Long before returning to the city, Draven had already studied the beast-hide map, the red circle marking their target's location.

  It lay neither too close nor too distant from Selene City; by usual pace, it would take roughly two to three days to reach.

  Yet circumstances were no longer ordinary. With three werewolves prepared, they stepped together beyond the city gates.

  Bran and Rurik gazed at their leader with eager anticipation. As kin, they were well aware of the sacred bond with their symbiotic beasts.

  For werewolves, these bonded creatures were their most trusted allies, their greatest martial strength. They were the pride of their kind—the power every werewolf yearned to command.

  Draven concealed nothing. He drew a deep breath and summoned the bloodline's latent power.

  A crimson pillar of light erupted from his chest, shooting forward to a nearby clearing. In its wake, a colossal direwolf slowly materialized.

  Towering over three meters tall, the beast's massive frame was cloaked in sable fur, eyes glowing a fierce blood-red, radiating an aura of unapproachable majesty.

  Draven regarded his bonded beast with a satisfied smile.

  Such awakened companions shared their master's own level of cultivation from the outset.

  They were not only formidable allies in battle but also capable of channeling energy back to their masters, aiding in restoration and augmentation of strength.

  A twinge of melancholy stirred in Draven's heart. Had it not been for the village chief's downfall—the tragic loss of his bonded beast that weakened their forces—the village might not have fallen so swiftly.

  Bran and Rurik held little sentimentality; their eyes fixed intently upon the direwolf, brimming with longing and aspiration.

  "Let's call this direwolf Ragnar," Draven declared, extending his arm. The beast bowed its massive head, permitting him to stroke its thick fur gently.

  Then, with measured calm, he uttered, "Ragnar."

  "Ragnar!" Bran and Rurik echoed in unison, voices vibrant with exhilaration.

  At his command, the three mounted Ragnar's powerful back. The direwolf moved with steady, resolute strides, bearing them swiftly toward their objective.

  ……

  Selene City.

  Meanwhile, Lady Selene stood in her private chamber, facing the vast beast-hide map adorning the wall.

  Intricate lines and markings sprawled across it, betraying a map of great complexity and immense strategic value.

  A faint furrow creased her delicate brow, unease and hesitation flickering across her refined features.

  "The tide of affairs is shifting against us," she murmured softly, her voice laced with weariness and concern.

  Behind her, a row of succubi knelt in reverence, their leader lifting her gaze. "My lady, overall, our chances remain substantial. The enemy is merely probing—clearly without full certainty."

  Selene inclined her head slightly, responding in a low tone, "Probing is the hunter's means of tracking prey. We must not underestimate them."

  The succubi understood the preciousness of intelligence. None grasped the peril of their current plight more keenly.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Nor did any comprehend Selene's resolve and methods better than they. They placed their faith in her to lead them through this crucible.

  "Success is imperative," Selene declared, her eyes steely and voice unwavering.

  ……

  What once took two to three days was accomplished within a single day, riding Ragnar's strength.

  They confirmed their arrival within the red circle on the map. Silently, Draven withdrew his bonded beast's power. The blood-red beam returned from the direwolf to his chest, vanishing without trace.

  Clenching his fists, he steeled himself inwardly. "A chieftain-class monster—we must slay it."

  Though Bran and Rurik were mere common kin, they had long followed Draven faithfully. They trusted his resolve and skill implicitly and understood the peril this battle entailed.

  Years of wandering and hunting forged a tacit bond among the three, born of countless shared encounters with monstrous prey.

  Without a word, Bran and Rurik instinctively fell into their roles.

  By custom, in a hunt such as this, they were keenly aware of their respective duties.

  Their strength was still insufficient, thus they were relegated to the roles of scouts and bait.

  Indeed, bait. No one regarded this as cruel—it was the ruthless law of the wild: the weak are preyed upon, and only the strong endure.

  Monstrous beasts are inherently vigilant; the slightest rustle or disturbance sends them into heightened alertness.

  To hunt them successfully, one must not only possess formidable combat prowess but, more crucially, discern their trails and know where they lurk.

  Rurik scanned the surroundings with acute vigilance, deftly ascending a towering oak, his body pressed close to the trunk as he silently reached the upper branches.

  Squatting there, his sharp gaze pierced the distance, seeking any faint clues the beasts might have left behind.

  Bran gripped his spear, seemingly wandering aimlessly through the forest, yet in truth, he never strayed beyond Rurik's line of sight, shadowing him like a faithful specter.

  Their movements were in seamless harmony—Bran pressing deeper into the woods while Rurik nimbly leapt among the trees, closely tailing him.

  Draven maintained a measured distance behind, masking his presence, ever ready to strike the moment they signaled.

  The trio advanced with perfect coordination and disciplined order.

  Before long, Bran abruptly halted, whispering, "Look here!"

  At his summons, Draven hurried over. Bran pointed toward a patch of flattened undergrowth.

  The grass was trampled and disordered, unmistakably crushed by a colossal creature passing through, leaving clear evidence of its passage.

  Rurik descended from the tree, and the three gathered around the disturbed foliage, effortlessly discerning from their seasoned hunter's intuition that this was no ordinary beast.

  Draven's brow furrowed deeply as he gauged the scale—this creature must dwarf their bonded beast, Ragnar, who already towered over three meters tall.

  This signified a gargantuan quarry, a force not to be underestimated.

  Yet size alone did not determine a monster's might. Strength was shaped by myriad factors—bloodline, combat experience, and agility foremost among them.

  Draven gave a subtle signal; Bran and Rurik immediately understood and resumed their pursuit along the trail.

  Within this dense wilderness, once the trail was found, tracking became relatively straightforward—following crushed vegetation and broken branches, step by deliberate step, drawing nearer to their prey.

  Soon, the trio arrived at a secluded valley where a massive demon bear rested. Its colossal form sank deeply into the mud with each step, leaving pronounced claw marks.

  Draven's heart sank slightly as he studied the beast. Though enormous, it lacked the commanding aura of a chieftain-class monster.

  True chieftains exuded an overwhelming presence that instilled dread and respect alike.

  Yet, a smile soon returned to Draven's lips. Though recently advanced himself, his power had grown considerably; he was still yet to fully fathom the heights he might reach through battle.

  Bran and Rurik, ignorant of monster hierarchies, watched eagerly, hoping their leader would deliver a spectacular feat.

  Draven shook his head and motioned for them to fall back.

  They understood at once, scrambling excitedly up nearby trunks to perch upon the branches, eagerly awaiting Draven's next move.

  Their youthful faces were alight with curiosity and anticipation—the natural thirst for marvels of the young.

  Draven bowed his head, inhaled deeply, and inhaled the air, ensuring no other beasts lurked nearby.

  Then, with a sudden surge, he bent forward, unleashing the power of his bloodline in an instant.

  His form rapidly transformed from human to towering wolf-man; muscles bulged, bones hardened, and his visage twisted into a fierce, savage snarl.

  In a heartbeat, he became a colossal werewolf, claws and fangs gleaming like sharpened blades, poised to lunge into the valley ahead.

  This was the pride of their kind—the bloodline's might. By awakening it, they could instantly alter their form, gaining breathtaking strength and swiftness, becoming true werewolves.

  A thunderous howl erupted from Draven's throat, the soundwave shattering the forest's stillness.

  The demon bear roused instantly, its primal instincts alerting it to danger.

  It rose with a tremor, shaking the earth beneath its massive bulk.

  Raising a mighty paw, it struck fiercely toward Draven.

  A tremendous crash echoed as the air rippled with shockwaves—the battle had erupted.