Draven walked alone out of the village, following a narrow path deep into a secluded mountain valley.

  There was no human sound here, only the whisper of the wind weaving through withered branches and cracks in the stones. He lifted his head slightly, scanning the area. After confirming no immediate threats, he finally relaxed his brow.

  Closing his eyes, he began to sense the power of his bloodline. That force, like a dormant beast, slowly awakened and surged into his limbs. His muscles twitched, and with a low growl, his body began to stretch and morph into a tall, imposing werewolf.

  The werewolf then closed his eyes again, as if entering a ritualistic trance.

  Draven drew in a tight breath, trying to recall the feeling he'd had when fusing with Selene. He knew this time, he had to achieve that state alone—without her aid.

  His brow furrowed deeper, his breathing quickened. The very air around him began to ripple, like heat waves bending the light.

  Suddenly, faint traces of black flame emerged from the ground, swirling upward. As the werewolf let out a deep growl, the flames surged and engulfed his entire body.

  The sound echoed through the valley like a thunderclap. Once consumed by the fire, the black flames began to condense, coalescing into a dark, burning silhouette—concentrated and intense.

  Moments later, the fire dissipated, revealing a massive Shadow Wolf, twice the size of Ragnar, towering like a small mountain.

  The black fur still shimmered faintly with the blue-green afterglow of flame. Its eyes burned with excitement, as if it had found its long-lost identity.

  Joy flooded Draven's chest. He had succeeded!

  The Shadow Wolf darted through the valley, its paws tearing through fallen leaves and gravel. It mimicked a few hunting motions—tracking wind, chasing phantom scents—quickly adapting to its new form.

  After several minutes, the Shadow Wolf came to a halt, standing tall and solemn. The flames gathered again and vanished. With a deep rumble, the form faded, and he reverted to his werewolf self—still strong, but no longer monstrous in scale.

  At the same time, a red stream of energy flashed across his chest. The power of his bloodline withdrew, his muscles returning to normal.

  As the enhancement faded, a flash of red light burst from his chest. Ragnar, his bonded beast, appeared beside him.

  The air around them trembled slightly—Ragnar was unusually excited, howling nonstop as if proclaiming victory.

  Draven stroked its head and smiled. He was pleased too.

  Back in Selene City, he had already begun to suspect this possibility and even attempted it once. Now, it was finally confirmed.

  He discovered that as long as Ragnar returned to his chest and drew on his own bloodline power, he could transform into the Shadow Wolf by himself.

  Of course, this power wasn't as overwhelming as when fused with Selene, nor could it achieve the "Tri-Soul Fusion" state. But it was still strong enough to boost him instantly to high-tier Lord level.

  More importantly, this Shadow Wolf retained its black flame traits—resilience, burning aura, and a predator's oppressive presence. Among high-tier Lords, this made him one of the very strongest.

  The only downside was the loss of the clone ability that Selene had provided. He suspected it was due to her unique phantom-duplication ability. Still, this minor drawback hardly mattered now.

  He and Ragnar roamed the valley together, synchronizing their heartbeats and breaths. Eventually, Ragnar turned back into a streak of blood-red light and merged silently into his body once more.

  Draven watched as dusk settled over the land. His eyes burned with resolve, and he clenched his fist.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Unless absolutely necessary, he would never let Ragnar leave his side again. With this hidden ace, he would stand even more confidently at the level of a true Lord.

  "Beneath a Lord, who should I fear?" he murmured, a cold gleam flashing in his eyes.

  He thought to himself: Once the 800 slaves return and the rainy season ends, the Black Flag Territory would be poised for a massive expansion—new lands, new forces, and new sovereignty.

  His gaze deepened as he looked northward beyond the valley, as if seeing the future unfold.

  At that very moment, a squad of minotaurs set off from the western edge of Selene City, carrying war banners as they headed north toward the God-War Highlands.

  They were acting under Torvald orders, heading to the rhino-men's territory for important negotiations.

  ...

  Draven finished the experiment and returned to the village satisfied.

  After just a short while apart, Sylvia was already standing at the entrance of the hall like a statue, staring unblinkingly toward the door, as if afraid she might miss a glimpse of him.

