Draven sat alone in the council hall, a thick stack of rosters spread across the table in front of him—detailed records of each village's population.

  After days of coordination and resettlement, every village now had its personnel properly assigned. A quick scan revealed that more than five thousand demi-humans were currently living in the Black Flag Territory.

  Though that number still fell short of the great, long-established clans, it wasn't too far behind either.

  The recent addition of the Goldmane Monkeys and the Rhinoceros Men had especially helped to make up for the territory's weakness in bloodline warriors.

  But Draven wasn't satisfied. The combat ability of ordinary villagers was still far too poor.

  He made a rough calculation—if a war were to break out now, less than half the population could realistically be drafted into battle. He might not even be able to assemble a full fighting force of two thousand.

  Still, he wasn't planning on launching any wars or large-scale expansions anytime soon. For now, the top priority remained the development and construction of the territory.

  Construction projects in Village No. 1 were already on track, progressing rapidly thanks to the Rhinoceros Men and their near-unnatural strength, which made them almost indifferent to the weight of materials.

  Village No. 2 couldn't afford to lag behind either—the agricultural development there was of utmost importance.

  From the training grounds came the dull sound of mallets striking wood. Big Bear was working with several craftsmen and slaves to build simple wooden plows based on blueprints provided by Draven.

  They had taken inspiration from the iron plow Draven had forged using his metal-manipulation abilities. Though the materials were different, the structure and function could still be replicated.

  Draven's mind held countless tool designs from his previous life. He could recreate many mechanical structures from memory, and when it came to metalwork, his efficiency was unmatched.

  But the Black Flag Territory still lacked sufficient metal resources. He couldn't afford to use up weapon-grade metal just to make farming tools.

  Fortunately, Big Bear and the others had significantly improved their skills lately. The structure of the wooden plow wasn't complex, and with a model to follow, reproducing it was manageable.

  Thinking of this, Draven suddenly remembered someone who had been absent from view lately—the ratman blacksmith, Pick.

  Once a proud and spirited craftsman, Pick had grown quiet and withdrawn after being enslaved by the Tauren.

  Though he'd been brought back to the Black Flag Territory some time ago, Draven had been too busy to check on him. Now seemed like the right time.

  He turned toward the doorway and gave a shout. A few moments later, a kobold guard brought Pick into the hall.

  Pick clearly had not recovered from his trauma. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, he shuffled in with hesitant, faltering steps.

  This pitiful figure was nothing like the energetic young blacksmith who once vowed to open his own forge.

  "Pick, do you remember me?" Draven softened his tone as much as possible, trying to put the ratman at ease. He had no intention of intimidating him.

  But even so, Pick couldn't stop trembling. It was as if he were in the presence of some terrifying, unknowable force. His head hung low, eyes fixed to the floor, body shaking as if he might break down at any moment.

  Draven frowned. Pick's condition was worse than he had imagined.

  He stood and walked over, placing a hand gently on Pick's shoulder. A warm flow of bloodline energy passed into the ratman as Draven checked his physical condition.

  A few seconds later, he withdrew his hand.

  Pick's body was weak, but not severely injured. In other words, the problem wasn't physical—it was mental.

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  His nerves had been stretched to the breaking point, like a taut string about to snap.

  Psychological trauma was hard to heal. Bloodline power alone couldn't fix it. Draven felt a wave of helplessness—and disappointment.

  He had once placed hope in Pick. The ratman had been a blacksmith with ideals, with dreams. But now, that hope seemed increasingly unrealistic.

  Just as Draven let out a sigh, a sharp, foul stench reached his nose.

  He paused, his gaze dropping slowly to Pick's lower half—there on the floor, a pale yellow puddle had spread.

  Pick was kneeling, body convulsing violently—he had wet himself from sheer terror.

  Draven took a step back, his expression finally darkening. The disappointment on his face was plain to see.

  A bloodline warrior, reduced to this…

  Suppressing his emotions, he didn't lash out or scold him. Instead, he said in a calm, deep voice,"Pick, you may go."

  He hesitated a moment, then added,"Don't worry. In Black Flag Territory, no one will hurt you again."

  Pick said nothing. His head drooped even lower, trembling even more fiercely—as if those comforting words had only made him more anxious.

  Under the kobold guard's escort, he was led away from the hall.

  Back in the stone hut that had been assigned to him, Pick crawled under the bed like it was a reflex.

