Gregor's lips curled into a cold smile. The situation was complicated—his main body had caused quite a stir, muddying what had been clear waters. But to him, this was precisely a good opportunity.

  He reached into the leather bag behind him and pulled out a long whip, placing it steadily on the ground with a composed and powerful motion. Then he drew a piece of hide from the bag, took out a charcoal pencil, and began writing swiftly across the surface. His handwriting was firm and legible, reflecting his meticulous attitude.

  Before long, Gregor folded the hide, gently closed the door, slung the pack onto his back, and left the cramped stone hut. He understood well—since the water was already murky, why not stir it further? Perhaps it would steer things in a more favorable direction for him.

  Stepping outside, Gregor looked up at the sky. The clouds hung low and heavy, blotting out the sunset and casting the world into gloom.

  Despite the overcast sky, he could feel evening approaching. It was not a good time to seek an audience with Selene.

  She rarely received visitors at this hour. Gregor knew he couldn't approach her recklessly.

  So, he decided to visit a tavern first. His funds were limited, but with the coin Rurik had provided, he could still afford a few drinks to warm himself.

  Meanwhile, Draven was just sitting up beside Viola and Sylvia. He rubbed his sore shoulders gently—his movements weary, yet still cautious.

  By the hearth, a pot of rich soup simmered slowly. Draven had switched out the old iron cauldron for an earthenware pot favored by the beastkin.

  Golden-eyed devilhawk meat stewed with freshly foraged mushrooms—this soup was far more nourishing than the usual chicken-mushroom stew, perfect for restoring strength.

  Viola and Sylvia, having confirmed Draven's condition, finally relaxed and fell into deep sleep at his side. Their breathing was steady, and though their faces were drawn, they looked peaceful.

  Draven, though robust, had gone days without proper sleep and had worked himself to exhaustion. After lying with them for a while, he rose quietly and began tending to the firepit.

  The bubbling pot emitted a mouthwatering aroma. Draven stole a glance at the sleeping Viola and Sylvia, a smile of guilt and pride playing on his lips.

  Just then, soft footsteps approached the door. Martha entered, gently leading Liliana—her eyes red and face pale.

  Liliana was clearly still exhausted, her eyes puffy and cheeks weary, but her little lips were pursed tightly in a show of stubbornness.

  As she walked, she sniffed the air, drawn in by the scent. Her expression was filled with longing. When she reached Draven, she let out a small hum, then collapsed into his arms.

  She forced her eyes open into narrow slits and tilted her head back. In a hoarse, slightly playful voice, she asked,"Draven, you big meanie… am I your woman now?"

  Draven's heart softened. Words failed him, and he simply lowered his head to gently kiss her on the eye. The gesture was tender and warm, a silent comfort to her tired little soul.

  "Of course you are," he said, his voice full of affection.

  Liliana finally smiled. She chirped happily about wanting something delicious to eat. Draven smiled too, pulling Martha close to sit beside him.

  "Wait a moment. Viola and Sylvia haven't woken up yet," he whispered.

  "This mushroom soup is getting more fragrant by the minute," he added, resting his chin on top of Liliana's head and gently nuzzling her cheek. She closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the sensation, her nose twitching as she tried to take in more of the scent.

  Before long, Viola and Sylvia stirred awake. The devilhawk meat had become tender, the broth thick and savory.

  Liliana darted to the bedside, her still-tired eyes wide as she chattered on, accusing the werewolf chieftain of his many crimes. Viola, moved with pity, pulled her into a gentle embrace and whispered comfortingly.

  It wasn't until everyone had their bowls in hand that Liliana stopped scolding Draven and began eating heartily.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Her swollen eyes narrowed into slits as her face filled with satisfaction. Draven, shamelessly sitting beside her, ate without the slightest discomfort—if anything, the atmosphere was warm and cozy.

  Viola acted with grace, like a big sister caring for the younger ones. Sylvia had put her ornate mask back on, returning to her playful, catlike charm.

  Martha sipped the soup, occasionally tossing flirtatious glances around, showing off her lively, cheerful deerkin nature.

  Only Liliana still behaved like a child—her face smeared with soup, prompting Viola to wipe her mouth repeatedly.

  Draven looked at the four beautiful, unique women around him, and a contented smile formed on his lips. He sipped his strong bloodwine and thought: If life could always be like this, what more could a man ask for?

  But as night fell, the mood abruptly changed. Liliana began to make a fuss, insisting on staying with them—turning the entire cabin into a noisy uproar…

  There wasn't a major issue at first. All four of them were injured, and even though Sylvia used elven magic to help with healing, the effect wasn't very noticeable.

