not the time for wild thoughts. He had something more important to do: explore the power brought by the Forced Contract.

  He sat down on the ground, crossed his legs, closed his eyes, and entered a meditative state. Soon, his consciousness seemed to detach from his body and enter that familiar realm.

  After his second Bloodline Awakening, he discovered he could, through focus and meditation, enter a domain belonging to his own soul.

  That place was pitch-black with no boundaries, except for five white halos floating silently overhead, like moons in the night sky refusing to fall.

  But this time was different.

  When Draven opened his inner eye, he immediately noticed the change.

  Inside the first halo, there was no longer emptiness. A shadowy figure appeared—a miniature Ghost-faced Owl, quietly hovering at the center of the ring, vivid and lifelike.

  Around it circled layers of rune-like light, woven like chains, emitting a faint glow.

  Draven leaned in to inspect. He sensed that these runes were not ordinary magical fluctuations but a deeper force of order. He guessed these runes were the embodiment of the Forced Contract—a kind of soul-level chain.

  "This Ghost-faced Owl must be part of its soul," he whispered.

  Although he couldn't read the runes or fully understand the nature of this space, he grasped a simple fact:

  Once a contract is established, part of the contracted being's soul is drawn into this space, serving as a bridge of connection and medium of control.

  This explained why the Ghost-faced Owl was so obedient.

  The five halos meant he could control up to five contracted beasts simultaneously. Thinking of this, Draven couldn't help but feel a spark of ambition.

  "If I could contract five powerful beasts like this Ghost-faced Owl, I'd be unbeatable."

  Lost in this fantasy, suddenly, a strange feeling surfaced. It was like something gently pushed him from deep inside, giving him the impulse to reach out with his consciousness and touch one of the halos.

  Draven didn't hesitate. This was his consciousness space, no danger here. He obeyed the urge and lightly touched the halo.

  A warm sensation flowed through his mind, like a spring breeze brushing past his ear, or like a layer of energy wrapping his entire body.

  Then, a sudden clarity surged into his heart, as if an instinct had been awakened.

  He opened his eyes, light flashing within them.

  "So simple, huh?"

  He muttered in disbelief. He hadn't expected that just a touch would complete the skill inheritance. He could clearly feel that a new ability was awakening inside him.

  He stood up, eyes fixed on the Ghost-faced Owl still perched on the goat's carcass, preening.

  A smile curled on his lips—dangerous and mischievous.

  The Ghost-faced Owl shuddered suddenly. It stopped preening and lifted its head cautiously, looking around as if sensing something was wrong. At that moment, Draven quietly unleashed his newly acquired skill.

  An invisible force burst from his body like thunder, striking the Ghost-faced Owl's mind.

  The owl stiffened, as if hit by a heavy blow, twitching in the air before plummeting heavily to the ground. Feathers scattered as its body twitched once, then lay still.

  Seven or eight seconds passed before it seemed to awaken from a nightmare. The Ghost-faced Owl's eyes widened, it let out a series of shrieks, flapped its wings to rise halfway into the air, and spun around in panic, as if searching for the enemy's trace.

  Draven watched the scene, grinning ear to ear.

  He lifted his chin and waved at the Ghost-faced Owl. "You're your own enemy, silly bird."

  Hearing the familiar call, the Ghost-faced Owl froze briefly, then resignedly flew back to Draven's shoulder, tucking its claws and staying still.

  Draven patted its head.

  "Terror Attack. Not a bad name," he said with a smile.