The captain of the troll guard was named Garruk, a massive, muscular man with a rugged face. He wore worn but heavy iron armor, and a broad-bladed great axe hung at his waist.

  His presence alone, without a single word, was enough to dominate the scene. According to Draven's observation, he possessed at least the strength of a leader.

  Beyond knowing his name was Garruk, Draven knew almost nothing about these troll guards.

  They rarely spoke, didn't initiate any communication, and ignored all friendly greetings.

  Draven had tried to engage with Garruk, seizing several chances to chat or build rapport, even offering food and water as goodwill. But the other only slightly nodded or simply ignored him.

  Clearly, this team wasn't here to make friends; they were following orders. Draven suspected that someone was giving them instructions behind the scenes—perhaps Selene or one of her trusted aides.

  Otherwise, these trolls—known for their brutality—would not have restrained themselves so well: no close contact, no provocation, even controlling their breathing to be nearly silent.

  After a few failed attempts, Draven stopped wasting effort. He understood that since they showed no hostility, that was already the best outcome. After all, in this dangerous wilderness, any extra protection was welcome.

  Besides Garruk, the other trolls in the guard were no less formidable. They walked steadily, eyes alert, each exuding a murderous aura.

  That wasn't a show—it was the real, battle-hardened aura of killers. Draven knew these were true warriors, the kind who could kill for real.

  If they wanted, wiping out Draven's group would take no more than a single meal's time.

  So, he accepted their silence and their distance.

  By noon, the sun was scorching, and the ground heated underfoot. Draven ordered a break, and the slaves stopped weakly. Several campfires quickly rose, with clay pots hung to cook the coarse food.

  Draven stood and walked over to the slaves. Though he showed no overt dominance, his approach still triggered a slight alertness in the otherwise drowsy slaves.

  Their reactions were slow; most just sat still, too lazy to lift their heads, with vacant stares.

  But Draven noticed that the slaves sitting by the fire looked differently at the clay pots. Their throats twitched occasionally, as if drawn by something.

  It was a primitive, instinctual hunger—a longing for food.

  At that moment, Draven finally felt these slaves were still human, not a group of mindless zombies.

  He came to a clay pot, took a wooden spoon from a slave, and stirred casually.

  Inside was cassava mush, grayish and bitter-smelling. Draven knew cassava well.

  During his wandering days, this bitter, astringent root had kept him alive during the hardest times. It was edible but unpleasant; it filled the stomach but gave no energy.

  The slaves' food certainly wouldn't be any better. Draven watched without expression for a moment, then called Rurik over.

  "Go get the jerky."

  Rurik hesitated but didn't ask, quickly obeying.

  Draven held the bag of jerky and stood before the slaves. He grabbed several finger-thick strips and dropped them one by one into the pot. The heat from the fire quickly released the meaty aroma.

  Suddenly, the slaves who had been sitting motionless seemed awakened. They stood up, eyes fixed tightly on the steaming pot.

  Draven smiled faintly, straightened his posture, and the leader's pressure inside him surfaced openly. He didn't want the scene to descend into a chaotic food scramble. He wanted them to understand there were rules for distributing food.

  "Don't rush," he said, low but firm. "You see, there's plenty of jerky."

  He raised the heavy bag like showcasing a treasure. "As long as you don't dawdle on the road, I'll throw a piece of jerky into every pot at each meal."

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  With that, he grabbed the bag and turned away, leaving a group of burning eyes fixed on the food.

  Rurik was in charge of distribution. He was fairly efficient and quickly divided the food evenly among the people. The previously sluggish group noticeably sped up in the afternoon march.

  After some distance, the group passed through a forest of tall trees. Draven signaled a rest and called ten boar-men to accompany him into the woods for logging.

  They chopped down many sturdy, straight branches, stripped the leaves, and cut them to suitable lengths. Then they handed the wooden poles to the slaves to fasten sharpened metal spearheads onto them.

  Draven didn't expect the slaves to fight, but even just holding weapons was better than empty hands. The sharp spearheads themselves were a deterrent. Besides, even if not for fighting, having a stick to lean on during the march could save effort.

  Rurik stayed by his side, looking hesitant to speak.

  Draven had already seen through it and roughly guessed what was going on. At lunch, he noticed that Rurik had secretly slipped an extra piece of jerky into the cooking pot of those three werewolf slaves.

  He said nothing and just watched coldly. Developing a village wasn't something done overnight. To grow the power in the future, besides hard strength, tribal support was necessary.

