While flying high in the sky, the Serpent Ancestor's body had already grown as thick as a grown man's arm. It was no longer possible for him to coil around Gregor's arm.

  Helpless, he could only drape himself over Gregor's shoulders like a pitch-black shawl, his snake body fluttering in the wind.

  The howling wind slammed against them, and the Nightmare Horse let out a deep snort as it flapped its black skeletal wings, diving toward Village No. 3.

  The Serpent Ancestor lifted his head, his forked tongue flicking in and out with a low hissing sound. A strange gleam of excitement flashed in his eyes, and he appeared unusually energetic—less like a bound servant, and more like someone who had just regained his freedom.

  Gregor glanced sideways at him and frowned."You look like you're in a good mood."

  "Of course I am. I feel like I've recovered a bit of my strength—how could I not be pleased?" The Serpent Ancestor's voice was laced with sarcasm, his tone playful, but the genuine joy in those serpentine eyes was unmistakable.

  He no longer felt as powerless as before. Magic was beginning to flow within him again—slowly, like the first trickle of a thawing glacier.

  When he saw the shriveled corpse of the succubus, the Serpent Ancestor had vaguely realized that his opportunity had come.

  He had finally used the Spear of Slaughter. The Serpent Ancestor thought to himself, more excited than he dared show.

  He didn't share this thought with Gregor, even though they were fighting side by side. When it came to freedom, he trusted no one but himself.

  What Draven didn't know was that the blood-colored spear wasn't just an ordinary magical weapon.

  It had once been the Serpent Ancestor's original soul-bound weapon—before he had become a wraith serpent. A true instrument of destruction.

  Its power far surpassed that of ordinary bloodline weapons, and it could also change size depending on the wielder's body, making it appear nearly identical to a bloodline weapon. That was the reason Draven had kept it for his own use.

  But the Serpent Ancestor's smile grew increasingly sinister—because he knew the spear's secrets all too well.

  If one didn't know how to tame it, the Spear of Slaughter would slowly erode the wielder's mind, even as it granted them power.

  Little by little, it would drag them into a state of euphoria from violence and bloodshed, until they lost all reason and became a mere tool of carnage.

  Back when he gifted the spear to the Red Serpent, he had hoped the fool would fall into the trap. The plan failed, and the weapon instead ended up in Draven's hands.

  But if Draven eventually lost himself to slaughter—succumbing to the spear's influence—then the Serpent Ancestor would only need one step to reclaim control over it.

  And controlling the spear meant a chance at escaping his bondage—maybe even reversing the contract that bound him.

  He didn't expect to break the pact completely. As long as Draven lost control, the Serpent Ancestor might seize his chance for freedom.

  All he needed now was time—and for Draven to keep fighting, keep using the Spear of Slaughter.

  At that thought, the Serpent Ancestor's lips curled unconsciously.

  He could almost see Draven standing atop a mountain of corpses, eyes vacant, endlessly killing like a mindless puppet.

  Draven, however, was completely unaware.

  He simply felt increasingly irritable lately—short-tempered, hot all over, his heart racing.

  He thought it was just stress, exhaustion, or overwork.

  He never imagined the spear might be the real cause.

  Upon arriving at the village, Gregor quickly set about tying up loose ends.

  He had to greet Green Serpent and ask him to look after the guardian python.

  Before he left, everything needed to be properly arranged.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Meanwhile, Draven had entered the village.

  He descended from the wall and looked around, but didn't see Sylvia or Liliana.

  Guessing they were in the house, he headed straight for the stone building.

  The door was ajar, and it was quiet inside.

  He stepped in and found Sylvia crouching at the bedside, gently tucking the blanket around Liliana.

  Liliana's eyes were still red—she had clearly cried, but was finally asleep now, breathing softly and steadily.

  "Like a child," Draven thought to himself, watching them with a complicated expression.

  Liliana's toughness was sometimes just a facade. In the end, she was still a young girl—bearing far too much.

  Sylvia noticed him and quickly raised a finger to her lips, motioning for silence.

  Draven nodded, then quietly gestured for her to follow him outside.

  He had decided to perform the undead summoning ahead of schedule.

  But the ritual was strange and unsettling—he wasn't entirely confident. He wanted Sylvia to take a look.

  As a Saintess of the Elves, she had vast knowledge. Perhaps she could spot hidden dangers in the summoning spell.

  They entered another stone house. Viola and the others had gone out gathering, so the place was quiet.

  Draven took out a rolled-up piece of beast hide, spread it out on the table, and waved Sylvia over.

  "Take a look at this. It's a necromantic summoning ritual to call forth powerful undead.

  I don't know much about this stuff—don't want to get screwed over."

