The crippled minotaur, known as the"human stick" inside the rough wicker basket, clearly sensed the warning from the Golden-Eyed Magic Eagle. But it was already too late.

  In fact, ever since Draven had tracked them down, the fate of this group of minotaurs had been doomed to change.

  The"human stick" was about to open his mouth to issue a warning, but suddenly—without any sign—a bright red spear appeared out of thin air, piercing straight through his chest.

  The intense pain made him twitch involuntarily. The strength in his veins seemed to drain rapidly, blood gushing from the wound, staining the wicker basket's weave red.

  The Golden-Eyed Magic Eagle perched on his shoulder was no luckier. It abruptly lost its support, crashing heavily to the ground with a dry thud.

  Draven slowly lifted his cloak, steadily withdrew the spear, then stabbed its tip into the ground, firmly pinning the eagle's corpse in place.

  When a magical beast's master dies, the beast's vitality quickly fades away. Approaching death, the small beast-taming ring on the eagle's leg gradually enlarged until it swelled to the size of a bowl.

  A flicker of excitement appeared in Draven's eyes. He carefully took off the beast-taming ring and stored it in his storage ring.

  The spear trembled slightly, and the eagle's corpse shook off a pile of withered feathers onto the ground. Feeling the powerful force emanating from the blood-red spear, Draven's lips curled into a cold, cruel smile.

  "No one escapes now."

  Bronan was the first to react. At the very moment the spear pierced the"human stick," he had no time to think, turning around and running without a word. Occasional screams echoed around, telling him that the enemy this time was no ordinary opponent.

  But Bronan had no courage to look back; all he could do was flee for his life. Gritting his teeth, he told himself to run faster, faster still.

  Gradually, the screams around him grew fewer. Bronan felt a slight relief, knowing he had put distance between himself and the danger. Ahead was the minotaur's own territory; beyond the forest lay their tribe's homeland.

  He was confident that as long as he could break through the woods, he would meet his clansmen. Who in broad daylight would dare harm the son of the minotaur chieftain?

  Just as he held on to this sliver of hope and ran, a sharp red spear suddenly stabbed into his chest from behind. The force lifted him high into the air, his body suspended midair.

  Bronan mustered all his strength to look back, only to see a figure clad in black armor. Until his final breath, he never knew who his killer was.

  Draven carried Bronan's corpse with ease back to the shaded grove where the minotaurs had rested. The place was already piled with bodies—sixteen fallen minotaurs, including the"human stick."

  Bronan was the seventeenth and last. Yet Draven didn't immediately toss him onto the heap.

  He slammed Bronan down with a heavy thud. Bronan's eyes were wide open, filled with the unwillingness and terror of death.

  Draven had no interest in speaking to corpses, nor in letting Bronan know who ended his life. He disdainfully raised his foot and pressed it down on Bronan's chest.

  With a wrist flick, a sharp snake-headed curved blade appeared in his hand. Draven deftly cut off the two thick, short horns growing from Bronan's head at the root.

  Draven had no particular fetish—he kept the horns only as a memento of the moment.

  After severing the horns, he searched Bronan's body but found nothing valuable besides a pouch of coins.

  Frowning, Draven lifted the corpse and casually threw it onto the pile, signaling for the bodies to be gathered together.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Of course, the Golden-Eyed Magic Eagle was excluded. Its corpse now lay quietly in his storage ring.

  Next, it was time to completely destroy the evidence. Instead of burning the bodies, Draven had a better method.

  The Serpent Ancestor had once told him that the corpses of demi-humans possessed a unique effect of attracting magical beasts. Piling seventeen bodies together would only amplify that effect.

  A werewolf leader clad entirely in black armor stood nearby, like a demon from hell, holding a ceramic jar. He continuously sprinkled a grayish-white powder over the pile of corpses. The precise and focused manner was like a chef seasoning a dish.

  If anyone saw this, they would surely think a demon was concocting some kind of dark recipe.

  The air was thick with the scent of the freshly scattered grayish-white powder, dust drifting slowly in the faint light. He quickly tightened his cloak and withdrew the transformed Phantom Armor back to his chest, leaving only a cold, silent breastplate quietly adhering there.

  Agile and nimble, Draven leapt up and perched on a sturdy nearby branch, crouching silently in wait. His sharp gaze fixed intently on the pile of corpses freshly dusted with powder, his heart filled with anticipation.

