CHAPTER 62: THE RIGHT OF THE ANCESTORS

Arvan’s hanging face froze. He kept staring at the hooded man beside him with vague expressions. He couldn’t speak, nor think clearly not out of fear, but because what had happened was so sudden and unexpected that his emotions simply collapsed. He no longer knew how to react.

He had just escaped certain death, and before he could even celebrate, he found himself facing another deadly crisis.

Once that realization finally hit him, his face contorted in terror, and in a trembling voice he said,

"What does this mean? Let me go! Don’t you know who I am? I—"

Before he could finish, several roots burst from the ground and gagged his mouth, silencing him completely.

Thorne, in contrast, remained calm and mentally clear. Quietly, he thought,

’It’s him! The man who’s been watching us this entire time... he finally made a move. But what’s his goal?’

Even though his head was filled with questions, he didn’t bother asking or thinking too hard. It was pointless for him.

His senses were also heavily impaired by the side effects of "Final Howl" his hearing and smell were dulled, and even moving his mouth was difficult.

He shook his head bitterly, then stared at the bound Arvan with a scornful grin. In a raspy, broken voice, he muttered,

"You piece of trash... In the end, it looks like you won’t escape either. We’ll both die together."

He burst into laughter, uncaring and fully satisfied.

Then he turned toward the hooded man with a look of expectation and said,

"Sir, you should just kill us already. Don’t waste a second thinking about it. I’m scum I rob and butcher people for a handful of coins. And this filthy mutt here? He’s a bastard born of sin who’s done every vile, disgusting crime you can think of. Slaughtering us would be doing the world a damn favor cleansing it of two worthless plagues."

Hearing that, Arvan’s eyes widened, and he started shaking his head in denial. He tried to say something as well, but the roots around his mouth rendered his voice nothing more than meaningless mumbles.

Thorne didn’t spare him a glance. He kept his eyes on the hooded man, who remained completely silent and still as though he didn’t exist at all. That silence began to worry Thorne. With a desperate face, he pleaded,

"Come on, sir... Kill us. Please, just do it!"

He wanted to die. For him, there was no longer any reason to live.

But more than death, what he truly desired... was Arvan’s death.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t kill him himself, so all his hopes now rested on the hooded man.

Yet despite his begging, he received no answer. Thorne sighed bitterly,

’No hope, then. In the end... I failed you, sister. Your killer will live to see another day.’

As he mourned his sister’s fate, the hooded man finally spoke,

"You’re giving up this quickly?"

Thorne’s head snapped up in shock. He understood the hidden implications behind those words.

Quickly, he asked, "Are you going to kill us?"

...

On the other side, Arthur looked at him with a mix of pity and intrigue. He never imagined he’d meet someone who craved death this badly.

But he wasn’t about to grant that wish.

With a cryptic tone, he replied,

"Maybe I’ll kill you. Maybe I won’t. But... are you sure you want to die? There are always other options."

Thorne frowned at that and replied firmly,

"Yes, I’m sure. If you kill me now, along with this trash in front of me, I’ll die with no regrets."

His bloodshot eyes burned into Arvan, and if he had the strength, he would’ve lunged at him and torn his throat out like a rabid dog.

His expression was so terrifying that Arvan panicked, thrashing wildly in his bonds but it was all in vain.

Arthur gave a small smile at their reactions.

"You’re blind... or maybe just a big fool."

Thorne’s rage vanished. He turned slowly and looked at Arthur with respect.

"What do you mean, sir? What did I miss?"

"Your sister’s still alive," Arthur said casually.

Thorne didn’t look surprised.

"I know. But she’s going to die anyway. Her injuries are fatal."

"Tch. I told you you’re an idiot. Instead of begging me to kill you both, why didn’t it occur to you to ask me to heal her?"

Thorne’s eyes went wide with shock. In a voice thick with anticipation, he asked,

"Sir... can you heal her? Is that possible?"

"No." Arthur answered indifferently,

That cold, uncaring response crushed the small hope Thorne had begun to feel. His heart sank even lower. Sadly, he muttered,

"Do you enjoy destroying people like this? Maybe you’re just trash like us after all..."

At first, he’d spoken with respect, trying to honor the man who might grant his final wish. But now? He no longer cared. That brief conversation made him doubt everything.

Arthur chuckled softly.

It was amusing—genuinely.

"You really are a fool. What I meant is that I can’t heal her. I’m not a healer. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have something that can."

He wasn’t lying. What he said was true. But even now, he still wasn’t entirely sure of his decision.

