Thanks to the introduction by the troll chieftain Garruk, Draven finally met the leader of the lizardfolk—Darian.

  To his surprise, the lizardfolk showed no hostility. Quite the opposite, they were unusually welcoming.

  Darian slapped the thick leather armor on his chest, the resounding thud echoing like a war drum. With a smile, he announced that he would dispatch warriors from his tribe to guide and escort Draven's entire party safely through the treacherous swamp.

  As a token of gratitude, Draven gifted them a premium dried dire wolf leg. The scent of meat had barely dispersed before the lizardfolk were already laughing, turning their mounts around and riding off, their movement sending ripples across the swamp water—as if washing away the tension and unease.

  "Not what you expected, huh?" Garruk walked beside Draven, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  "Not at all. I was expecting bloodthirsty monsters who kill without blinking," Draven replied bluntly, frowning.

  Garruk chuckled. "Rumors always exaggerate. Sure, lizardfolk aren't the friendliest bunch—but that's only to strangers. You're no stranger now. You have my recommendation, Lady Selene's protection, and a nice chunk of dire wolf jerky."

  Draven was well aware that this peace was only a fragile illusion. Once the pressure of the succubi vanished, the wildness of this land would tear every flimsy agreement to pieces.

  He narrowed his eyes, staring at the misty swamp ahead. The water plants drifted lazily, the muddy earth seemed to breathe. Who knew what lurked beneath?

  "Honestly, I wouldn't dare take this path without them," Garruk said suddenly. "You know, without the lizardfolk leading the way, even if our men could wade through, the pack beasts would be swallowed whole. You wouldn't even find the bones."

  He paused, then pointed to what looked like a floating log ahead.

  Draven stepped closer, only to realize it was moving—just barely. It was a massive crocodile, lying in wait, its dark olive scales blending perfectly with the muck. A milky membrane covered its eyes, making it look dead.

  "And it's not just them," Garruk went on. "There are venomous snakes, leeches, swamp gas, and bog holes that come out of nowhere."

  "You don't actually think this path formed naturally, do you?"

  "What do you mean?" Draven asked, brows knitting tighter.

  Garruk shrugged. "They can change the route anytime. The so-called path you're walking today might have been ten meters to the left yesterday."

  His words made Draven realize how much power the lizardfolk truly held. They controlled the swamp, and who got to pass wasn't decided by brute strength—it was up to them.

  Garruk might look laid-back, but Draven wasn't fooled. There was a warning buried in his casual tone. Trolls might look rough, but their minds were sharp—especially ones like Garruk, who had climbed to the top.

  Having the lizardfolk as guides certainly took a burden off Draven's shoulders. He could finally focus on planning the next phase. Their destination lay on the plains beyond the hills—his future domain.

  But this journey was far from a relaxing excursion. The swamp was vast, wet, and mazelike. According to their guides, it would take at least two to three days to fully cross.

  "But don't try to wander off," one of the lizardfolk warned them firmly.

  Draven nodded. He wasn't stupid. This wasn't a forest—straying from the group meant getting lost, stuck in a bog, or ending up as dinner for something lurking underwater.

  It also meant that for the whole trip, the group had to rely on dried meat to keep their strength up.

  Draven didn't mind, but the kids following the convoy struggled. Every mealtime, they gnawed on hard jerky until their mouths were greasy and sore, faces twisted in discomfort like they were undergoing some strange torture.

  Draven would occasionally walk over, ruffle their hair, and scold them with a half-joking grin. "Quit whining. At least it's meat."

  The little ones would just grin sheepishly and keep chewing. They were truly hungry—and just as truly pitiful.

  And so, under the guidance of the lizardfolk, the group wound through the swamp in twisting paths for two full days. Finally, on the third morning, the edge of the swamp appeared.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  It was an open stretch of grassland, bathed in sunlight that streamed in from the horizon.

  The lizardfolk halted and turned. One of them spoke calmly, "Ahead is the plain. The swamp ends here."

  With that, he patted the side of his mount and prepared to turn back.

  "You're not coming with us?" Draven asked.

  "This isn't our land," the lizardfolk replied with a shake of his head. "We don't leave the swamp."

  Draven ordered one of his slaves to fetch a small pouch of ordinary jerky from the panniers on the pack beast, offering it as a token of gratitude to the crocodilian guide.

  The pouch wasn't large, nor was the jerky particularly fine, but Draven figured it was enough to show appreciation.

  The crocodileman extended his scaly, armor-plated hand and took it without hesitation.

  But his gaze didn't linger on the meat. Instead, it drifted toward the tightly bound bags strapped to the beast's back.

  He stared at those heavy leather sacks, and his expression changed at once—an unmasked greed flared in his eyes, like a stray dog eyeing a bone.

  Draven caught that look, and his heart sank.