  He had always wanted to know what exactly Serpent Ancestor meant by a "better effect." After all, Serpent Ancestor's words had never once let him down.

  Time passed bit by bit, and the tranquil atmosphere in the forest gradually grew tense. After more than ten minutes, the sound of rustling leaves and trampling soil came from afar—heavy, deliberate steps of a large creature approaching.

  Sure enough, a one-eyed fierce tiger slowly emerged through the woods, its majestic silhouette cloaked in the dusk's fading glow. Its eyes glittered with greedy and ruthless light, fixated on the pile of corpses.

  This tiger was clearly a mid-level Demon Tiger, powerful and dangerous. Draven suppressed the impulse in his heart, restraining his urge to immediately capture it, remaining perfectly still.

  From his perch on the branch, he watched as the Demon Tiger began to gorge itself without any manners. The tiger's eating was gruesome, lacking any semblance of decency.

  It pinned the corpses down with its powerful claws, tearing into bloody chunks of flesh, bright red blood dripping down to the ground.

  He watched attentively as the tiger consumed the pile of bodies almost completely. Though not entirely clean—bloodstains and scraps of meat scattered everywhere—the tiger clearly ate to its satisfaction.

  Draven watched as the tiger gradually departed, and with it, the humiliations of past bullying seemed to fade away.

  Slowly rising, Draven jumped down from the branch and headed toward the edge of the forest. Above, the sunset's glow was swallowed gradually by gathering clouds, and distant thunder rumbled faintly in the air.

  He looked up at the gray sky and curled his lips into a cold smirk. Just then, a single raindrop silently slid onto the back of his hand.

  The rainy season arrived just like that—soon, raindrops began to fall steadily, quickly turning into a downpour. The rain washed over the earth without mercy, cleansing the bloodstains and meat scraps from the ground as if they had never existed.

  This rain seemed to draw a perfect full stop to the fates of Bronan and that group of minotaurs; their shadows silently vanished into the storm.

  Draven turned around, threw on a rainproof cloak, and prepared to set off on his journey home.

  He calculated the time in his mind—Liliana and the others should have already reached their destination. Thinking this, his steps were neither hurried nor slow but carried a calm confidence.

  While he was soaked through by the heavy rain, Liliana and her group were riding their Nightmare Horses, bathing in the last rays of the sunset as they slowly approached Village No. 2.

  Titus, the guard at the village entrance, had already spotted them and immediately sent word to Viola. Titus regarded Viola as the mistress of the territory.

  Viola watched as the Nightmare Horses drew closer, her brows furrowing.

  "Liliana, where's Draven? Why didn't he come back with you?" Viola asked anxiously.

  Finding no sign of the werewolf leader on horseback, she called out nervously toward the sky.

  Her concern was met with Liliana's clear, bright laughter.

  Hearing the laughter, Viola's worry eased a little. As long as Liliana was still laughing, it meant Draven was fine.

  However, her gaze was caught by a young deer-person girl who followed them.

  Viola patiently waited as the Nightmare Horses slowly came to a halt. The moment they stopped, she quickly stepped forward, helped the short-legged Liliana down, and asked with concern,

  "Liliana, tell me, where is Draven?"

  "He said he'd come back later," Liliana replied mischievously, a sly smile playing on her face.

  "Nightmare Horse, go fetch him!" Liliana happily patted the horse's rump.

  Her earlier nostalgia for Selene City had long vanished, all unpleasantness driven away by the cheerful atmosphere.

  She threw herself into Viola's arms, babbling excitedly without pause,"Sister Viola, Selene City is so much fun! I made a whole lot of little money! Look!"

  She raised the jingling pouch, her coquettish manner utterly endearing.

  Viola gently held the little girl, praising her for being capable, but her mind still lingered on the deer-person girl.

  With a serious look, she asked,"And you are?"

  The always lively and cheerful Martha suddenly looked a bit nervous, fingers twisting lightly as she prepared to introduce herself.

  But the little girl in Viola's arms beat her to it:

  "Her name's Martha. She also wants to be Draven's woman!"

  "Sister Viola, can she? Then there'd be three of us!"

  Martha and Viola exchanged a glance, the atmosphere suddenly turning awkward.

  Just then, the tardy Sylvia happened to overhear their conversation.