The incantation remained the same, the magic circle unchanged, the process identical. Draven began his own summoning ritual. This time, he wanted to see what kind of servant he could call forth from the world of the dead.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of Selene City, Gregor had quietly begun his own operation.

  He had just seen off the members of Squad Seven, leaving their residence behind as a contact point. Then, he made his way alone to the slums, a place teeming with people and ideal for clandestine activity.

  His first stop was the abandoned temple at the end of a shadowy alley. The Serpent Ancestor was hiding there. No unnecessary words were exchanged—their communication was entirely through their eyes.

  Afterward, he took a detour south to a rundown inn, the agreed-upon meeting place with Rurik.

  What Gregor didn't know was that from the moment he left the castle, a pair of eyes hidden in the shadows had been watching him. It was one of Selene's shadow guards, who silently observed Gregor's every move and relayed the information.

  After completing the two secret meetings, Gregor didn't return immediately. Instead, he wandered the city aimlessly. His steps appeared casual, but each turn and pause was deliberate and calculated.

  His knowledge of Selene City came solely from the shared memories of his main body. But impressions drawn from memory were shallow at best. Without walking the streets himself, without seeing with his own eyes, everything felt hollow.

  He needed real sensations. He needed to understand the structure and rhythm of the city. He walked and observed—from main roads to hidden alleys, from bustling markets to abandoned corners—he examined them all. He wasn't just looking; he was thinking.

  The time granted to him by the main body was limited. He had to quickly piece together the threads of this whole affair.

  From the information he had so far, Gregor increasingly believed that Deputy Governor Freya was being backed by some hidden force. Selene herself had neither the power nor the motive to challenge the Elven Kingdom—unless she was no longer the Selene she once was.

  His brow furrowed, and a grim shadow passed over his stern face. If she had also fallen under the control of the blood elves, then the entire situation changed drastically.

  It wouldn't just be the governor's estate—perhaps the entire succubus territory had already been infiltrated. The whereabouts of the elven princess might no longer be a secret.

  But for now, the most urgent task was to locate the true hiding place of the blood elves.

  If they really were operating in Selene City, where would they choose to hide? Gregor pondered this as he moved through the streets. He carefully noted every suspicious location, doing his best to widen the scope of his investigation.

  Until it could be confirmed whether Selene herself had been compromised, he ruled out the governor's estate. The reason was simple: if Selene had indeed betrayed them, she could have openly mobilized the succubus forces to search for the elven princess. There'd be no need for such secrecy.

  Based on this logic, Gregor leaned toward the idea that the blood elves were hiding either in the southern districts inhabited by succubi or within the minotaur territory, which maintained close ties with the succubi. As for more distant areas, he wasn't ruling them out—it was simply a matter of time he didn't have.

  His so-called "search range" was, in truth, limited to the places he could reach on his own.

  "I hope I'm right," Gregor prayed silently. He knew he only had one chance.

  Meanwhile, the summoning ritual was nearing its end.

  As the green ghostly flames slowly died out, Draven opened his eyes. He had hoped that a powerful and eerie undead would step out from the summoning circle—like Gregor's death knight, or the undead mage summoned by the Green Serpent. But what appeared before him was something entirely unexpected—a massive severed arm.

  "What the hell is this thing?” Draven frowned, staring at the sudden and bizarre limb, his face full of confusion and frustration.

  The arm had been severed at the elbow, as though torn straight from some gigantic creature. It stood upright on the ground, over a meter long, the stump as thick as a barrel, its surface covered in heavy scales.

  These scales glinted with a cold, metallic sheen—resembling snake skin, or perhaps some form of heavy armor. Each scale fit perfectly with the next, with no signs of damage.

  Its five fingers weren't clenched but slightly open, tipped with claw-like black nails that gleamed like black crystals under the dim light—sharp enough to cut the air itself.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Draven couldn't help but curse again,"What the hell is this?”

  He glanced down at his still-bleeding wrist, something he had nearly forgotten about. Viola reminded him, prompting him to quickly tend to the wound. The bleeding stopped abruptly.

  But in that instant, a foreign power surged from the severed arm into his wrist. He felt something enter his body—completely and irreversibly.

  Seconds later, the wound stopped bleeding, leaving behind a complex and intricate mark. A miniature depiction of the severed arm was now etched perfectly into his skin.

  His eyes suddenly lit up as a wave of inexplicable understanding rushed into his mind."Hand of Death.”

  He spoke the name in his heart. It wasn't something he invented—it was the arm's original title.

  In that moment, he understood what it truly was. This wasn't the limb of some undead beast, but a piece of something far more terrifying.

  The entity it belonged to was called the Death Tyrant, a monstrous being slumbering deep beneath the abyss of the necromantic realm. This arm was a fragment of its power, left behind in the mortal world.

