When the strengths were evenly matched, even a slight mistake from Draven could have meant being knocked to the ground by Henrik's heavy blow, or even seriously injured on the spot.

  But the reality was completely the opposite. Not only was Draven not at a disadvantage, he even had the leisure to curl the corner of his mouth into a faint, mocking smile.

  Henrik's attack rhythm was very straightforward, almost without variation. Every move seemed like an attempt to crush with brute force, but to Draven, it was like a slow breeze.

  He easily dodged Henrik's linear, fierce assault once again, his gaze watching what looked more like a reckless child than a battle-hardened ape leader.

  "That last strike was better," he murmured lowly, his tone dripping with undisguised contempt.

  Henrik was clearly provoked to a furious rage. His movements grew faster and his strikes heavier, but he failed to land a single hit.

  Each swing seemed to merely smash his anger into thin air. Draven remained calm as ever. He knew it was time to stop — the game was over.

  Further enraging his opponent would be pointless. Fighting was not a show; trying to look cool would only cause mistakes.

  His eyes narrowed slightly; his expression suddenly turned serious, like a beast finally deciding to reveal its claws.

  Seizing the moment when Henrik's strength was too great and his footing unbalanced, Draven's great axe swung down sharply with a heavy whoosh, precisely pinning down Henrik's black iron club.

  The clash echoed a dull metallic sound throughout the forest, even startling some birds roosting far away.

  At the same time, a subtle spiritual power silently released alongside his movement, directly striking Henrik's consciousness.

  The sensation was like a splash of cold water, or like standing at a cliff's edge and being pushed by an invisible hand.

  Henrik's pupils abruptly contracted, cold sweat pouring down his back. He instinctively tried to retreat, but his body felt frozen.

  He didn't understand what it was, but he knew he was done for.

  Just as he tried to regain his senses, a chill pressed against his neck.

  He painfully turned his head and saw the werewolf leader he had always looked down on standing behind him, the great axe already pressed against his throat.

  "Stop!" Juliana cried out, her face showing clear tension and fear. She hurriedly stepped forward, raising her hand to stop him.

  "Well?" Draven's tone was calm. "Do you admit defeat or not?"

  Henrik's throat moved, but before he could speak, Juliana urgently shouted, "We admit defeat! We admit defeat!"

  Draven glanced sideways at her with keen interest. His look held no killing intent, only a hint of speculation and sarcasm.

  He withdrew his axe and stepped back a few paces, speaking evenly, "Since you admit defeat, bring the cubs here."

  Juliana immediately stepped forward, anxiously checking Henrik's body. She examined him carefully, as if afraid of any hidden injury. Once reassured, she relaxed and turned to speak to the nearby ape warriors.

  Several ape warriors lowered their heads, faces full of unwillingness. They said little and silently left to fulfill their previous promise.

  Henrik stood there, dazed, watching his departing comrades. He knew he lost, and that the defeat was unclear and humiliating.

  This was more humiliating than defeat itself. He bit his teeth hard and cursed in a low voice, "I don't accept this! What did you do? What did you do to me in that instant?"

  Not only Henrik, but even Garruk and Juliana couldn't tell how he lost. Juliana's strength wasn't great, so it was normal she didn't see it. But Garruk was different.

  He was a full rank above Draven in strength. Yet even he didn't understand what happened in that moment.

  Garruk's gaze grew cautious and puzzled. Looking at Draven's back, he thought silently: This werewolf leader is hiding a lot.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  But since this concerned others' secrets, though curious, Garruk didn't dare ask publicly.

  Henrik, however, was furious, eyes wide and fixed on Draven. "You despicable werewolf, how exactly did you confuse me? What kind of sorcery did you use?"

  Draven gave no answer. He merely let out a soft hum, half mocking, half indifferent.

  He slung the great axe back on his shoulder and returned to his normal posture. Compared to crude and violent weapons, that axe was undoubtedly his true pride.

  Driven by his bloodline power, it could change size with his transformation and release a special kind of spiritual energy.

  Ignoring Henrik's roars, he walked to the edge of the group, chose a flat patch of ground, sat cross-legged, and began to calm his breathing.

  He knew very well that although this battle was won brilliantly, it had consumed a lot of energy. He had to recover quickly to prevent new problems before the Black Wolf cubs arrived.

  As for Henrik's question?

  "You think I'd tell you what I used? That feeling was like a sneak attack. You hadn't even heard the alarm before the bomb exploded at your feet." He chuckled silently but said nothing.

  He closed his eyes, no longer responding to anyone.

  But what he didn't know was that his current demeanor created a completely different impression in the eyes of others.

  The troll Garruk quietly watched Draven sitting there as if nothing had happened. Only then did he understand why Lydia, the chief steward, cared so much about this young werewolf leader.