  "Damn crocodilemen," he cursed inwardly. "Just like the stories say—insatiable, greedy bastards. Now he's eyeing my goods."

  Without hesitation, he made a sharp hand signal. The whole group picked up their pace. He wasn't about to waste another second in this place.

  The outskirts of the swamp were already dangerous enough—lingering any longer might attract more crocodilemen, crazed with hunger. That would be suicide.

  "Move! Don't look back!" Draven growled under his breath.

  They stepped onto the plains. The ground beneath their feet was finally firm, no longer the slick, sucking mud of the swamp.

  The relief was palpable, like stepping from darkness into light. Many in the group let out deep breaths and allowed smiles to return to their faces.

  The swamp was behind them now. Though the guide had led them safely, the wetlands were still the crocodilemen's domain—and those scaled beasts could turn on them at any moment.

  Now, at last, they had escaped that cursed land.

  This stretch of open land had a name: Fallen Gods' Plain.

  It was said that once, a god had fallen here.

  Draven had always scoffed at the tale.

  "Fallen god? More like some idiot rolled down a hill and snapped his neck," he muttered, shaking his head.

  This world had far too many legends about gods. Even the hills in his homeland were called the "Godwar Highlands," and yet he'd never seen so much as a strand of divine hair.

  The plain ahead stretched vast and open. Endless grasslands reached toward the horizon like an infinite green carpet.

  Sparse groves dotted the landscape. Sunlight glinted off distant lakes, and silver rivers snaked through the fields like shining serpents.

  In the distance, deep ravines cut the earth like ancient scars, dark and silent, as though they led to another world.

  Various beastkin lived in this region—minotaurs, centaurs, ram-headed folk, antlered tribes. Their forms varied widely.

  Compared to the crocodilemen, these tribes were considered mild-tempered—though only in relative terms.

  They wouldn't suddenly pull out a bone dagger and hack someone's head off, but they certainly wouldn't greet strangers with smiles either.

  Draven chuckled and shook his head.

  "There's no such thing as a truly gentle race."

  Traveling across the plains was far easier. For the younger children, it felt almost like a holiday.

  As long as they weren't dragging their feet through the swamp, they could run like the wind.

  Morning and evening hunts brought back generous spoils—wild deer, bison, chickens, even a hapless wild boar.

  The kobold hunters returned to camp with their kills, grinning from ear to ear.

  They flaunted their trophies like proud children.

  Beef bones simmered in clay pots, rich steam mingling with the scent of spices and wafting through the camp.

  Skewered lamb kidneys sizzled over the fire, their dripping fat making the flames dance.

  Draven panted from the heat, grabbed a crispy kidney, and devoured it in a few big bites, a satisfied grin spreading across his face.

  "Delicious," he sighed, scooping up a ladleful of bone broth and pouring it into his mouth. The greasy richness nearly numbed his tongue.

  "If only we had some wine, this would be perfect," he muttered, licking his lips and glancing at the children beside him, their faces slick with grease as they devoured their food.

  That's when he noticed Alaric sitting nearby, looking gloomy and withdrawn.

  "What're you spacing out for again?" Draven walked over and gave him a habitual smack on the head.

  "Snap out of it! You're not dead, so stop looking like you're about to cry."

  Alaric flinched, then forced a weak smile—but the light never returned to his eyes.

  "You pathetic, brooding weakling," Draven grumbled internally and tossed his bone into the fire.

  Viola was nearby, handing out food and tending to the youngest children.

  Draven walked up behind her and gave her round backside a cheeky pat.

  Viola squeaked and turned, face flushed red as she shot him a glare.

  "You're doing it again," she whispered accusingly.

  Draven grinned. "I swear, one of these days I'll just carry you off to the tent."

  She didn't reply, just lowered her head and quickly resumed dividing the food.

  "All right, eat fast! No dawdling!" Draven barked, turning to the group. "Get your food down and be ready to move—we're getting closer to home!"

  At that moment, it felt like spring had broken through his long winter.

  Another day passed, and the plains began to shift—no longer flat and endless, but gently rising and falling.

  In the distance, a range of hills began to emerge, like sleeping giants lying on the horizon.

  Draven narrowed his eyes, staring at those familiar ridgelines—the land he had returned to a thousand times in his dreams.

  Legend claimed this place was once a plateau, the site of a titanic battle between two gods.

  They fought from sky to earth, tearing the land asunder with their blows. In the end, both fell—bodies turning to mountains, blood to rivers.

  "Yeah, right," Draven sneered internally.

  He'd heard the same tale too many times in the taverns of Selene City—beastkin drowning in bitter ale, babbling on about gods and myths.

  He didn't care whether gods existed or not. All he cared about was that his home lay just ahead.

  "Why the hell hasn't the sun set yet?" Draven muttered. "I can't wait any longer."