Draven had only taken a few steps when he heard a faint crack beneath his foot. Looking down, he saw that he had stepped on a dry, yellowed piece of bone, snapping it clean in half.

  He frowned and used the haft of his axe to part the overgrown weeds in front of him. Only then did he notice that the ground was littered with similar bones—some long, some short, all strewn haphazardly. Some had even crumbled into powder.

  Draven paid it little mind. He had seen worse. He'd fought in wars and cleaned up battlefields. He had seen more than his share of corpses and remains gnawed by beasts. This kind of sight barely registered anymore.

  He pressed on toward the dilapidated huts ahead, and as he moved closer, the number of bones increased significantly. They crunched under his boots with every step, densely scattered across the ground.

  Judging by the skeletal features—small arms, thin leg bones, elongated skulls—Draven quickly concluded these were kobold remains.

  So these poor bastards must've been the slaves that blood elf brought here.

  He didn't dwell on how they'd died. Kobolds never left much behind. On this continent, they were the most common—and most disposable—type of slave.

  After stepping around a few nearly intact skeletons, Draven reached a crumbling stone wall.

  There had once been a gate here, but it was long gone. All that remained were sunken marks on either side and scattered stones, as if some great force had smashed it open from the outside.

  He stepped closer and examined the structure of the wall. It wasn't haphazardly built. The stones had been roughly shaped, tightly fitted, and though the surface was worn and discolored by years of wind and rain, the wall was still solid.

  It stood about fifty centimeters thick and over two meters high. Not enough to stop a determined army, but sufficient to keep out beasts or bandits.

  He tapped the stone face lightly with the handle of his axe. A crisp sound rang out. A moment later, a rustling came from inside the wall—clearly something had been startled by the noise.

  The Ghost-faced Owl, already on alert, snapped its round eyes wide and swooped down, wings spread, snatching up a slow-moving squirrel.

  A few seconds later, the fat little creature became the owl's lunch. Draven didn't even look. He kept walking.

  Climbing over the collapsed wall, he entered the enclosed area. It was larger than he expected—easily the size of several football fields. If not for the thick grass and scattered young trees, the bare ground would've looked even more desolate.

  Near the rear center of the clearing stood a stone building, beside a small square paved with flagstones.

  The plaza was at least twenty meters in diameter, its surface covered in irregularly shaped stones, many of them shifted or cracked, but still maintaining the overall layout.

  Draven stepped onto it and stomped his foot. A solid thud echoed back. He nodded, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

  "This was no small project," he muttered. "Took at least a few dozen men a month to build this thing."

  At the center of the plaza was a circular platform, about half a meter tall and over a meter wide. Curious, he walked over. At first, he thought it might be a pool or flowerbed, but a few knocks revealed it to be solid stone.

  Looking closer at the grooves and marks at the base, Draven immediately understood—this was an altar, meant for holding a statue or conducting rituals.

  He thought of the statue he had brought and nodded inwardly. This was a damn good spot—saved him a lot of trouble.

  Further ahead was the main building. It was round, topped with a conical roof.

  To be honest, the architecture of beastfolk had always been strange, but they'd never cared much for aesthetics—only function and durability.

  What surprised Draven was how well-preserved the structure was. The roof was intact, the walls had no visible cracks, and even the door still hung on its hinges.

  He circled the building once to ensure there were no threats, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. The lighting was dim, but fortunately, there was a small skylight at the center of the roof. Sunlight poured through the narrow opening, barely illuminating the room, but it was enough to see.

  The stone house had a very simple interior. In the middle was a square firepit, about a meter wide, with space around it for sitting or sleeping.

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  Above the pit hung a clay pot, now coated in a thick layer of dust. Ashes still clung to the floor, evidence that fires had once burned here.

  Draven walked over and touched the leftover charcoal. It was slightly damp—proof the house was sealed well enough. Pity this was the cleanest part of the place.

  He frowned. As his eyes scanned downward, a pungent stench assaulted his nose. The floor was piled high with bones—bright white and jarringly conspicuous.

  The west corner was the worst. There, bones were heaped like a hill, nearly reaching the ceiling. It looked as though a massacre had taken place and the corpses had been left to rot where they fell.

  And yet, oddly, there were no bloodstains on the floor. No scratch marks on the walls. Even the old wooden door, though worn, gave off a metallic clang when tapped.

  Draven furrowed his brow. He picked up a broken door bolt lying nearby. It was wood, clearly, but felt like iron to the touch.

  He turned it over in his hand, studying the clean break. His eyes narrowed as if something had just occurred to him. His expression turned grim.

  Draven casually tossed the broken wooden door bolt aside, lifted his axe, and gave the ground a firm tap.

