The wind sweeping across the riverbank carried with it the damp scent of soil and fresh grass. At that moment, a sudden flash of crimson light cut through the air—Ragnar appeared. His razor-sharp fangs gleamed with a cold brilliance, and his eyes blazed like fire in the darkness.

  Save for Rurik and Bran, none in the group had ever seen Ragnar. The abrupt appearance of the enormous wolf threw the camp into chaos: the pups cowered together, the slaves shrank back in alarm, and even a few battle-hardened veterans tightened their grips on their weapons.

  Draven stepped forward, placed a calm hand on Ragnar's head, inhaled deeply twice, and said in a composed voice, "Don't be afraid. He's my bonded beast. Ragnar, give them a sign of peace."

  With a low growl, Ragnar began to pace slowly across the riverbank. His movements were poised and deliberate, as if to declare his purpose and worth. Though tension still lingered in the air, it was clear—he was no enemy.

  Many in the party could not comprehend what a bonded beast truly was. It was not a typical pet; it required neither food nor excretion in the usual sense.

  Its body resembled more a being of pure energy—it fed not on ordinary meals, but on power itself. Flesh, blood, the vital essence of magical creatures—these were its true sustenance.

  Draven explained, "He can consume the flesh and blood of magical beasts, but no longer possesses a digestive system. Everything he takes in is transformed and stored as pure energy."

  "When his stored energy exceeds my own, he can share a portion back with me. This is how we grow. He can never surpass me, but I can continue to train and ascend, without ever hindering him."

  Gradually, the party began to relax. The fear gave way to awe, and curiosity replaced unease.

  Ragnar, now resembling an excited young cub, leapt and bounded joyfully around Draven, as if reunited with a long-lost companion. He growled softly, his tail wagging like a sturdy rod.

  Draven stroked his forehead and crouched down, whispering gently, "Guard them well."

  Obediently, Ragnar sat down, his eyes sweeping the group before finally settling on Draven.

  Then Draven turned to the others. "Rest here for a while. I'm going to take a look at the ruins of the Blood Elves."

  He glanced at Rurik and Bran, who were already brimming with anticipation, eager to follow.

  He shook his head at once. "You're not coming. You'll slow me down."

  "I have backup," he added, his gaze shifting to the periphery, where the Ghost-faced Owl stood silently watching—a swift and silent creature, always ready to lend its talents for reconnaissance.

  From the intelligence Draven had acquired earlier, he knew the entrance to the ancient settlement lay hidden within this unusually low stretch of woodland.

  The forest here was sparse, filled with saplings no taller than two or three meters, patches of brambles, wild mustard, and weed-choked grass—far thinner than the dense forests surrounding it.

  He stepped to the edge and tilted his head, gazing down the narrow path that wound into the trees. It hardly resembled the entrance to a once-glorious village.

  He had half-hoped the ruins of the Blood Elves might reveal an ancient, well-planned settlement—paved walkways, stone foundations, remnants of grandeur. But instead, this was all he saw: an overgrown trail, untamed and wild.

  Draven's brow furrowed slightly. He had seen enough to know that among most demi-human tribes, little existed beyond warfare, reproduction, and sustenance. Agriculture, industry, and architecture had barely left the stone age—no tools, no irrigation, no kilns.

  But the Blood Elves had been an exception.

  He relaxed his brow slightly, recalling the supplemental data he had reviewed. In his mind, the historical outline of the Blood Elves began to resurface:

  The earliest elven clans were a noble and sagacious race, long-lived and committed to a predominantly vegetarian existence. That changed when someone among them invented bloodwine—an elixir distilled from the essence of their own bloodlines.

  At first, the invention caused no mutation. But everything changed when they unearthed and discovered the Bloodbeast—a magical creature whose power would alter the course of their destiny.

  But as they drank more and more bloodwine, their bodies began to undergo noticeable changes.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Their eyes turned blood red, and even their hair took on the same hue. Their entire aura shifted—aggressive, cold, and utterly different from how the elves used to be.

  This mutation didn't stay hidden for long. The elven race had always placed great emphasis on the purity of bloodlines, and it didn't take long for them to notice the changes.

  To the rest of the elves, these red-eyed, pale-skinned mutants were no longer kin.

  The high elves saw this transformation as a form of corruption.

  They believed it desecrated the sacred elven bloodline and represented a betrayal of nature—a surrender to dark forces.

  Public denunciations soon followed. The high elves issued a ban, ordering all elves to stop drinking bloodwine.

  But the mutants who had already tasted power couldn't care less.

  They had grown stronger and were unwilling to let go of that strength.

  They became more arrogant, more isolated, and completely disregarded the warnings from above.

  Day by day, the mutated elves pursued even greater power, increasing their intake of bloodwine.

