The sound of hammering and magic swirls echoed through the valley.
What had once been a forest clearing tainted by slave wagons was now bursting with life. Within only four hours, crude roads had been flattened, wooden foundations raised, and enchanted barriers erected around the borders. The town had no name yet—but its soul was unmistakably Kujo's.
Dozens of tents and houses were already standing. A central plaza had formed naturally at the foot of the largest hill, where Kujo's temporary residence was being built from blackened stone, crystal supports, and warded pillars.
It should've taken weeks.
But Dimara was more than happy to flex.
Thousands of black and green tendrils slithered and surged from her back and shoulders, some strong enough to carry entire support beams, others tiny enough to etch magic runes into wood. She hummed to herself as she handled twenty jobs at once.
"Master's town is gonna be so pretty~" she said cheerfully, weaving supports while cuddling a small wooden carving she made of Kujo.
Kyrie handled the sky barriers, laying down magic to detect incoming teleportation and flight. Setara oversaw ration division and medical zones, giving orders like she'd been a general for years. Zafira led the dark elves like a commander-priestess, organizing districts, irrigation channels, and defense rotations.
The vampires worked like clockwork under their leader.
Maros was elegant and unshakably composed. A tall man with silver-white hair, sharp crimson eyes, and long black robes trimmed with gold. His voice was calm, commanding. He greeted Kujo every morning with a bow and a smile.
"Prince Kujo," he'd say, "we are grateful to build in your name."
His family worked closely by his side. His wife, Lady Seliene, was an expert enchantress. Their sons handled guard training and logistics. Their daughter, a shy but graceful young woman, helped build a garden where blood herbs and shadow lilies could bloom.
Kujo was impressed. They were a family that had endured centuries of exile, yet still walked with dignity.
But not everyone knew their place.
Azar, the lone dragonoid girl, sat on a barrel outside Kujo's home most days, legs kicking lazily.
She didn't help with anything—not because she was lazy, but because she was lost.
He noticed her watching him during morning rounds, her golden eyes always following his movements. Finally, on the third day of settlement building, she approached.
"So," she said, hands in her shorts pockets, "you're a dragonoid."
Kujo raised an eyebrow. "So are you."
"Yeah, but I've never met another one," she admitted. "Most of the ones I've heard about are dead. Or monsters in caves. You look… normal."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
She shifted her weight, her long red-orange hair swaying with the motion. "My mom was a dragon. Dad was human. We lived on a farm for a while. I helped him with cows, crops, all that boring stuff. Then adventurers came. Said mom was a 'threat.' Slaughtered her. We ran. Then they took me."
Kujo looked at her, silent.
"I guess I wanted to ask…" she said, her voice quiet, "how do you act like you're not broken?"
He paused.
Then smiled faintly. "I don't. I just carry it better now."
She nodded slowly. "Can I hang out near you sometimes?"
"Sure."
She didn't thank him. Just sat down on his porch and began whittling a piece of wood.
That was answer enough.
Later that night, Kujo returned to his office—a stone and crystal chamber hastily built, but sturdy. The desk was large. The window overlooked the glowing lights of the new town. Papers had already begun piling up—requests for water routes, shift schedules, monster migration concerns.
That's when Wordric walked in.
The werewolf leader was a mountain of muscle, with wild dark hair, wolf-like ears, and scarred forearms. He gave Kujo a single nod, shut the door behind him, and sat down across the desk.
"We gotta talk."
Kujo set down his quill. "About?"
"The boys respect you. They do. But… they don't follow you. Not like the vampires do Maros."
Kujo tilted his head. "Is it a pride thing?"
Wordric scratched his chin. "Part of it. But mostly? You're not in the pack. You didn't earn a place in it."
"I saved their lives."
"And we howl for that," Wordric said with a grin. "But werewolves don't follow heroes. We follow family."
Kujo raised an eyebrow. "So what do you suggest?"
Wordric leaned forward.
"Take my daughter. Marry her. Or court her. Hell, just meet her. You tie blood to the pack, they'll fall in line. You'll be one of us."
Kujo blinked.
Wordric shrugged. "If you don't want her, we got six unmated girls who'd be thrilled to be bred by you. Strong man like you? Could build a whole bloodline by spring."
Kujo nearly choked on his own breath. "That's—uh—wow. I can't just marry someone I don't know."
"Then meet her. Just five minutes. No pressure. I'm not gonna force her on you."
Kujo hesitated, then nodded. "I'll… think about it."
Wordric grinned and stood. "That's all I ask. You're doing good, boy. This place? Feels like it could be something real."
When he left, Kujo leaned back in his chair, exhausted.
His kingdom was growing.
His harem… maybe too.
And now, even marriage negotiations were landing on his desk.