  A crisp metallic sound rang out from beneath the stone floor, echoing with a resonance that made his heart skip a beat. He froze for a moment, then widened his eyes.

  "This place is enchanted!"

  He dropped to one knee and pressed his palm against the cold stone surface. A faint yet distinct magical current surged into his body through his hand—like he was being watched by some ancient power. A grin quickly spread across his face, one filled with satisfaction and greed.

  "This isn't just some ordinary shack. No way slaves could've built something like this. Blood elves sure lived up to their reputation."

  Excitement surged through him, nearly making him leap to his feet. He used his axe to scrape the dried corpse nearby out of the way. Bones clattered noisily across the ground. The body was light—clearly long dead—shriveled like brittle cloth and paper-thin bones.

  After clearing a section of the floor, he finally saw what lay beneath the stone slabs: shallow, serpentine carvings, winding like the tracks of a reptile, faintly visible under the dim light. They weren't decorative—they were traces of a magical array.

  "Just as I thought—it's a functioning magic array. This creepy place is getting more interesting by the minute."

  Draven wasn't a mage, but he knew enough to recognize that these kinds of arrays were extremely complex to create and required a large amount of magic to maintain.

  If this array was still active, that meant its power source or structure was far more robust than he had imagined. No wonder the stone house had remained so well preserved—its walls and roof hadn't even collapsed.

  He glanced at the piles of bones in the corners—mostly kobold remains, some still shackled with broken chains and collars. In his mind, he had already pieced together what had likely happened.

  "Must've been a beast tide. The blood elf ditched the slaves and hid inside, relying on the magic array to hold out," he muttered. "But the door got busted open. What a miserable end."

  Judging by the amount of bones, the fight must have been intense. Maybe the kobolds broke in, or maybe the blood elf fought back desperately.

  Whatever happened, the outcome was clear—the house had turned into a tomb. Not even magic could save them.

  Draven tapped on the mostly intact wooden door. It gave off a deep, muted sound, but with an odd metallic undertone.

  He bent down, picked up the bolt, weighed it in his hand, and examined the break. It was definitely made of wood, but its strength was on par with refined steel.

  "Interesting." He stroked his chin, a thought flashing through his mind. "This house is a treasure. No way I'm letting it go to waste."

  But the stench inside was getting unbearable. The air was thick with death and rot—sticky, pungent, and suffocating. He quickly covered his mouth and nose and made his way out without so much as a backward glance.

  The moment he stepped onto the stone plaza outside, sunlight and fresh air rushed in. He inhaled deeply, feeling his lungs come back to life.

  "Finally, I can breathe again."

  Standing in the center of the plaza, he looked around—at the stone walls, the weeds, the barren yet orderly square, and the crumbling but solid stone house. A growing sense of certainty settled in his chest.

  "It's broken, yeah, but it's still standing."

  The place might be desolate, but its foundations were solid. With some work, it could be cleaned up and made livable again. In his mind, he was already planning the renovations, the zoning, and where to assign people.

  He walked a full circle around the stone house. Behind it, the open area showed signs of past cultivation—patches of soil looked like they'd been tilled at some point, though now they were overrun with weeds and dry dirt.

  "Looks like the blood elf planned to stay here long-term," he said aloud. "Too bad they didn't survive the beast tide."

  He finally returned to the center of the plaza, narrowed his eyes, and stared at the ruins in silence for a moment. Then he nodded decisively.

  "This is the one," he said with certainty.

  This would be their new home. What the blood elf left behind wasn't just a house—it was a solid foundation and valuable resources. For now, that was more than enough.

  He didn't linger. He had already been away from the riverbank for a while—time to report back.

  With long strides, he set off, his mood lighter than when he had arrived. Site selection was supposed to be a troublesome task, but things had gone surprisingly smoothly.

  About half an hour later, he returned to the riverbank. Before he even reached the camp, he ran into Rurik, who had been preparing to head into the mountains to find him.

  As they walked together, Draven explained the entire situation at the ruins. The two of them discussed their next steps and laid out the plans as they went.

  For now, the camp would remain at the riverbank, with Ragnar in charge of patrol and perimeter security. Viola, Alaric, and Ayla—along with a few of the Black Wolf slaves—would take care of the younger cubs.

  The rest of the slaves were split into two groups. One, led by Bran, would start from the riverbank and clear the path toward the stone house.

  The second group, led by Rurik, would work from the ruins outward, thoroughly cleaning the interior and surrounding area of the stone house.

  As for Draven, he planned to spend the next few days familiarizing himself with the entire area—checking for hidden dangers like wild beasts, traps, or lingering magical remnants. Everything needed to be cleared.