  If it were him, without relying on a bonded beast and just on his own strength to defeat Henrik, he wouldn't be confident at all. But Draven had done it—and with barely any effort.

  Rurik and Bran, on the other hand, wore faces full of joy. They genuinely felt proud of their leader's strength.

  They didn't even fully understand how Draven had won, but that single swing of his axe, that moment of overwhelming dominance, was enough to make them believe their leader was unbeatable.

  The slaves didn't grasp all the details of the fight either, but they sensed something from the atmosphere. Though they dared not show it too openly, many of them revealed a faint awe in their eyes.

  The most striking was the dog-headed goblin Titus. His eyes seemed ignited, fixed on Draven's back, his mind racing—no telling what mischievous ideas he was plotting.

  The little kits of the Firefox tribe wore expressions full of surprise. Their gazes were filled with curiosity and admiration. Even those older kids who had held some resentment toward this werewolf leader softened their looks, as if reassessing this once intimidating man.

  Little fox girl Viola finally exhaled in relief. The heavy weight on her heart lifted, but at the same time, she felt a strange emptiness inside.

  She should have been happy, but inexplicably, she felt like crying. She lowered her head, unwilling to reveal her vulnerability, but couldn't help sneaking glances at Draven sitting there.

  He sat motionless, like a steady rock, radiating a calm, reassuring aura.

  Suddenly, two rosy patches bloomed on her cheeks—maybe from a thought, or maybe just from a racing heartbeat.

  She turned her head, pretending to straighten her clothes, but soon couldn't resist looking at him again.

  Just then, Rurik shouted out, "Leader, they're here!"

  Draven opened his eyes and saw from a distance a group of ape-men roughly herding a dozen or so skinny children this way.

  The children wore tattered clothes, their hair matted, and their steps unsteady—clearly driven hard all the way here.

  Though still very young, their black tails, black ears, and hair unmistakably marked their bloodline as belonging to the Black Wolf tribe.

  Draven's gaze darkened instantly. He stood and waved his hand: "Rurik, Bran, bring them over."

  "Yes!" The two responded eagerly and charged forward like wild dogs unleashed. Moments later, Bran came rushing to Draven with two children cradled in his arms and one on his back, as if he had found treasure.

  "Leader, look! Black tails! Black ears! They're ours!"

  Bran's face was full of smiles as he carefully put the children down, then hugged one dirty little pup protectively as if afraid he might get hurt.

  Draven took one in his arms. The child looked about five or six years old, his face so dirty the original skin tone was unrecognizable, and his eyes showed clear timidity. But still, he couldn't help but lift his head, staring curiously at Draven's face and ears.

  There, the child saw the exact same black ears and thick hair as his own.

  The little wolf pup murmured softly, "The same, just like Arnold's ears."

  Draven carefully inspected his condition.

  Besides being skinny and dirty, there was no magic mark of enslavement on him, nor any sign of mind control. This made Draven breathe a little easier, but it wasn't enough.

  "Gather the other wolf pups together," he ordered. "I want to check them all one by one."

  Soon, eleven Black Wolf pups were assembled before him. Draven touched and examined each carefully, afraid to miss any abnormalities. Only after inspecting the last one did he truly relax.

  "All right," he said softly, a genuine smile finally blooming at the corners of his mouth.

  He pinched Arnold's cheek gently. "You're home now. You'll never have to be afraid again. And you won't go hungry anymore."

  Henrik's voice rang out behind him, full of displeasure. "You think the ape tribe would mess with children? We're not as shameless as some races!"

  Draven was in a good mood and didn't bother arguing. He stood up, glanced at Henrik, and said:

  "My name is Draven, the powerful ape Henrik. Thank you for keeping your promise and returning the pups of my tribe."

  "Good to know I'm strong," Henrik sneered but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

  Draven smiled and added, "Of course. Your ape tribe's fighting strength is indeed formidable. I just got a little lucky this time, that's all."

  That remark made Henrik feel better; his previous resentment softened. He puffed out his chest and regained some dignity before his people. He stepped forward and gave Draven's shoulder a heavy pat.

  "Draven, I remember you. Next time you come to our ape tribe, drinks are on me."

  Though his shoulder was still tingling from the pat, Draven smiled and nodded. He knew these polite words earned him not just face, but more opportunities for cooperation in the future.

  "If there's a chance, I'll definitely come."

  Watching Henrik and his tribe walk away, Draven felt a trace of satisfaction. Indeed, dealing with demi-human tribes wasn't so hard. Don't confront them head-on; soothe them with a few pleasantries, and things get settled.

  But when he turned to look at the messy crowd again, he sighed once more.