"That's Sylvia, isn't it? The elven princess."

  Clara's hand froze midair as she raised her glass. Her lashes lowered quickly, as if hoping the movement would mask the flicker of panic in her eyes. She tried to keep her voice steady, but a hint of weakness betrayed her composure.

  "You must be joking, Lord of Shadows. This is territory of the beastkin—what elven princess would be here?"

  She was trying to deflect, to blur the focus and shift away from Draven's question. But he didn't give her that chance.

  "You can lie, but your eyes can't hide the fear."

  For the first time, he met her gaze directly, calmly and without evasion. There was a steady confidence in his eyes, the kind that belonged to someone who controlled the entire board. This wasn't a casual probe—it was a calculated assault, each step advancing with precision.

  Clara kept a smile on her lips, but it looked unnatural, like a mask forcibly affixed to her face. She wanted to deny it, but no excuse she could think of seemed convincing enough.

  Just as she opened her mouth to reply, Draven cut in, his voice low and firm, carrying a weight that pressed down on her chest.

  "The elven princess is in the hands of my lord. Perhaps… we can have a proper conversation now."

  My lord—those two words exploded in Clara's mind.

  Shock and unease flitted across her face. Until now, she'd assumed Draven was the true power behind Selene, the strongest pillar in her shadowy faction. But now he spoke of his lord—which meant there was another, even greater force behind the scenes.

  She realized she might have gravely underestimated the power at play here.

  Yet, beneath that unease, an irrepressible thrill bloomed in her chest. The elven princess she had been relentlessly searching for—could it be true? Was she really here?

  What she didn't know was that Draven was gambling. He had no proof, no leverage. Just a bluff—an illusion of a sword hovering midair, aiming straight for her heart. And it worked.

  Clara's mind raced. She was trying to decide how to respond, how to use this topic to draw more information from Draven. But before she could regain her footing, her eyes flicked toward the hall's entrance, and a hint of hesitation and worry flashed across her face.

  "If we're going to talk, Lord Draven, then tell me—why did you attack Freya?" she asked, trying to seize back a shred of control."She's one of ours."

  Draven's lips curled into a mocking smile, as if she'd asked something profoundly naive.

  "You barged in uninvited and tried to meddle with my lord's domain. Did you really expect no consequences?" he spoke slowly, laced with contempt.

  Clara had no answer. He was right. If it had been the blood elves' domain being trespassed like this, she would've retaliated immediately.

  But Freya was her subordinate, after all. She had to say something, at least try to protect her.

  Just then, Draven spoke again, waving a hand as if brushing away a trivial matter. His tone was light, like he was discussing a game of chess.

  "They're just fledgling lords. Let's not waste our time on such petty details."

  Clara looked at him, searching his face for any emotion—pity? Rage? But there was nothing. Like her, Draven didn't even glance toward the fight outside.

  In that moment, an unsettling feeling crept into Clara's heart. She realized something—Freya might not survive this.

  She had always known that Freya was no match for Selene. Freya didn't have the support of a shadow lord. She had relied on some kind of external force to forcibly accelerate her advancement.

  That wasn't growth. It was a hollow shortcut.

  Selene had seen through it from the beginning. She hadn't even bothered to use her shadow clones. Just a single whip was enough to suppress Freya completely.

  It wasn't a battle—it was a one-sided beating.

  Each strike of the whip landed with ruthless precision. None missed. Every blow sent Freya's body twitching, blood spraying into the air. Her clothes had long been reduced to tatters, her hair disheveled, her face and body covered in lash marks. She looked like she'd crawled straight out of hell.

  She collapsed to her knees, elbows barely holding her up as she dragged herself backward. But the whip cracked again, striking her down, leaving her trembling on the ground.

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  Her breathing was ragged. Her eyes, unfocused, stared at the cold, emotionless figure before her. Her lips trembled, as if wanting to say something, but not a single word came out.

  Only now did she understand—Clara's repeated warnings hadn't been exaggerations.

  They were both at the initial stage of the lord tier, yet she couldn't even touch the hem of Selene's garment. And every strike from Selene felt like it was stripping away the last shred of her dignity.

  The buildings nearby had long since been destroyed in the early moments of the fight. Debris littered the ground. The succubi who had gathered to watch had retreated, forming a wide open circle. None of them stepped in. None offered help. They just silently watched.

  The air reeked of scorched flesh and blood, casting a heavy curtain over the night's crushing defeat.

  Freya finally understood—she was no match for Selene. She didn't even deserve to stand in her presence.

  Just like that lofty succubus leader from the South, she had never truly looked at her—not even once.

  No, it was worse than that. She had never even deigned to give her a proper glance. Even a sideways look had been nothing more than a passing sneer.

  Freya stared hard at the ground, her vision blurring, her breath growing heavier. In her mind, that moment played over and over—unbidden, unstoppable: the look in that woman's eyes as she fell.

