Draven also taught necromancy to Martha.

  Viola was in charge of carving the magic circle into the ground, while Martha chanted the incantation. As her spell came to an end, a ghastly green flame ignited from the array, and the air around them seemed to instantly freeze.

  When the flame dissipated, a skeletal archer stood at the center of the circle. She was tall and slender, nothing but bones now. Judging from her pelvic structure, she had likely been a woman once. In her hands, she held a longbow made entirely of bone, but no arrows were visible.

  Under Martha's control, the skeletal archer faced her target and pulled back the bowstring. At that moment, a gleaming white bone arrow materialized from thin air.

  Draven watched from the side, noting that every time a bone arrow formed, the aura surrounding the skeletal archer seemed to weaken ever so slightly.

  "She's using her own bones to make arrows?" Draven frowned, rubbing his chin as he stepped closer. He reached out and touched the archer's smooth skull. It was ice cold to the touch—chilling and eerie, yet it radiated a strange sense of power.

  He had to admit—this undead unit suited Martha perfectly. It was almost as if it had been created just for her.

  But at the same time, in a remote corner of the Necrorealm, a Death Tyrant slowly opened his eyes. His body remained seated in darkness, with his severed hand floating before him. In the palm of that hand lay a broken-armed statue and three miniature undead models: a Death Knight, an Undead Mage, and a Skeletal Archer.

  The Death Tyrant slowly raised his head, gazing forward. Before him stood a vast, silent army of the dead. A sinister smile crept across his lips, as though he were selecting the next lucky soul to awaken.

  The moment Martha obtained the skeletal archer, her biggest combat weakness was finally resolved.

  Combined with the reinforcements from the Spirithorn War Whistle, this newly minted leader of the Deerkin tribe had officially stepped into the ranks of true commander-level powerhouses.

  But Draven knew this still wasn't enough. That afternoon, the rain finally stopped. He brought Martha with him to Village No. 1, to take care of something even more important.

  With the help of the Beastmaster Ring, the transfer of control over the Gold-Devouring Demon Ant was successfully completed.

  While the Beastmaster Ring could only be bound to one beast per person, it had a major advantage: as long as the beast was within the same major realm of power, a successful contract could be formed—even if the user was weaker than the beast.

  When Martha saw the Gold-Devouring Demon Ant fully under her command for the first time, she looked as if she were dreaming. All those years of struggle she and her brother endured just to survive—it all felt worth it now.

  She never imagined that a dream could come true so easily.

  Seeing the look on Martha's face, Draven understood her excitement. He too had climbed from the very bottom. He understood the shock one felt when, after a life of clawing just to stay alive, they were suddenly handed real power.

  This world had never been fair. Some people worked their entire lives and got nowhere. Others breezed to the top with barely any effort. Sometimes, hard work meant nothing—what mattered more was making the right choice, or being chosen by the right person.

  Martha considered herself lucky—lucky to have met Draven.

  If not for him, even with a decent fate, she could never have become a leader this quickly. She would never have had any of this.

  She turned to Draven, her gaze intense, fiery, and full of emotion.

  If the cliff under their feet weren't still slick with post-rain moisture, she might have just tackled him to the ground right there and then!

  Draven caught the look in her eyes and coughed lightly, swallowing hard. How many times had she looked at him like that today?

  But now wasn't the time. He still had more to do. He led Martha straight into the village.

  Bran was organizing the hunters, planning one last hunt before nightfall to restock the village's food supply.

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  When he saw Draven approaching, Bran hurried forward with a cautious smile—he still vividly remembered getting beaten last time.

  Draven didn't waste any words. He brought Martha straight into the chief's house.

  Right there on the spot, he made an announcement: From this day forward, Bran would no longer serve as the chief of Village No. 1.

  The position would officially be handed over to Martha, the new leader of the Deerkin tribe.

  As for Bran, he was demoted to deputy chief for now, just like Ayla. It was time for him to sit quietly and learn some humility from the sidelines.

  The sudden decision didn't upset Bran—in fact, it came as a relief. He'd grown sick of being stuck in the village day after day and was secretly hoping to be freed from the role.

  But his relief was premature.

  Draven immediately added that even as deputy chief, Bran was to stay in the village and fulfill his duties as usual—no running off anywhere.

  Martha's appointment wasn't about some power struggle. In the Black Flag Territory, Draven's word was law.

  The only reason Bran had been made chief in the first place was because there were no other options. Draven needed someone to hold the role temporarily, and at the time, Martha wasn't ready.