  He hugged his frail arms to his chest, staring at his still-trembling hands, eyes filled with unbearable pain.

  All those dreams he once had… all those vows he once made… and the kin he had lost…

  Pick closed his eyes in pain, curling up in a corner as if trying to vanish into the darkness. His body still trembled now and then, as though even his muscles were rebelling against this broken life.

  It had been a long time since he had truly stood up. The room was so quiet, only the sound of his rapid breathing could be heard.

  Just then, the clear voices of children rang out from outside the door.

  "Tibbit! Riven! Hurry up!"

  "If we're any later, Uncle Pick's going to go hungry again!"

  It was Arnold, a young Black Wolf cub, calling out to his rabbitfolk friends. Ever since the rabbit pens had been moved out of the village, the children had struggled to find anything new to hold their attention.

  But it hadn't taken long for them to discover a new interest—the ratman living in the stone hut.

  He was a timid, skinny little guy who looked a bit like the rabbits they used to raise—only he didn't talk and never left the house.

  They quickly noticed that this ratman almost never left the stone hut. His meals were delivered by Uncle Titus's men.

  Later, the kids volunteered to take over food delivery, and in doing so, found a new"pet" to feed.

  They didn't really understand what a blacksmith was. All they knew was that watching Uncle Pick devour food like a tiny whirlwind was even more entertaining than feeding the rabbits.

  Before long, just like every other day, the children crouched beside the bed, calling gently with bowls of mashed cassava in hand:

  "Uncle Pick, come eat!"

  Soon, a pair of dust-covered hands reached out from beneath the bed. Pick slowly crawled out from the shadows like a frightened little beast.

  He grabbed the wooden bowl and began shoving the mash into his mouth with desperate hunger, getting it all over his face.

  The children burst into laughter, eyes sparkling with pride and delight.

  Every now and then, Pick would glance up at the three kids, letting his gaze linger for a second. Sometimes, he even tried to force out a stiff, awkward smile—one that looked a bit unsettling.

  But to the children, it was already precious beyond words.

  Their laughter only grew louder, and Pick would immediately bury his face back in the bowl, too embarrassed to look up again.

  Draven had no idea that these noisy little cubs were gradually breaking through the darkness in Pick's heart.

  They weren't saving him—they were simply accompanying him.

  As for the blacksmith issue, Draven knew he'd ultimately have to rely on Rurik. With the Public House opening in the city, it would be easier for Rurik to recruit workers.

  It wasn't just blacksmiths that were in short supply—all skilled craftsmen were rare. Training them from scratch was far too slow. More importantly, there were many skills Draven himself didn't possess—how could he teach others what he didn't know?

  He rubbed his forehead in frustration.

  More and more of his time was being swallowed by paperwork in the council hall. The documents piled up like mountains.

  The bigger the territory, the more people it had—and the more he felt like a slave to bureaucracy.

  "Was I supposed to become a lord, or just get buried alive in an office?" he muttered to himself.

  With a loud slap, he threw the hide-bound document onto the table.

  "I quit!"

  With that, the werewolf chieftain stormed out of the hall and headed toward the village entrance. He needed air. He didn't care what others thought—he had had enough.

  But he hadn't gone far when a familiar voice suddenly called out from behind a tree.

  "Draven, trying to sneak off again, are you?!"

  Liliana popped out of nowhere, grinning mischievously as she planted herself in front of him with her hands on her hips—clearly catching him red-handed.

  Draven stared at her wordlessly, inwardly bitter. Who said no one was keeping him in check? This was clearly Viola's doing—sending someone to monitor him.

  Every time he tried to sneak away, Liliana would catch him without fail.

  "All this just over one jar of honey, and you treat me like this?" he muttered, shooting her a sidelong glance.

  "Yes!" Liliana replied with exaggerated righteousness, striking a heroic pose as if preparing to vanquish some evil dark lord.

  It looked like a small"battle" was about to break out.

  Draven gave a wicked grin, lunged forward, and scooped up the unsuspecting Liliana, throwing her over his shoulder before sprinting toward the village outskirts.

  "Ahhh! I can't stop him—he's too fast~!"

  Liliana's voice rang out loud and clear from over his shoulder, full of laughter despite the protest.

  By the time they reached the village gates, she was giggling uncontrollably, leaning close to Draven's ear and whispering between bursts of laughter.