It had taken nearly a week of grueling travel to reach Perata City, the capital of the Kurs Union. The journey had been a nightmare for Dreven. Starved and restless, he’d been forced to subsist on the occasional goblin troop they encountered along the way. Their blood was foul—bitter, oily, and almost devoid of the rich mana he craved. It left him feeling weak and irritable, like he was subsisting on moldy breadcrumbs instead of a banquet.

Dreven hated feeling weak.

Perata City sprawled before them like a giant beast that had been stitched together haphazardly, its parts barely holding to one another. From the jagged, ramshackle outskirts to the densely packed center, the city was a riot of conflicting architectural styles. Some streets were lined with simple wooden shacks, others with elaborate stonework marked by intricate carvings that hinted at a proud history. The next street over might feature brightly painted clay houses in hues of orange and green.

It was a city without harmony. To Dreven, it was an affront to every sense he possessed.

“This city is a travesty of design,” he muttered as they passed yet another alley cluttered with crates, overturned barrels, and refuse. “Utterly incoherent. You could wander for hours and never know where you are.”

Lisan, who had been navigating the chaotic streets with practiced ease, cast him a sidelong glance. “Hehe,” she said with a mock laugh. “Welcome to the Kurs Union. Beastkin are as varied in type and culture as any other race. When they built this city, they didn’t see the point of picking a single style. Every clan added their own flair.”

“Horrifying,” Dreven replied, his expression sour.

“You’ll survive.” Lisan smirked. “Just be glad you don’t stick out here as much as you think. Your ‘elf with a goblin curse’ story actually works in this city.”

He snorted. “I’ve felt their stares all week. They’re not fooled. They look at me like I’m some sort of predator.”

Lisan shrugged. “Well, you are a predator. But in Perata City, everyone’s suspicious of everyone else. Don’t flatter yourself—it’s not just you.”

Dreven remained unconvinced. He’d endured the piercing gazes of countless Beastkin during their travels—eyes that ranged from feline slits to lupine gleams, their glances a mixture of suspicion and outright disdain. Communication had been another ordeal. Lisan’s translation spell, while sufficient for private conversations, struggled with the myriad dialects spoken here. Every attempt to speak with a local ended in a frustrating muddle of half-understood words.

He gestured to the crowded streets around them. “I still don’t see why we need to stop here! The sooner we reach Port Free and register me, the better for both of us!”

Lisan stopped abruptly and turned to glare at him, her arms crossed. “Do you think I want this blood bond, Dreven? Watching you drink enough goblin blood to drain a swamp has been maddening! How many have you drained now?”

“Twelve,” Dreven admitted reluctantly. His shoulders sagged as he added, “And they tasted awful. Hardly any mana in their blood at all.”

“That’s what you think about?” Lisan hissed, her voice rising. “Mana levels? Gods, I should’ve just let you kill me. At least then I’d have a chance to be reborn as an Outworlder somewhere far, far away from this.”

Her words stung, though Dreven showed no outward reaction. Instead, he glanced at the crowded street around them, his voice low and sharp. “Let’s just find somewhere to stay. You said the Inquisition is active here. I’d rather not test how far their suspicion stretches.”

“Fine,” Lisan muttered, rolling her eyes. “But don’t think we’re leaving anytime soon. We need to lay low for a few days. The border guard incident might still be on someone’s lips. The Kurs don’t appreciate mysterious murders happening near their lands.”

Dreven nodded, though his jaw tightened at the mention of the guards. He had no regrets about what he’d done—but it didn’t mean the consequences wouldn’t follow.

The streets grew narrower as they ventured deeper into the city. Noise and movement seemed to intensify with each turn, the chaos of Perata City pressing in on them like a living thing. Vendors hawked wares at every corner, from steaming skewers of roasted meat to crude charms made of bone and feathers. Children with animalistic features darted through the crowd, laughing and shouting, while armored Beastkin patrols loomed in the background, their sharp eyes scanning for trouble.

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Finally, after what felt like hours of navigating the labyrinthine streets, they arrived at a small tavern wedged between two crooked buildings. The sign above the door read The Leaky Mug, the paint faded and flaking.

“Quaint,” Dreven said dryly, glancing at the weathered structure.

“Small,” Lisan corrected. “Inconspicuous. Exactly what we need.”