  But now she was. Not only ready—she had real power. And she'd always been a natural at managing her younger brother.

  As for Bran… he was practically like a little brother to Draven too.

  Which meant—he was Martha's little brother now.

  Let Martha Keep Bran in Line— That Was Draven's Final Instruction Before Leaving

  He said it seriously, not like a joke. If Bran wanted to take on greater responsibility, he first needed to learn to follow orders.

  Not only was he stripped of his title, but he also had to vacate the village chief's house. As for where he'd live? Draven didn't even look at him and casually said,"Go stay in a tent for a while. Cool your head."

  The transition of village leadership went smoothly. Martha was moved into the village chief's house.

  Draven left only one final message: if it didn't rain tomorrow, everyone was to stay in the village and wait for him—he had something important to do.

  And with Martha's burning gaze practically setting him on fire, he briskly walked out of Village No. 1.

  On the way, he stopped by Village No. 3, where he found Green Serpent and gave him a clear order:

  "Tomorrow morning, bring your people and gather at Village No. 1."

  Green Serpent nodded in agreement, though his face showed some confusion. He didn't understand what Draven was planning.

  He hesitated for a moment, like there was something he wanted to say.

  Draven immediately understood. He smiled and motioned for Green Serpent to speak freely.

  This time, Green Serpent wasn't tattling—he was genuinely concerned.

  He had long harbored doubts about Gregor's training methods for the serpentfolk. The early physical training seemed normal enough—running laps, carrying weights. Tough, but effective.

  But then Gregor had the serpentfolk use two thick wooden sticks as makeshift weapons and practice stabbing techniques. This spear-style training left Green Serpent utterly confused. He even began to suspect that Gregor had lost his mind.

  Draven, however, wasn't surprised. This was exactly why he had come.

  Gregor had shared his memories with him, and in doing so, revealed the reasoning behind this strange training.

  The serpentfolk were agile, but not particularly strong. Forcing them to wield heavy spears that relied on momentum and brute force simply didn't work.

  They might manage in a hunt, but on a real battlefield, there was no room for hesitation.

  Spears were too cumbersome and only held them back. So Gregor was trying to find a more suitable weapon for them.

  Draven took the wooden spike Green Serpent handed him and weighed it in his hand. He frowned. Calling it a weapon was generous—it was more like an unsharpened stick. Crude, lightweight, and clearly not meant to kill.

  He said nothing, merely asked Green Serpent to bring him a standard beastkin spear.

  Then he removed the spearhead and activated his Metal Control skill.

  The metal tip began to melt, slowly reshaping and stretching in his palm. When it cooled, it had transformed into a gleaming triangular spike—sharp-edged, simple, and lethal.

  With a layer of beast hide wrapped around the handle, it would become a true killing tool.

  Green Serpent's jaw dropped, eyes full of awe.

  But Draven wasn't satisfied. He shook his head. His Metal Control skill could alter the shape of metal, but not enhance the material itself.

  In other words, while the trident spike looked deadly, its hardness and durability weren't good enough. It was, at best, a temporary substitute.

  Still, it was good enough for now. With a flick of his wrist, he stabbed the trident into the tabletop.

  "Bring me more spears."

  Green Serpent obeyed swiftly.

  Soon, a pile of old spears was delivered. Draven modified each one, turning them all into sleek, new trident spikes more suitable for the serpentfolk.

  He deliberately made the spikes thinner and more slender—almost like rapiers. With serpentfolk's affinity for poison, these light yet deadly weapons would be devastating in jungle warfare.

  Each warrior was to carry two—perfect for closing in fast, targeting vital points, then withdrawing to wait for the next strike.

  This was a completely different style of combat—one based not on brute strength, but on speed, agility, and venom.

  Green Serpent gingerly picked up one of the tridents, barely able to hide the excitement on his face. He gave it a few test swings, clearly delighted.

  Draven chuckled, handed over the rest of the weapons, and told him to assign people to wrap the handles with beast hide and distribute them quickly to the serpent warriors.

  Green Serpent was so impressed he even considered replacing his ancestral jade-green spear with a trident-style weapon.

  But Draven just shook his head and smiled."This is a supplementary weapon, not a miracle tool. It suits the serpentfolk—but it doesn't replace everything."

  He knew very well that the trident was only good for rapid strikes or close-quarters combat. It was ill-suited for large-scale frontal charges. On the battlefield, range and penetration still mattered—a traditional spear had its place.

  They never intended to make the serpentfolk abandon their old weapons, only to give them more options.

  After all, in a real battle, relying on just one tactic was never enough.