  The real problem was that Sylvia's mana hadn't fully recovered yet. Her magic was too weak to cast any powerful healing spells.

  All she could do was slightly ease the pain and make the bruises look less frightening. But to completely remove those large, purplish bruises, they'd have to wait until the next morning—once her magic had truly returned and she could enhance the healing spell.

  So tonight, Draven couldn't be of much help. The sight of the women's injuries made his heart tighten, but he was powerless to do anything. All he could do was watch helplessly as they endured the pain.

  To make matters worse, there was limited space where they were staying—only one bed, and it could fit at most three people. Sylvia would be leaving soon; she couldn't stay here forever.

  Draven understood that, but he didn't want to lose any time with her. He wanted to spend whatever time he had left with Sylvia, even if it was just sitting together.

  Viola had been sleeping here originally, and it wouldn't be fair to make her go next door. That left Draven with a headache.

  But Liliana, who had just finished being treated, didn't care about those arrangements at all. She insisted that since she was now Draven's woman, she had to sleep beside him, refusing to back down even a little.

  Draven couldn't help but smile at her words, but faced with Liliana's unshakable insistence, he had no way to argue back. He had to compromise.

  He laid out a large animal hide on the floor and decided they would all sleep here together for the night. Since the bed wasn't enough, then no one would leave—they'd just squeeze in together.

  After all, they'd all slept enough during the day; there was no guarantee they'd sleep well tonight anyway.

  The five of them lay side by side. Draven stretched out his arms, letting two of them rest their heads on him.

  Strangely, despite how exhausted they all were, the conversation just kept flowing. The room buzzed with voices.

  At first, Draven tried to keep the mood light, participating actively in the chat. But once the women got going, they pretty much ignored him.

  It wasn't until midnight that the voices in the room began to fade and eventually fell into deep sleep.

  The next morning, Draven carefully slipped his arms out and gently lifted Liliana off his chest.

  When he opened the door, a wave of damp, cool air greeted him. It was drizzling outside, fine and steady, pattering softly on the wooden roof.

  He gave a wry smile and stretched his stiff arms, muttering,"Even this kind of fortune comes at a price."

  In the village, a few villagers were already out, wearing thick raincoats and leading their slave girls, heading out in groups toward the outskirts.

  The light rain didn't hinder their work.

  Beyond the village, there were still plenty of mushrooms and boneflower leaves in the orchards—important resources that could feed everyone, even if just simple food.

  Draven strolled over to the nearby storage room and carefully arranged the iron pot and farming tools from his storage ring.

  Last night, he had spoken with Viola and decided that from now on, villagers could earn supplies from the storeroom through their labor.

  Though the rationing system would need to remain a while longer, things were slowly improving. Life was already much better than before.

  After leaving the storeroom, he used a contract to summon back the Ghost-faced Owl that guarded the village.

  Now that Gregor was no longer in Village No. 3, Green Serpent would have to be extra vigilant.

  Back in the chief's hall, Draven pulled a piece of paper from a roll of hide and hastily scribbled a few words.

  The message asked Green Serpent to come see him immediately—there was something important to discuss.

  The people from the Elven Kingdom hadn't arrived yet, so Draven planned to stay in the village and wait.

  He let the Ghost-faced Owl carry the message—it would deliver it quickly.

  While waiting for the owl to return, Draven used his second consciousness to secretly observe the situation of the serpentfolk avatar.

  In Selene City, Gregor stood at the center of the plaza. A light mist of rain fell, and a gentle breeze stirred, but neither affected him.

  His mind was as steady as a boulder, posture upright, face expressionless, as he waited for the lord's summons.

  He had already spoken with the guards at the main hall—now it was just a matter of waiting for the lord's command.

  He didn't have to wait long. A guard with slow steps waved him forward, signaling that he could enter.

  Gregor ascended the steps with steady strides, glancing at the rows of octagonal lanterns hanging beneath the eaves.

  The lanterns were intricately crafted and gave off a warm light, lending a sense of solemnity to the hall.

  A slight smile tugged at Gregor's lips—he felt something strange inside.

  Even though he had shared memories with the main body, this was the first time he had personally entered this grand hall.

  It was only natural to feel a little nervous. The empty hall echoed with the sound of his steady footsteps, amplifying the loneliness of the space.

  He slowly walked to the proper spot, then knelt on one knee, fist pressed against his chest, and solemnly declared,

  "Honorable Lord, Gregor of the Serpentfolk has come to pay his respects!"