The interior of The Leaky Mug was dimly lit and smelled of spilled ale and damp wood. A handful of patrons were scattered about, most of them Beastkin. Dreven caught snippets of their conversations—gruff voices, growls of laughter, the occasional clink of a coin pouch.

Lisan approached the barkeep, a burly bear-like Beastkin with a patch over one eye. She spoke briefly, handing over a few coins before gesturing for Dreven to follow her to a corner table.

As they sat, Dreven couldn’t help but feel the weight of the gazes around him. The air was thick with tension. He leaned toward Lisan, his voice barely above a whisper.

“If this is your idea of laying low, I’d hate to see your idea of making a scene.”

She rolled her eyes again but didn’t respond.

For now, they had a place to stay. But in Perata City, Dreven suspected trouble was never more than a heartbeat away.

One week was all they needed to wait in Perata, but even that felt too long for Dreven. Chaos had a way of finding him, and the city was a powder keg waiting for a spark. The streets were dense with tension, from the watchful eyes of Beastkin guards to whispers of the Inquisition's presence.

Dreven wasn’t confident in his strength here, and that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The memory of his clash with Inquisitor Markus was still fresh. The man was cunning, his abilities razor-sharp. Dreven knew they were evenly matched—perhaps even dangerously so.

The room they had rented at The Leaky Mug was dimly lit, the lone candle casting flickering shadows across the cracked walls. Lisan sat by the small desk, her fiery red hair glowing faintly in the candlelight as she flipped through a worn leather-bound book.

“Lisan,” Dreven said, his voice breaking the silence.

She looked up, a tinge of annoyance on her face. “Yeah? What do you need now?”

Dreven hesitated for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing. “How strong would you say Inquisitor Markus is compared to the average Inquisitor? Or even the average adventurer?”

Lisan closed her book with a sigh and leaned back in her chair, staring at the water-stained ceiling. “Probably Bronze-level, three stars at most.”

“That means absolutely nothing to me,” Dreven replied, his voice edged with irritation.

Lisan smirked. “Right, of course. Let me explain.” She held up her hands. “The adventurers' ranking system is pretty straightforward. There are ten levels: Tin, Bronze, Iron, Steel, Silver, Gold, Platinum, Mithril, and Ethereal. Each level is divided into five stars. You work your way up by completing increasingly dangerous tasks or bounties.”

Dreven nodded, digesting the information. “And outside of the guild? How many Ethereal-ranked individuals exist, including non-adventurers?”

“That’s... harder to say.” Lisan frowned, her gaze growing thoughtful. “A kingdom like Norran, with millions of people to protect, usually needs at least one Gold-ranked person to stay secure. The Kurs Union has three Golds and one Platinum, which is impressive for their size, but they’re still far from Imperial levels of power.”

Dreven's lips pressed into a thin line. This was worse than he’d anticipated. At his peak, he might’ve ranked as an Iron-level adventurer, perhaps one star—formidable, but nowhere near what he’d need to challenge the forces arrayed against him. With the poor quality of blood he’d been surviving on lately, he doubted he was even at Bronze-level five stars now.

“Lisan,” he said, his voice cold but resolute. “I need blood. If we’re going to stand a chance, I need something with more mana—more vitality. Goblins aren’t cutting it anymore.”

Lisan closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I already bought you pig’s blood,” she said, walking toward the dresser where a clay jug sat. “It should hold you over unti—”

She froze mid-sentence, turning to find Dreven standing only a step away. The dim light played across his pale features, his dark eyes unreadable.

“Dreven,” she said cautiously, taking an involuntary step back.

He advanced, each step deliberate and measured. Lisan’s back met the wall, and her heart began to pound, a rhythm he could sense as keenly as if it were his own.

“You’re a mage,” he said softly, his voice like velvet and ice. “Your blood... it’s denser in mana than most. Surely you see the logic.”

Lisan’s breath hitched, her emerald eyes wide. “Dreven... what are you saying? You can’t—”

His fingers brushed against her jaw, tracing a slow, deliberate line to her lips. She shivered beneath his touch, her pulse quickening. The scent of her fear mixed with something else, something primal.

“Dreven,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I-I don’t understand... why—”

His cold lips brushed against hers, silencing her. For a moment, he felt warmth—real, living warmth—something he hadn’t known in years.