  More and more individuals fell under its influence, and the transformations became deeper, more irreversible.

  In the end, the high elves made a decision. They would expel these fallen ones entirely from their society.

  To restore the purity of their bloodline, they not only drove out all the blood elves from their homeland but also launched a massive campaign to hunt down the bloodbeasts.

  They believed that if the bloodbeasts went extinct, bloodwine would become impossible to brew, and the tainted power would eventually fade.

  So, countless elven warriors entered the forests and valleys, armed with sacred fire and blades, killing the bloodbeasts one by one.

  They burned nests, destroyed breeding grounds, and even slaughtered the young.

  Over three years of relentless hunting, the bloodbeasts were nearly wiped out.

  Yet the bloodbeasts had done nothing wrong.

  They hadn't attacked villages or disturbed nature.

  Their only crime was possessing blood with unique power, and for that, they became targets of elven cleansing.

  Ambushed by creatures they once lived peacefully alongside, the bloodbeasts' extinction was a tragic injustice.

  But the elves had underestimated the bloodwine's effect.

  The blood elf mutation had already taken root and was passed down to the next generation.

  Children were born with red eyes and heightened perception. The transformation had become part of their nature.

  The bloodbeasts were extinct, but the blood elves had already become a new race.

  They no longer needed bloodwine to maintain their change.

  The death of the bloodbeasts had been in vain.

  After being driven from the forests, the blood elves had nowhere to go.

  Exiled by their own kind, they turned to the fringes of the world and sought shelter among the demi-human tribes.

  Forced to adapt, they gradually formed fragile alliances with orcs, kobolds, and lizardfolk.

  From then on, the blood elves became part of the demi-human world.

  Despite their exile, they still retained remnants of their noble origins—ancient elven traditions and skills in clothing, cuisine, housing, and even some forms of magic.

  These cultural remnants made them stand out among the demi-humans and even allowed them to live in more refined ways.

  In terms of lifestyle, they were arguably the most sophisticated of the demi-human races.

  But such sophistication wasn't always an advantage, especially when surviving alone and unaided.

  As Draven thought of this, he glanced at the increasingly dense trees around him and sighed.

  He had held some expectations for the blood elves' civilization—after all, they understood architecture and planning better than most demi-humans.

  But reality reminded him not to hope for too much.

  The former blood elf lord of this forest had been alone—no tribe, no allies, only a hundred or so conquered kobold slaves.

  It was nearly impossible for such a small group to build a full village in just one year.

  "If he really managed to build it, he wouldn't have died within a year," Draven muttered as he pushed through the brush, frowning.

  Suddenly, a psychic ripple reached him.

  He immediately stopped.

  In his consciousness, the signal from the Ghost-faced Owl flared—a warning from their bond.

  Draven's spirit sharpened. Less than half an hour had passed—had it found something already?

  After a brief moment of thought, he figured it made sense.

  Though little time had passed, this forest had already left a strong impression.

  The air was damp and heavy, the massive ancient trees were thicker than a man's arms, their branches towering into the sky.

  Roots twisted everywhere, and the soil underfoot was soft and rich—stepping down sank a boot halfway.

  This place had clearly slept undisturbed for centuries, with no sign of humans or beastmen.

  Draven scanned the surroundings, whispering to himself,

  "One blood elf and a bunch of kobolds... if he dared to venture in here, he must've been insane."

  A chill ran down his neck.

  The oppressive atmosphere of the forest hadn't lessened—it still felt like unseen eyes watched him from the shadows.

  He quickened his pace, following the overgrown path.

  Before long, he reached the Ghost-faced Owl's hidden location.

  The grass here was taller than elsewhere—shoulder height for a grown man—blocking all sight.

  Draven carefully parted the thick grass and continued forward.

  Eventually, he emerged into an open area.

  There were no towering trees here, just a flat stretch of land covered in tall weeds.

  Amid the grass, he could make out some crude shelters, mostly rotted and collapsed.

  Some leaned awkwardly, barely holding up, as if one gust of wind might take them down.

  Farther ahead stood a wide, curved stone wall enclosing an area about two li across.

  The wall was heavily damaged, with gaping holes in several places.

  But even among the ruins, something stood out.

  Within the walls, a single stone house remained largely intact.

  Though worn and broken in places, it hadn't collapsed. The beams and pillars still stood.

  That was already better than he'd expected.

  A slight smile tugged at Draven's lips.

  The stone wall and house meant this place could be rebuilt.

  His slaves might not be efficient, but if they could restore the wall, at least they'd have some basic defense.

  With that in mind, he withdrew his consciousness from the Ghost-faced Owl and raised his axe.

  Brushing aside the tall weeds before him, he stepped into the ruins himself.