  And the tribe's operation ultimately required people to manage it. Rurik and his kin were still young and not very clever, but if they didn't start training now, they would only become a burden later.

  After walking for a while longer, Rurik finally made up his mind. When the group stopped to rest, he cautiously approached.

  Head lowered, walking carefully like a thief with something unsaid.

  Draven, annoyed, raised his hand and gave him a sharp smack on the back of his head.

  "Got something to say, spit it out. Don't beat around the bush."

  Rurik chuckled awkwardly and whispered, "It's not a big deal really. It's just… those three — Morne and the others — can they stop being slaves like us?"

  Draven clearly understood what Rurik was thinking.

  Their village was gone. Those tribesmen either died or fled. Now, suddenly meeting three of their own, even if strangers, it was hard not to soften. That feeling that you can't abandon your own seemed engraved in their bones.

  "Morne, right? What are the other two called?" Draven didn't answer directly but asked back.

  "Brugo, and the other is Bronnar," Rurik quickly replied, tone a bit eager.

  Draven nodded and lowered his voice a little. "They don't look young anymore — are they thirty or forty?"

  "About that," Rurik answered softly, eyes flickering nervously, unwilling to say more.

  "All adults and still not awakened — you know what that means." Draven's tone turned calm, as if stating a trivial fact.

  "Remember those in our village who never awakened? How did they end up?"

  Rurik's expression darkened. Of course, he remembered. Those people stayed behind in the village but always did the toughest, dirtiest work.

  No one cared about them. They were almost tools, not true tribesmen.

  Draven patted his shoulder. "We're just getting started. We can't forget the hardships we endured just because of some sentimentality."

  After saying this, Draven didn't explain further but briskly walked away, leaving Rurik alone to digest his confusion and frustration.

  Rurik stood still, head bowed. His wish was actually simple. He didn't seek glory or status.

  He just hoped those tribesmen could be like him — no longer slaves, eating the same food as everyone else, walking under the sunlight, instead of living like ghosts.

  But reality wasn't so gentle.

  If things were like before, maybe he could agree to it. Three werewolves wouldn't consume much resource — just a favor.

  But now it was different. They had decided to build a village, to develop, to turn this temporary group into a real power. That meant rules had to be set. No slacking off from the start.

  If they let three nearly useless werewolves slide now, what about the others later? Should they all get the same treatment?

  Gradually, this group would become a loose organization where anyone could jump queues or find loopholes — not a disciplined force able to survive in the wilderness.

  They were slaves, strangers, and besides, those three had already passed their prime awakening age.

  Draven wasn't looking down on them, but he knew clearly that unawakened werewolves were utterly useless against magical beasts. Even a strong man wouldn't help — magical beasts couldn't be fought with brute force.

  Not to mention these slaves — even those bull-headed or bear-like warriors from brave tribes didn't impress Draven much. Their bloodlines had already quieted, destined to be mediocre.

  In contrast, the seemingly insignificant kobolds interested him more. Though weak, they were agile, adaptable, and importantly, obedient.

  And now all these slaves were adults, which meant they were almost certainly beyond awakening their bloodlines. Their lives were destined to be mere lower-class labor, driven and used.

  To survive in this world, goodwill alone wasn't enough.

  After all, if it weren't for Bran and Rurik still being young enough to awaken, Draven probably wouldn't have bothered taking them along in the first place.

  This was a harsh, cruel world — not a civilized society but one that could be torn apart by magical beasts at any moment. Useless people, no matter how much you like or pity them, had to be abandoned.

  Draven couldn't explain all this clearly. He knew Rurik didn't understand yet. He was too young, his mind filled with ideals like tribe, kinship, and unity.

  Bran, on the other hand, seemed wilder than Rurik but had a kind of instinctual intuition. He never asked questions, didn't care whether those three werewolves lived or died. He only knew to follow Draven — where there was food, there was hope.

  Right now, Bran was carrying a thick spear, walking steadily at the front of the group with a calm expression.

  Sometimes, simple-mindedness really was a kind of strength.

  Draven quickened his pace, walking up to Bran and nodded to him.

  "Come on, let's go scout ahead, find a place to camp."

  He waved his hand, signaling the group to stop and rest for a while.

  It was still not dark. Draven wanted to use the daylight to scout the terrain ahead. If lucky, they might hunt some wild beasts or magical beasts to add to their meals.

  More importantly, he had already obtained a leader-level Binding Skill but hadn't used it yet.

  It wasn't for lack of opportunity — the magical beasts encountered before were either too strong to control or too weak to matter.

  If they could find a suitable magical beast on the road, that would be great.