From the moment the Mark of Submission was placed upon the Green Serpent, he—and all his descendants—were bound to serve Draven and his bloodline completely.

  This binding would last for five generations. Only when their bloodline had thinned enough might they regain their freedom.

  It was a cruel and domineering method, yet it was ironically called "a gift from the gods"—a notion that was, in itself, a bitter mockery.

  Still, for some people, it worked.

  The Green Serpent was one such man—cowardly and afraid of death, willing to yield rather than die.

  From the very beginning, Draven had never taken him seriously.

  Though the Green Serpent possessed the strength of a chieftain, his demeanor made one question whether he had any real courage or resolve.

  He was more like a hollow shell—relying on his title to intimidate others.

  Not just the Green Serpent, even the so-called High Serpents barely passed muster in Draven's eyes.

  If he had the strength of a high-tier chieftain, he certainly wouldn't have allowed his head to be lopped off so easily like the Black Serpent.

  At first, Draven had intended to use the Mark of Submission merely as a threat—to force more intel out of the Green Serpent.

  To his surprise, this so-called chieftain gave in almost instantly.

  Draven shook his head, a mixture of amusement and exasperation.

  Still, it worked. At least it spared him a great deal of trouble.

  His expression turned solemn—this wasn't the time for idle thoughts.

  They sat in the underground chamber, engaging in a blunt and open interrogation.

  Now bound by the Mark, the Green Serpent believed every word Draven said without question.

  But it was those very answers that darkened Draven's expression further and further.

  According to the Green Serpent, just a few years ago, the serpentkin were nowhere near as powerful as they were now.

  At the time, the tribe had only two chieftains—the Red Serpent and the White Serpent.

  Then one day, the bloodline warrior Green Serpent, together with the slightly older Black Serpent, went hunting.

  They stumbled upon the very canyon Draven had previously discovered.

  There, by sheer accident, they found a hidden cave.

  Inside the cave was a mysterious entity claiming to be the Serpent Ancestor—the ancient progenitor of their entire race.

  The Serpent Ancestor said he had once been grievously wounded by villains and had slumbered in that cave for many years, unable to awaken.

  But by chance, the Green Serpent and his companion had roused him from that deep sleep.

  As their ancient kin, the Serpent Ancestor bestowed upon them a secret technique.

  From that moment on, the serpentkin's power skyrocketed, and they quickly rose to become one of the most dominant tribes in the Divine War Hills.

  The Serpent Ancestor admitted that, given the severity of his injuries, this was the extent of his current strength.

  If the tribe wanted to grow stronger, to ascend even higher, they had to help him recover.

  Having tasted the sweetness of rapid power, who would turn back?

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Under the Serpent Ancestor's guidance, the serpentkin began to act.

  First, they covertly changed the target of their rituals, using forbidden methods passed down by the Serpent Ancestor.

  Then they began mass hunting of the magical beasts in their territory. Yet even that couldn't satisfy the demand.

  Left with no choice, they started invading neighboring lands.

  During the latest Full Moon Festival, the Serpent Ancestor was supposed to recover by consuming the sacrifices and regain his lord-tier strength.

  But the offering fell short of expectations.

  "Just a little more... just a little more," the Green Serpent said.

  "The Serpent Ancestor was this close to breaking through."

  "When that day comes, our serpentkin will possess lord-level power! The entire succubus domain will belong to us!"

  There was evident regret and longing in the Green Serpent's voice.

  Draven let out a cold chuckle.

  "So your plan was to target the Black Flag Territory?"

  "Let me guess—was I also one of your planned sacrifices?"

  A flicker of shame and helplessness flashed across the Green Serpent's face.

  Indeed, that had been their exact intention.

  The sudden appearance of the Werewolf Leader, daring to confront the Serpent Tribe head-on, immediately marked him as a sworn enemy in the eyes of the serpentfolk—a threat they had long wanted to eliminate.

