After summoning Ragnar, Draven stepped back a few paces, yielding the battlefield to his bonded beast.

  This was a tacit understanding long established between him and Ragnar. He stood at a slight distance, quietly observing the unfolding situation, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

  The battle commenced with brutal immediacy—no circling, no probing—just an instant clash of teeth and claws, as if they had been destined mortal enemies since birth.

  This did not imply Draven's timidity. He merely sought to gauge the strength of the cyan magical wolf, to study its movements and attack patterns.

  Only by doing so could he uncover a weakness and strike a lethal blow at the crucial moment.

  Of course, Draven was no stickler for fairness. If he could exploit the distraction Ragnar caused to launch a surprise attack, so much the better. After all, it was two against one—why bother extending courtesy to a magical wolf?

  At first, the battle seemed evenly matched. The great wolves tore into each other, their collisions heavy and muffled, like two mountains crashing headlong. Yet within moments, Draven sensed something amiss.

  The cyan magical wolf grew steadier, its movements unmistakably more practiced and precise. Though it lacked overwhelming force, it gradually seized the advantage with every strike.

  Its attacks were economical—devoid of superfluous motion—and its reflexes were startlingly swift and unpredictable.

  In contrast, Ragnar's assaults were fueled by raw fury and instinctive impulse. It lunged, bit, and rammed fiercely, but lacked precision.

  It fought like a green recruit, relying solely on savage tenacity.

  Draven knew the fault lay with himself. Ragnar's awakening had been too recent.

  Only days had passed since its summoning. Though powerful, it had no true battle experience.

  It had endured only by virtue of reckless courage. The newborn beast knew neither fear nor self-preservation.

  Because of this, the cyan magical wolf occasionally took a step back when faced with Ragnar's desperate attacks, unwilling to respond rashly.

  But such stalemate could not last. As time wore on, Ragnar's wounds multiplied.

  Its breathing grew labored, its fur matted and stained with blood, its movements slowed.

  Draven's gaze sharpened; he knew the moment had come. With Ragnar exhausting the foe first, his own strike would be all the surer.

  Though the cyan magical wolf was ranked a tier above, its grievous injuries rendered it vulnerable.

  He drew a deep breath; his body transformed suddenly—skin turned ashen and coarse, muscles swelled and tore through fabric, bones cracked audibly. In an instant, he became a two-meter-tall werewolf, eyes blazing with blood-red light.

  Seizing the moment, he charged at full speed just as Ragnar latched onto the magical wolf's flank. His claws, sharp as daggers, plunged fiercely into its side.

  He felt his claws breach a tough yet slick barrier—like tearing through leather into soft flesh beneath. Without hesitation, he yanked hard, pulling out his entire arm.

  A gush of hot blood erupted, accompanied by the fetid stench of shattered entrails. The cyan magical wolf let out a piercing scream that sliced through the air. Its body convulsed violently, nearly toppling over.

  Draven's eyes narrowed, his mind focused. With a thought, the severely wounded Ragnar vanished in a flash of blood-red light, returning to his body. He pushed off with both legs, swiftly retreating to create distance.

  Once firmly planted, he raised his right hand and gazed upon the still-bleeding organ cradled in his palm, a cold smile curling his lips.

  "No wonder it screamed so pitifully," he murmured to himself, "I've pulled out your kidney."

  The cyan magical wolf lay sprawled, a gruesome hole gaping in its abdomen. Blood poured forth relentlessly as its body trembled spasmodically. Its eyes were wide open, burning with fury and defiance.

  It tried to rise, but its legs refused to obey. It panted silently, unable to utter a sound, barely able to lift its head to glare at Draven, as if trying to etch his visage into memory.

  Draven flicked the entrails behind him, awkwardly avoiding the magical wolf's gaze. He was no respecter of rules, but even he felt his strike had been excessively brutal.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Yet he quickly regained his composure. Smirking faintly, he lunged forward. A living enemy was still a threat—there was no need to grant it a moment's respite.

  With a crisp crack, Draven twisted the magical wolf's neck. Its body collapsed utterly, even the light in its eyes extinguished.

  At last, the battle was over.

  Behind him rose two cheers—it was Bran and Rurik.

  They had been hiding in the rear, now finally emboldened to emerge. Watching their leader dispatch the foe so swiftly, they nearly jumped with excitement.

  Bran brandished his spear with rapid thrusts, shouting as he jabbed at the magical wolf's corpse. Unfortunately, the wolf's hide was as tough as armor; his spear left no mark. But this did not hinder his venting of emotion.

  Rurik was far calmer. His gaze lingered on the fallen cyan magical wolf, gleaming with calculation. His thoughts were not on the battle, but on how much the corpse could be traded for—how great its value.

  Draven did not stop them, letting them revel for a while. He wiped the blood from his right hand and summoned Ragnar once more.

  Bonded beasts always appeared weakened after battle, but unless fatally wounded, they could recover by resting within Draven's heart. This, however, came at the cost of draining his own bloodline power.