  Sylvia frowned. Even just the name sounded ominous.

  This clearly wasn't standard magic—more like something a human dark sorcerer would use.

  She lowered her head and cautiously unrolled the beast hide, preparing to carefully examine the sigils and spell structure.

  The structure of the magic array was peculiar, exuding an ancient aura that seemed almost forgotten. The symbols and incantations upon it belonged to neither Elvish, Common Tongue, nor any language familiar to Sylvia.

  She had never seen such a system before; even imitating it felt daunting, yet this only deepened her fascination. Her fingers moved unconsciously across the animal hide, gently tracing the strange lines and shapes. Her gaze grew increasingly focused, as if these mysterious symbols formed a door—a gateway to some abyss or great power.

  Draven stood silently beside her, watching. He knew Sylvia had entered her own mental realm, analyzing the incantations' meanings. Interrupting now would only disturb her. His eyes were gradually drawn to Sylvia: her cat ears, the elegant curve of her jaw, the slight furrow of her brow in concentration. There was a quiet charm about her that made it impossible to look away.

  For some reason, Draven suddenly felt as if a fire had been lit within him. The heat didn't stem from the weather but burned from deep inside. His breath quickened, and his fingers trembled slightly. Chaotic images began to flood his mind—blurred yet filled with intense longing.

  His consciousness seemed to be dragged downward by something, and a low, repeating growl echoed in his ears:"Possess her. Do it now. Possess her!"

  Draven abruptly bit through his tongue, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He tried to stay sober,but the restlessness grew uncontrollable, as if a beast were struggling in his chest. He attempted to step back, but his body refused to obey, and his vision gradually reddened with a layer of bloodlust.

  At that moment, Sylvia, lost in her research, finally sensed something amiss. She looked up and saw blood at the corner of Draven's mouth, his eyes bloodshot, his gaze empty yet dangerous.

  Her face paled instantly. She quickly stood, a ball of silver light materializing in her palm as she began reciting an Elvish calming incantation. She extended her hand, and a ray of light emerged from her palm, landing on Draven's forehead. The light began to seep into his body, a gentle yet firm force attempting to stabilize his emotions and purge the chaos and impulses within him.

  She could clearly feel the frenzied desires surging in Draven's heart—a unleashed power breaking free from its restraints. Sylvia's mental strength rivaled that of a high-ranking chieftain, and she had thought it sufficient to calm the confused Draven. But reality shocked her: Draven's mental power was far stronger than expected, even threatening to overwhelm hers.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead, and unease crept in. Her gaze swept the room, landing on a small pot of Serenity Bloom by the bed, and her expression froze.

  "Dammit, it's this thing..." she cursed under her breath.

  Serenity Bloom was a rare magical plant that continuously enhanced one's mental power. Draven had kept it by his bed as a fragrance, unknowingly absorbing much of its energy. Combined with his innate chieftain-level combat strength, his mental power now likely approached that of a high-ranking chieftain. And now, this amplified power had completely snapped.

  "I can't hold on much longer!" Sylvia gritted her teeth, wanting to call Liliana for help. But before she could speak, Draven lunged forward like a predator, closing the distance in an instant.

  "Draven, stop!" she cried, scrambling to dodge. But the werewolf moved with blinding speed, seizing the mask on her face.

  The mask was torn off, and her form shimmered in the light. Her cat ears and tail vanished, replaced by a noble, holy elven appearance.

  "Oh no." Sylvia's face went deathly pale.

  As expected, the rampaging Draven's eyes jolted at the sight of her elven face, the bloodlust in his gaze intensifying. He reached out and yanked her into his arms, his grip so tight she couldn't break free.

  "Don't do this! Calm down!" She struggled, feeling hot breath against her neck, heavy with masculine scent.

  The next moment, her chin was seized, and her lips were roughly pressed against his. A burning tongue forced its way into her mouth, carrying the tang of blood and scorching heat.

  Sylvia's eyes filled with terror as she shook her head wildly, trying to escape the shameful contact. But her head was held fast, immobile. Her resistance gradually weakened, her body went limp, and her vision blurred. Deep inside, shame and humiliation intertwined.

  When the sound of tearing fabric rang out, Sylvia's eyes dimmed. She closed them, a tear sliding down her cheek.

  ...

  Draven felt as if in a dream. He saw Sylvia, crying yet laughing. Liliana appeared, along with Viola and Martha. The dream was chaotic and absurd, as if all his deepest fantasies had spilled forth.

  He shook his dizzy head and slowly opened his eyes. Trying to sit up, he found himself immobile. A soft, warm arm was draped over his neck.He suddenly looked up—four pairs of snow-white, slender legs were splayed across the bed!