"What use do I have for your lives?" Draven sneered as he looked at the three brothers in front of him, not intending to beat around the bush.

  "Remember this: I saved your sister, and from now on, you're all part of Black Flag Territory. No matter what happens, you obey me."

  He paused, his gaze sharp as a blade. "Without my permission, you're not allowed to seek revenge on Bronan. This matter is settled by me."

  The room suddenly grew quiet. The expressions on the three brothers' faces changed drastically, clearly locked in fierce internal struggle.

  Their fists clenched and unclenched, their eyes shifting from their sister's injured legs to Draven, then to each other. Their lips pressed tight, obviously wrestling with their emotions.

  Draven didn't push. He just stood there quietly, watching. He knew these three well enough — saying more might provoke them to fight back. He gave them the choice and gave them time.

  Soon, their eyes changed. The conflict and hesitation gradually faded, replaced by determination.

  Dorian stepped forward, his voice low but clear: "We'll listen to you. As long as you can save our sister, we won't go after Bronan. Whatever you say from now on, we'll do it."

  A faint smile tugged at the corner of Draven's mouth. He liked people like this; these three brothers weren't fools after all.

  "Good," Draven nodded, waving his hand to shoo out the noisy crowd in the room, leaving only Angelica and Liliana inside.

  "You two handle her properly, especially the legs. Don't leave any dirty blood or dirt behind."

  He knew cleanliness here could never mean sterile, but they had to do their best. If Martha's wounds weren't properly treated, even the best healing wouldn't matter.

  Liliana looked uneasy and handed Draven her small pouch, speaking seriously:

  "There's a silver coin and eighty copper coins inside. That's all my money — earned from selling blood wine. Angelica agreed — half for a cup of wine each."

  She carefully closed the pouch, as if afraid Draven might lose the money in a second.

  Draven looked at her earnest expression and almost laughed. "You little miser, that silver coin was a reward from me, wasn't it?"

  He pocketed the pouch into his storage ring — and whether she got it back was his call.

  While they busied themselves inside, Draven pulled out several clay jars from the ring and carefully selected them under the surprised gazes of Rurik and the two deer brothers outside.

  Inside those jars was a powder made from dried mushrooms, researched by Sylvia. These poisonous mushrooms were rare; when dried and powdered in proper doses, they served as a powerful anesthetic. Of course, misuse meant a deadly poison.

  After a while, Angelica came out looking pale and uneasy. "Done with the treatment."

  "Thanks for your hard work," Draven nodded. "You should go back — the Tavern can't do without you."

  After Angelica left, Draven pushed open the door and stepped inside. He had planned to act immediately but froze for a moment upon seeing the room.

  It was clean — maybe too clean.

  Martha wasn't wearing a single piece of clothing. Her upper body was pale and thin, and some curves normally hidden by clothes were now fully exposed to sight.

  Draven's mind went blank as he couldn't help stealing a few more glances.

  "Your eyes aren't right!" Liliana suddenly realized, quickly blocking Martha's body. She nervously spread her hands and glared at Draven like she was guarding against a thief.

  Draven glanced sideways at her. "Kids don't know better; don't talk nonsense."

  He casually cast a look at her flat chest, then at Martha's, and shook his head, silently mocking: worlds apart.

  He pushed Liliana aside and grabbed a piece of animal hide to cover Martha again, finally relaxing a bit.

  Then he pulled out a bottle of fine Monkey Liquor from his ring. This liquor was originally brewed by the Monkey People but improved by the little octopus, making it more potent — not only accelerating healing but also serving as a tonic.

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  But this time, he wasn't using it to heal. Draven carefully opened one clay jar, poured some mushroom powder, gently pried Martha's mouth open, sprinkled the powder into her throat, then quickly poured some Monkey Liquor to help wash it down.

  He thought she was still unconscious, but suddenly...

  Martha started coughing violently, sitting up abruptly. The animal hide covering her slipped off her shoulder, exposing her upper body to the light.

  Draven's reflexes kicked in; he was startled but couldn't help sneaking a couple of glances.

  Martha hurriedly grabbed the hide to cover herself and curled into a ball, her eyes wide with fear as she looked at Draven.

  At that moment, she clearly hadn't figured out what just happened. But her expression was full of caution and panic.

  If the girl beside her hadn't been there, Martha probably would have thought she'd almost been... by this werewolf...

  Outside the door, Dorian heard violent coughing coming from inside. His voice instantly grew tense and shifted in tone as he shouted, "Sister! Are you okay?"

  He approached the doorway but didn't dare to rush in. His footsteps lingered by the door, his voice filled with obvious panic and worry.

  Hearing her brother's voice, Martha's heart steadied somewhat. He was the person she cared about most, the reason she kept fighting to survive.