  The cost was nothing to him. Slaying the magical wolf was worth every expense.

  Just as he was about to call his two tribesmen to handle the magical wolf's corpse,

  "Damn it, what are you doing?!" Bran shouted, only to find Rurik didn't respond at all.

  The man suddenly lunged at the magical wolf's body like a madman, opening his mouth without hesitation and began to suck deeply on the still-bleeding wound, like a dying man finally finding water.

  Bran cursed loudly, "You shameless bastard!"

  But the next second, Bran himself imitated Rurik, bending down without hesitation, pressing his mouth onto another wound and also started sucking eagerly, as if afraid of losing to Rurik by even a fraction of a second.

  Draven stood beside them, speechless, watching the two of them behave like starving dogs gone mad. He instinctively wanted to laugh, but the more he laughed, the more normal it seemed.

  A leader-class magical beast has almost no useless parts on its body. Its blood is especially precious, often used to brew blood wine, refine potions, or even directly as a magic power supplement.

  To those who truly know how to utilize magical beast resources, blood is second only to the magic core in value.

  Unfortunately, they were neither alchemists nor equipped with complex tools. Since losing their tribe's protection, these refugee werewolves had no conditions to preserve such precious blood.

  Rurik's behavior was actually the simplest and most direct way to handle it — a pure instinct not to waste.

  Draven sighed and glanced down at the magical wolf's still-bleeding wounds. After a moment's thought, he hesitated no longer. His body trembled slightly as he dispelled the bloodline blessing that maintained his battle form.

  Then he bent down and, like his two companions, began directly sucking the warm, thick blood.

  The taste was overwhelmingly rusty, almost enough to make one frown, but with each gulp, the sensation of being filled inside grew stronger.

  He could feel the blood within him stirring, magic slowly increasing, and even his fatigue fading bit by bit.

  For a while, none of the three spoke; they simply lowered their heads and drank quickly, not even bothering to wipe the blood from their mouths.

  Only when their bellies were round and full, when one more gulp might make them vomit, did they almost simultaneously stop, lying on the ground and panting as they looked at one another.

  Their faces, mouths, even necks were stained with blood, looking disheveled but carrying a wild satisfaction.

  Watching each other, they all laughed, laughing without restraint, almost crazily.

  That laughter held so many emotions—relief, relaxation, ecstasy, and a hint of long-lost hope.

  Draven closed his eyes and lay back, letting the wind brush across his face. For years they had been hiding and running, without a fixed home.

  To survive, they had to give up too much dignity and rules. But now, having taken down a leader-class magical beast, they exchanged victory for hope of territory. Soon, they would have their own place, their own home.

  After a brief rest, Draven sat up, wiped the dried blood from his face, and began handling the magical wolf's corpse.

  Dissecting a leader-class magical beast was no easy task, especially a blue magical wolf, whose entire body was muscular and bones extremely dense. A careless cut could destroy important organs.

  He used his sharp claws to cut open the fur, carefully peeled off the tough wolf hide, then extracted the magic core—a deep blue, nail-sized crystal pulsing faintly with magic energy.

  He pocketed it and continued processing the corpse—removing meat, separating tendons, and dissecting the internal organs.

  At this time, Ragnar was summoned again. Though its wounds remained, after resting in the heart-space, they had scabbed and healed somewhat, allowing it to move at least.

  Draven threw some of the magical wolf's innards to it, and Ragnar immediately chewed and swallowed eagerly.

  Bran and Rurik didn't idle either; each holding a worn axe, they started searching nearby for dry wood.

  They knew that except for a few meat chunks to be cooked immediately, the rest needed to be smoked and dried quickly, or it would rot within days.

  Unlike humans, demi-humans couldn't farm crops; their food relied almost entirely on hunting. Dried meat was the most stable and practical stored food.

  A fire was soon lit nearby, smoke swirling and the air thick with the scent of roasted flesh.

  Draven sat on a stone, staring at the smoking strips of meat, wiping his knife and lost in thought.

  What would the future hold? Could they defend this territory? Would the succubi set traps?

  He wasn't sure. But he knew they had to keep moving forward.

  At that moment, far away, dozens of kilometers from here, in Selene City, a pair of bewitching eyes slowly opened.

  The succubi lord sat on her throne, fingers twirling a strand of jet-black hair. She had no interest in the new werewolf leader at first—just a routine assignment of the most remote land with the cheapest supplies, letting this wild dog fend for himself.

  She had expected Draven to last no more than three days before fleeing back.

  Yet for some reason, recalling the werewolf's steady gaze made her hesitate. There was no desperate will to survive, no servile flattery—only an unusual calmness, like a hunting wolf waiting for the right moment.

  She chuckled softly, extended her slender finger, and lightly traced a line in the air.

  A shadow appeared from the corner, quietly kneeling before her.

  "Go check," she said with lazy curiosity, "I want to know—whether that newcomer werewolf is just a wild dog... or the wolf king."