  That look had been beautiful. Mesmerizing. Despair laced with fear—an expression she had never seen on that face before.

  For one fleeting instant, Freya had felt like she'd finally won.

  But now, that same look… had become her own.

  She was the one in despair. She was the one helpless now.

  She had long since sent out a signal for help to Clara. She was certain that with Clara's power, she must have already sensed the battle here—sensed Freya's danger.

  But she never came.

  What was she waiting for?

  Was she just watching?

  Was she ignoring it all?

  Those nights filled with tender whispers and shared warmth—how laughable they seemed now.

  She had once debased herself, seducing those repulsive males just to complete the tasks Clara gave her—just to make Clara happy.

  And now, she couldn't even get a reply.

  Freya's breath came in ragged gasps. Her chest heaved. Her mind was unraveling. She couldn't even tell whether she was trembling from pain or from humiliation.

  And Selene stood in front of her, cold and distant, making no effort to hide the contempt in her eyes.

  She knew Freya wouldn't last much longer. Her spiritual power was draining rapidly; her body was already on the verge of collapse.

  Yet Selene made no move to finish her off.

  She wasn't in a rush.

  She knew that power built on borrowed strength was meaningless—unstable, shallow, fragile.

  Just a bit more pressure, and Freya would shatter on her own.

  And Selene couldn't afford to be injured. Not even slightly.

  She stepped forward, her footfall light as a falling leaf on the shattered ground.

  But to Freya, every step landed like a heavy stone on her chest.

  Selene opened her mouth. Her voice was soft, but her tone left no room for argument.

  "Freya, surrender. If you yield now, I can still make you the Deputy Lord of the city. I need you."

  It was a line Draven had planned out. He believed recruiting Freya was the best way to handle her.

  After all, whether she surrendered or not—she had already lost.

  Selene's lips curled into a faint smile, her eyes glinting with mockery.

  She had no intention of making Freya the deputy lord.

  That kind of position was only for those truly worthy.

  But Draven was right.

  What she said now didn't matter.

  As long as Freya nodded, what happened next would be hers to decide.

  She even found herself thinking about Draven's sly, irritating face.

  That wolf leader didn't act like a beastkin at all. He was more like a cunning old noble politician—calculating, crafty, impossible to guard against.

  "Surrender? You think I'm still qualified to surrender?" Freya growled.

  Her hair was a mess, her eyes wild.

  She suddenly raised her head, revealing her blood-smeared face to Selene.

  Her body shook violently, and then—her bloodline power surged.

  A silver-gray mark emerged on her skin: the symbol of a subordinate.

  She already had a master. She always had.

  Freya gritted her teeth, her eyes mad with emotion.

  "I belong to Clara. She is my master. But she abandoned me!"

  The moment she roared those words, her aura exploded.

  Selene's expression darkened—she sensed the danger instantly.

  No more hesitation.

  With a crack, her whip lashed out.

  The air shrieked as it sliced through, striking with deadly precision.

  The whip stabbed into Freya's abdomen like a venomous snake. The force was so fierce it lifted her body clean off the ground.

  Her whole body convulsed.

  Blood sprayed from the wound, splattering across the shattered stone floor.

  She hung there, twitching, like a puppet strung up by its own thread.

  Her gaze blurred, but her pupils still locked tightly onto Selene's face.

  "Clara…"

  Her voice was barely a whisper, like a broken echo carried on the wind.

  Just before her consciousness faded completely, she saw that night again—

  The night when Clara, the blood elf, first entered the southern succubus lands.

  She remembered she had deliberately stayed behind, choosing the most inconspicuous corner just to serve her.

  She had wanted to be the one Clara remembered.

  But now… she would only be forgotten.

  Selene retracted her whip and casually swept Freya's corpse into a storage ring, as if tossing away something old and useless.

  She didn't spare another glance.

  There was no time.

  She had already been delayed too long.

  If she didn't leave now, there might be trouble on Draven's side.

  That black wolf was too bold. He might really cause a mess.

  With a flicker, Selene vanished, melting into shadow and leaving the battlefield.

  Meanwhile, not far away in a stone hut, Clara's calm expression shifted ever so slightly.

  She had known the moment Freya died.

  But she had done nothing.

  She simply stared at the piece of beast hide in her hand, her fingers gently stroking the smear of blood on it.

  That blood seemed to possess some strange, magnetic power—she couldn't look away.

  "Is this really the blood of a Blood Beast?"

  Her voice trembled just slightly.

  Draven was sipping the bloodwine he'd brought with him, lifting his cup with practiced grace, a confident, mysterious smile on his lips.

  "That depends on the eyes of you blood elves," he said.

  Clara didn't respond. Her gaze remained fixed on the bloodstain, oblivious to the smug expression on Draven's face.

  Draven swirled his cup, chuckling softly to himself.

  Surprised?

  This was just the beginning…