Thorne found it hard to believe. He didn’t want to get his hopes crushed again. But still, he asked,

"Really? You’re not mocking me again?"

To ease his doubts, Arthur pulled out a very small clay jar from his Dimensional Storage and shook it casually.

Thorne’s eyes went wide at the sight. Even though his sense of smell was impaired, his beastly instincts were panting with desire, screaming at him about the jar’s value. He trusted those instincts so he believed Arthur at last.

Now certain there was something that could save his sister, Thorne latched onto that hope. His excitement surged. He wanted to beg Arthur to heal her—but he stopped himself. He paused and thought it over.

He had so many questions... but his sister was hovering between life and death. There was no time to ask.

Without hesitation, he made his decision.

"Please save her. I’ll do anything you want—anything. If you want, I’ll become your slave. Know this: I’ll never betray you, and I’ll serve you with all my heart. Just save my sister!"

Arthur nodded with satisfaction.

"Don’t worry. I don’t doubt a werewolf’s loyalty. But your words mean nothing to me they hold no value. So listen to my offer: in exchange for saving your sister’s life... and treating you... I demand the Right of the Ancestors."

Thorne’s expression froze. His excitement vanished. Coldly, he asked,

"How do you know about the Right of the Ancestors?"

Arthur ignored the look on his face and slowly walked forward, stopping beside Arvan, who still hung like a scarecrow.

"It’s not much of a secret. Many people know of your ancestors’ sin toward their savior, the last human king."

Thorne’s eyes narrowed as he processed that.

In truth, the terms of the Right of the Ancestors weren’t that bad.

But he didn’t know what this man’s true intentions were.

In the distant past—at the dawn of the Third Era—a great war erupted unlike any before.

It was called The War of the Ten Kings, and nearly every race on the continent took part except for a few rare exceptions.

Unlike most wars, it wasn’t fought over territory or resources. It was a war of survival.

The main cause of the chaos? The elven race, which had suddenly gone savage and bloodthirsty.

During that brutal war, most half-beasts tribes including the werewolves—were wiped out. Only a handful survived, scattered and broken.

Most of them retreated to the far regions bordering the Great Wastes, now known as The Wild Plains.

But even that wasn’t enough. The savage elf armies chased them there too, hunting them like wild animals.

Amidst their despair and fear, the one human king who still stood firm came to their rescue.

In gratitude, the werewolves swore to aid the human kingdom in times of need.

But they betrayed that vow.

When the humans were besieged by the elf legions... the werewolves never came.

Their betrayal was so disgraceful that the chieftain of the largest tribe couldn’t even lift his head.

Ashamed, he exiled himself to the Great Wastes, known also as the Land of Death.

Everyone expected him to die.

No one enters the depths of the Wastes and returns.

But the unexpected happened.

Years later, the werewolf chieftain came back, stronger than ever.

He had become the first S-rank werewolf in recorded history.

Driven by guilt, he united the scattered tribes and crowned himself king.

He then joined forces with the humans and other races to battle the elves.

To ensure his people would never break their vow again, he sacrificed a large portion of his lifespan and placed a magical seal inside the cores of every tribe leader and powerful figure.

That seal was the Right of the Ancestors.

It decreed:

Any werewolf saved by another must serve that savior for one full year.

But for that to happen, the savior must invoke the Right. And once invoked... the werewolf cannot refuse.

Thorne remembered the old legend clearly.

But he didn’t have time to hesitate.

After a very brief pause, he answered,

"I accept. Just save her."

"Good."

Arthur turned and quickly walked over to where Thalia lay collapsed on the ground.

He looked at her broken body, listening to her ragged breathing and moan-like gasps.

A strange feeling settled in his chest grief, pity. In the end, he sighed.

"Not a pretty sight."

Without delay, he uncorked the small jar. Inside was a high-grade healing potion.

He poured the green liquid over Thalia’s body. A soft green glow appeared, gently covering her wounds and disfigurements.

But it wasn’t enough.

That potion would only stabilize her for a short time.

Heart heavy, Arthur pulled out more potions. He stared at them for a moment and sighed,

"All the effort I went through to make these potions ... and they’re gone just like that."

After acquiring Diluted Mana Liquid, he had spent the entire night crafting healing potions.

Due to his lack of experience, he failed many times. The results were poor only a few low-grade potions.

But with time, his skills improved.

By the end, after using every drop of the mana liquid, he managed to create seven high-grade healing potions.

And in the process... he unlocked a skill he had long desired: "Alchemy"