  But her throat still burned painfully, the powder lingering in her airway, making speaking difficult. She could only rasp out hoarsely, "I'm fine! Don't come in!"

  She forced back the urge to cough again, desperately swallowing the residue of powder in her throat, slowly suppressing the burning sensation.

  When she finally caught her breath, Martha noticed a strong fruity aroma of alcohol lingering in her mouth.

  She gripped the animal hide covering her tightly, lifting her head to cautiously look at the werewolf standing before her. "What do you want to do?"

  Her voice was still weak, but her eyes were unusually calm, silently assessing an enemy before battle.

  Before Draven could speak, Liliana, standing nearby, jumped out impatiently, eager to explain on his behalf: "To save you! Draven said he had to make you pass out first — only then could he properly treat your leg!"

  "Treat my leg?" A flicker of disbelief flashed in Martha's eyes. She lowered her gaze to her legs, instinctively avoiding the swollen, twisted parts.

  Those were no longer legs—almost two piles of cursed limbs. She had grown used to the pain, and even more used to the stares from others.

  Her throat trembled lightly, and only moments later did she belatedly realize she was wearing nothing. Martha's face flushed deeply as she bit her lip and clutched the hide tighter.

  At that moment, Draven readjusted his sitting posture, adopting a somewhat serious demeanor. He took out a vial of medicinal powder and some monkey liquor from his storage ring, and, like a proper doctor, gave instructions: "Here, pour the powder into your mouth, then use this liquor to swallow it down. The medicine is strong, you can't just swallow dry."

  His hands moved steadily, and he really did seem to know a bit of medicine. But Martha wasn't convinced; she grew even more wary.

  "Why do you want to save me?" Her voice was cold, full of suspicion.

  It wasn't that she was cruel—it was just that she'd been through too much to easily trust anyone who offered help without conditions. There's no such thing as kindness for nothing in this world, especially not from a powerful person, a leader who could easily decide their fate.

  Draven raised an eyebrow in surprise, his gaze growing serious.

  He began to reassess Martha. This girl's reaction was not what he expected. Injured, helpless, stranded, yet she didn't panic or cry, nor did she na?vely accept treatment as a favor. Instead, she was coldly composed—worthy of respect.

  Only a smart person can remain cautious at a time like this.

  "Because if I don't save you, you'll die." Draven's tone was flat, emotionless. "And your three brothers have already agreed to my terms. As long as you live, you're part of Black Flag Territory."

  He leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Martha without avoiding her icy stare.

  "I'm Draven, leader of Black Flag Territory. Follow me, and you won't lose out. There's a new life waiting for you there, far better than what you have now."

  Martha looked at him, the hostility in her eyes unyielding. Her knuckles went white from gripping the hide. She wasn't ignorant of the trade-offs—she knew that once she took this step, there'd be no turning back.

  A long silence stretched on. Only the flickering beast oil lamp in the corner cast wavering shadows on the wall. Finally, she loosened her grip on the hide.

  Slowly, she lay down, letting the hide slide off her shoulders, her body exposed in the dim yellow light—uncovered, unashamed.

  She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes hollow and lifeless.

  "If you heal me, I'll be your woman." Her voice was soft, yet carried a resolute emptiness. "Just promise to leave my brothers alone."

  At that moment, tears slipped silently down her cheeks, dropping quietly onto the stone floor.

  She knew Draven's status, knew that once in his hands, freedom was impossible. She was already broken—if anyone had to pay the price, she was willing to take it all.

  She only wished for her brothers to live on, unimplicated and unavenged.

  Draven was silent for a moment, about to say something, but looking into her vacant eyes, a strange discomfort welled up inside him.

  Suddenly, those high, firm breasts in front of him lost every ounce of allure.

  "I refuse!" Before Draven could speak, Liliana interrupted hastily.

  The little girl's face was flushed red, hopping anxiously as she ran over and clung tightly to Draven's arm, like she was holding onto something precious.

  "I'm Draven's woman! Along with Sister Viola!" She puffed out her cheeks, ready to fight Martha on the spot.

  Draven twitched his forehead, casually pulling her small arm off his and lightly tapping her head.

  "Ow!" Liliana rubbed her head, annoyed.

  "Stop it. Who said I wanted her to be my woman?"

  He crouched down and readjusted the hide to cover Martha's body again.

  Raising the vial, he tapped it lightly against Martha's cheek, his tone no longer gentle: "Take it. Heal your leg. Then you and your brothers can work well for me."

  "Of course, you can choose not to take it—keep limping, and if your wound festers and you start to rot, I won't bother saving you."

  He paused, a faint, inscrutable smile tugging at his lips—half a casual warning, half a threat:

  "Martha, you wouldn't want Bronan to find out your brothers are secretly planning to move against him, would you?"