  Draven stood at the doorway, watching the scene, a heaviness settling in his chest.

  He had expected her to be upset, but not like this—standing so still, so straight, for so long, as if afraid he would suddenly disappear again.

  He let out a soft sigh. Maybe he really had gone too far.

  He stepped forward and took her hand. The warmth of her touch spread through his palm. A smile bloomed on Sylvia's face.

  Draven felt a complex swirl of emotions. If she was like this now, what would it be like if she returned to the Elven Kingdom? Would she spend every day thinking of him? Just imagining it made his heart soften.

  But he also knew—some things couldn't be avoided. Still holding her hand tightly, he began walking slowly through the village with her.

  They had no destination. They simply let their steps guide them forward.

  Time was running short, and every moment felt precious to him—even this quiet stroll.

  Eventually, they found themselves in the planting fields behind the village.

  Suddenly, Draven stopped in his tracks, surprise flickering across his face.

  "Look over there," he said, pointing ahead.

  Sylvia followed his gaze, and her expression shifted to one of astonishment as well.

  Liliana, the mischievous little girl who was always full of strange ideas, was now standing at the edge of the potion field. Her arms were raised high, her eyes closed, a peaceful smile on her lips. Her body swayed gently with the breeze, like a tall tree dancing in the wind.

  "What is she doing?" Draven whispered, bewildered.

  "Didn't she only play that tree imitation game at night before? Has she gotten addicted to it now?" He stared at Liliana's posture, finding it more and more bizarre.

  But before he could call out to her, what happened next surprised him even more.

  The little spirits that had been busy working in the potion field had, at some point, gathered silently around Liliana. They encircled her quietly, some even landing gently on her shoulders or in her hair, as if she truly were a tree with a soul.

  Sylvia's gaze shifted slightly. It was as though something had just clicked in her mind.

  She gently tugged Draven's arm and whispered,"Let's not disturb her. We should step away."

  Draven nodded, and they quietly left the planting zone.

  Once they had walked a fair distance, Sylvia finally explained,

  "You asked why she's been acting strange lately—she's trying to master her second form."

  Draven paused in surprise, then scratched his nose. Now that she mentioned it, he vaguely remembered Liliana bringing it up before.

  "Didn't she say she wanted to turn into a snake? Now it's a treant?"

  "Do treants even count as magical beasts?" he asked Sylvia, a hint of worry creeping into his voice.

  He wasn't concerned about the form itself—it was Liliana's state that worried him.

  She always looked cheerful on the surface, but he knew she carried deep pain inside.

  Her longing for her mother had weighed on her heart for over a hundred years. That kind of sorrow wasn't something just anyone could bear.

  "Maybe it's tied to the wood-elf bloodline in her," Sylvia replied, though her tone carried some uncertainty.

  From what she knew, druids were extremely rare—even in the Elven Kingdom, they were few and far between.

  Most druids were reclusive and avoided social contact. Seeing Liliana like this was a surprise even to her.

  Draven fell silent for a moment, then made a decision—he would tell Sylvia about Liliana's background.

  He kept most of the details to himself, especially the identity of the great druid—Liliana's maternal grandfather.

  He only mentioned that Liliana's mother was a wood elf, and that she had vanished nearly two hundred years ago.

  He had hoped Sylvia might know something about the wood elves.

  But Sylvia shook her head and said,

  "No one on the continent knows where they went. Not even my teacher, the Grand Seer Garin—someone on his level couldn't explain it."

  She spread her hands helplessly."So I can't give you an answer either."

  Still, she offered a promise:

  "I'll look into it when I return to the kingdom. The archives in the Elven Spire are well-preserved. Maybe I'll find something there."

  Draven felt a warmth rise in his chest. He gently kissed Sylvia's cheek and thanked her sincerely.

  "Thank you. This means a lot to Liliana."

  Sylvia smiled softly, her eyes curved like crescent moons.

  "She's my little sister too, isn't she?" she said, winking playfully.

  Draven couldn't help but laugh, his heart stirring at her words.

  He lowered his head, gazing at her delicate face. Without saying a word, he scooped her up into his arms.

  He wanted to truly feel Sylvia's presence—to read her heart completely.