  At first, the serpentfolk hadn't planned to move against him so soon. But as fate would have it, they were facing a severe shortage of blood offerings. Enraged, the Serpent Ancestor demanded they procure a living creature of chieftain-level strength to offer as a sacrifice without delay.

  Pressed by the Serpent Ancestor's fury—and driven by their own thirst for revenge—the serpentfolk finalized their plan for a night raid.

  After hearing the entire story, Draven couldn't help but feel the cruel absurdity of fate. It seemed that no matter how cautiously he tried to avoid provoking the serpentfolk, this clash was inevitable.

  Still, there were two matters that continued to trouble him—questions he couldn't get satisfactory answers to, even after interrogating Green Serpent.

  The first was about the troll chieftain, Garruk. Green Serpent claimed he had never heard of Garruk, didn't even know the name. Draven could only speculate: perhaps Garruk had encountered the Serpent Ancestor's trap on his way to the mines and had been ambushed by serpentfolk.

  The second was the true power the Serpent Ancestor held before he was injured. Green Serpent knew nothing specific, only repeated that the Serpent Ancestor was "immensely powerful."

  This left Draven deep in thought, wary and suspicious. Yet even so, Green Serpent had inadvertently revealed many secrets about the serpentfolk.

  They spoke in the underground chamber for a long time, well into the night. At last, Draven gave Green Serpent his instructions—to leave the village and disappear into the dense forest.

  And just like that, Draven was alone in the village.

  A blood-red moon hung in the sky. Bloodstains still smeared the ground. The collapsed stone walls loomed eerily, and the entire village lay in a deathly silence—deserted and unsettling.

  Draven didn't linger. He grabbed the Eyebrow-Patterned King Serpent beside him, mounted his Nightmare Horse, and rode off toward the great river.

  The Nightmare Horse trotted a few steps before lifting off the ground, black flames silently flaring from its hooves. Thanks to this flying mount, Draven reached the riverbank in no time.

  He dismounted and tore off his blood-soaked shirt, revealing his solid upper body. Wading into the cold river, he began washing the dirt and exhaustion from his body.

  Once clean, Draven emerged from the water with two large fish in hand. He tossed them carelessly on the shore, slipped into a simple pair of fur shorts, and began gathering dry firewood shirtless.

  An orange fire flared to life in the night, casting flickering shadows across his resolute face. He boiled a fish stew over the flames while roasting the other fish slowly above the embers.

  Among the beastkin, many didn't eat fish—or more accurately, didn't know how to. Only races like the crocodilemen could eat raw fish and shrimp. For most others, including humans, the fishy odor was unbearable.

  The great river that flowed within fifty miles of the Black Flag Territory's camp stretched over a hundred miles. It could easily feed all the clans and slaves within the territory.

  But ever since they had set up camp by the river, danger had lurked nearby. Besides, regular hunting already provided sufficient food, leaving Draven with little time to properly exploit the river's bounty.

  This only deepened his hatred for the serpentfolk. If not for them, he could have lived a peaceful, comfortable life—farming, fishing, and hunting on his own terms.

  After the bitterness came longing. He began to miss Viola and his people. He wondered how far the little fox girl and the others had traveled by now.

  And as Draven thought of Viola, the little fox girl was thinking of him too.

  Though the beastkin had night vision, their journey was still filled with stumbles and uncertainty. The youngest children had to be carried by slaves, while the slightly older ones could only grit their teeth and push forward on their own.

  At first, everyone moved cautiously, frequently looking back, their faces tense with fear. But eventually, they could only press forward blindly, unsure of what lay ahead.

  Viola didn't know how far they'd gone—she only knew that her heart was still in that village.

  There, her werewolf chieftain remained. There, the rabbit hutch she had tended stood.

  The does inside were pregnant. Draven had told her once that rabbits breed rapidly, often birthing a new litter every month—seven or eight kits at a time.

  And yet, she had never been able to bring a child into their world.

  Her werewolf chieftain had never seemed to mind.

  But she did.

  She longed to bear his child—to give their tribe a future.