  Draven's current strength was still far from enough to fully summon the Death Tyrant. Even with all his effort, all he could manage was calling forth that one arm—and even that was already an extraordinary feat.

  Hand of Death—that was the official name of the severed arm. Though it was only a fragment of the whole, it held terrifying power.

  Its usage was surprisingly simple. With just a thought, the mark on Draven's wrist would glow faintly. The next second, the black, metallic-looking arm would appear, floating before him.

  It didn't rely on any visible energy to stay suspended—hovering in the air, silent and motionless, yet exuding a palpable sense of menace. Like a beast lying in wait, ready to strike at its master's command.

  Draven controlled it with his mind, directing its movements—clenching, striking, grabbing, intercepting... Each action was precise and deadly. It looked as though he had grown another arm, only this one was stronger, tougher, and far more ruthless.

  He laughed—a genuine laugh.

  He had never felt such power before. The arm was hard as iron, yet moved with astonishing agility. Each swing of it stirred the air with a heavy, humming gust.

  He tested it on a nearby stone wall. With a single strike, the supposedly indestructible surface cracked like a spiderweb, loose rocks tumbling noisily to the ground.

  Draven's eyes lit up.

  By his estimation, the strength of this severed arm was at least equal to the full-force blow of a mid-tier high-grade magical beast. In other words, the Hand of Death was more than capable of going head-to-head with powerful leader-class creatures.

  He kept testing, curious to know its limits. Soon, he discovered that the arm could float more than thirty meters away from him while still maintaining complete control.

  Thirty meters—that meant he could now launch attacks or defend from range. For Draven, it was like a weapon crafted precisely to fit his needs. Being a close-range fighter by nature, this finally covered his weakness at medium to long distances.

  He grinned, a mix of satisfaction and excitement on his face.

  With the Hand of Death, he felt more confident about the mission ahead. The Elven Kingdom's guard unit would arrive eventually, and when they did, Sylvia's safety had to be guaranteed.

  Taking on an entire squad alone? He wasn't confident. But with the Hand of Death, maybe he had a fighting chance.

  But then he turned and saw Sylvia—and that brief moment of joy instantly quieted.

  Sylvia still maintained her cat-person form, sitting quietly to the side. Her head was lowered, her expression faintly melancholic. Her ears drooped, and her tail lay limply behind her.

  She was about to leave.

  Draven's heart sank. He didn't show off his newfound power. Instead, he dismissed the severed arm. The mark on his wrist faded back into his skin, as if sealing away some strange and dark secret.

  He walked up to Sylvia and gently touched her hair.

  "Don't worry," Draven said softly."For you, I'd do anything."

  He spoke quietly, but those words carried more truth than any vow.

  Sylvia blinked, startled, and tears welled up in her eyes. She understood then—his pursuit of dangerous powers wasn't for glory or strength. It was all for her.

  She threw herself into his arms and hugged his waist tightly.

  Draven looked down at her, a faint smile unconsciously curling his lips. He wasn't a saint—he had selfish desires. She was his now. Of course he didn't want her to leave.

  Even with separation looming, he wanted to make sure Sylvia remembered him—deeply, clearly. So that once the crisis was over, she would have a reason to return.

  Whether the Elven Kingdom would accept it—that was a matter for the future. As long as Sylvia couldn't let go of him, the rest didn't matter.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of Selene City, Valeria once again arrived at the narrow stone hut. Her heart pounded faster than before.

  She could feel it—someone was inside. Not Draven. Not the werewolf leader who had made her swallow her pride. No, this presence was unfamiliar... and dangerous.

  She pushed the door open, and a wave of cold air hit her face. Inside, a figure sat cloaked entirely in black. Only two vertical pupils glowed with cold light in the darkness.

  "You've come," the figure rasped.

  It was the Serpent Ancestor. He made no effort to hide his identity or mask his voice. He knew exactly who he was waiting for. And he knew exactly who Valeria was.

  Inwardly, he praised Gregor's efficiency. Less than a day had passed, and yet the master's sleeper agent was already here.

  That's right—Valeria had been summoned by Gregor in secret. The master had long since prepared everything. Once Valeria had fully submitted, Gregor gave her a secret rendezvous location and an emergency contact method.

  If a certain mark appeared on the wall, she was to show up immediately.

  Valeria never expected her contact to be someone so strange. But what shocked her even more was what the Serpent Ancestor said next—each word hitting her like a hammer blow.

  Her face went pale, her eyes widened until they looked like they might burst.

  "What does the Master plan to do?" she gasped, her voice trembling.

  The Serpent Ancestor did not answer. He simply pulled two items from under his cloak, shoved them coldly into her hands, and said in a flat voice:

  "You know the price of disobedience."

  Valeria trembled.

  Images filled her mind—rain falling that night, blood staining the ground, a corpse nailed to a giant stone. Those scenes were like iron spikes, driven deep into the recesses of her memory.