"Lord Patriarch..."

  Caleb’s voice was a raspy growl, his throat parched from the hunt. He stepped forward to recount the harrowing trek through the Black Ravine, but Silas raised a weathered hand, cutting him off.

  "Not yet," Silas murmured, his eyes fixed on the two men slumped at the rear of the party. "The report can wait. The dying cannot."

  The air in the Sanctum was thick with the scent of wet fur and the metallic tang of Bronze-Rank blood. The prize—an Iron-Shard Ravager (Iron-Thorn Tiger)—lay bound in heavy chains. Its massive, feline frame was covered in jagged, metallic protrusions that had shredded the Thorne warriors' armor like parchment.

  Silas looked at the wounded. In the Forsaken Hills, a gut-wound was a death sentence. Even with the best salves in the Thorne storehouse, these men would be bedridden for weeks—time the family did not have.

  He glanced at the Ancient Yew behind him. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. He had already asked so much of the Guardian, and they had offered so little in return.

  "Go to the storehouse," Silas said, his voice heavy with resignation. "Get the best healing salves. Go and rest."

  The men nodded, dragging their broken bodies toward the exit.

  Salves? York mused, watching through the Truth Horizon. That’s like putting a bandage on a geyser. If those two Iron-Rankers die, Caleb loses his best flankers.

  York didn't wait for Silas to beg. He needed these tools sharp for the next harvest.

  He focused his intent on the Martyr’s Pulse. It cost him 0.5 Vitality, dropping his reserves from 3.4 to 2.9, but it was a necessary expense.

  The singular emerald leaf atop York’s crown shivered. Suddenly, the dim Sanctum was filled with drifting motes of green light. They didn't fall; they sought out the open wounds of the hunters, burrowing into their flesh like glowing parasites.

  The two dying men gasped. To them, it felt like being plunged into a warm, subterranean spring. The jagged lacerations began to knit shut. The grey, sickly pallor of their skin vanished, replaced by a sudden, healthy flush.

  "The Guardian..." Ewan whispered, falling to his knees. "It... it heals without being asked."

  Silas watched in stunned silence, his heart swelling with a dangerous, fanatical joy. "The Ancestor sees our struggle! Go! Rest while the blood is still hot!"

  As the men filed out, only Caleb and Ewan remained with the Patriarch. Their eyes turned to the massive carcass of the Iron-Shard Ravager.

  "How shall we carve it, Father?" Caleb asked. "The clan is starving."

  "If we eat today, we survive until tomorrow," Silas said slowly, looking at the tree. "If we feed the Guardian, we might actually win this war."

  The ritual was swift. Caleb and Ewan hauled the beast to York’s roots and slit its throat.

  Finally, York thought, his subterranean roots already twitching. The main course.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The blood of the Iron-Shard Ravager was thick and viscous. As it soaked into the parched earth, York’s roots pierced the soil to meet it. He didn't just absorb the fluid; he hunted it.

  He felt the rush of energy. It was potent. The beast provided a massive influx of Blood Essence, pushing his total to 19. His Aether reserves also spiked, reaching 5—just enough to trigger a simulation.

  York looked at his status. He had the fuel. He had the points (20).

  Last time, I died in a mist of parasites, York reminded himself. Let's see if the Weaver can find a path that doesn't end in me becoming firewood.

  He triggered the Deduction.

  The familiar vertigo claimed York once more. The stone walls of the Sanctum dissolved into a blur of grey mist, and his consciousness was violently uprooted, cast into the void of the Destiny Weaver.

  He expected the damp, predatory forest of his first simulation. Instead, the mist cleared to reveal a landscape of absolute desolation.

  It was a world of white sand and a sun so bloated and cruel it seemed to occupy half the sky. There was no wind, no shade, and no sound but the rhythmic crackling of parched earth.

  A desert, York mused, his spiritual form feeling the phantom sting of the heat. From a rainforest to a furnace. The Weaver doesn't repeat its lessons.

  Time accelerated. York felt himself as a mere sprout, a fragile sliver of green pushing through a layer of sand that felt like powdered glass. The heat was a physical weight, sucking the moisture from his marrow.

  Then, the crisis arrived. The surface moisture evaporated completely. To survive, he had to make a choice: spread his roots wide to catch the morning dew, or drive them deep to find the aquifers.

  Logic, York, he thought. In a desert, the surface is a death trap. Go deep.

  He drove his roots vertically, boring through layers of sandstone and shale. He was winning. He could feel the coolness of the deep earth beckoning.

  Then, his lead root struck something that wasn't stone.

  It was a slab of cold, obsidian-like metal, etched with runes that hummed with a dormant, suffocating power. An ancient ruin, buried long before the sands arrived. As his root touched the metal, the runes flared. The heat from the sun above seemed to synchronize with a sudden, volcanic surge from below.

  York didn't even have time to wither. He simply ignited.

  [DEDUCTION ENDED]

  [Result: Death by Incineration.]

  The desert shattered. York’s consciousness slammed back into his obsidian trunk in the Sanctum. He felt a lingering, phantom heat in his branches.

  Short trip, York thought sourly. Note to self: deep-drilling has its occupational hazards.

  Despite the quick death, the Weaver granted him two new abilities: Cinder-Skin (Heat Resistance) and Leyline Noose (Root Reinforcement).

  The Sanctum was empty. York decided to test the Leyline Noose. He selected his longest root and activated the skill.

  It drained his Vitality instantly—dropping from 2.9 to 2.4—but the result was terrifying. The root transformed into a cord of black, iron-hard muscle. With a thought, he made it burst from the stone floor like a cobra, pulverizing a discarded wooden crate.

  Subterranean home defense, York thought with satisfaction. I’m no longer just a target. I’m a trap.

  He retracted the root. He was exhausted. His Vitality was dangerously low at 2.4. He looked at his remaining 9 Blood Essence.

  No more games. I need to bulk up.

  He converted the remaining essence.

  [Converting 9 Blood Essence -> +4.5 Vitality]

  [Current Vitality: 6.9 / 100]

  As the life force flooded his system, York felt a violent surge of growth. His obsidian bark groaned and split, revealing fresh, shimmering layers beneath. Near his original branch, a second bud erupted, unfurling into a new cluster of emerald leaves.

  His roots, fueled by the excess energy, began to map the estate with frantic speed. They pushed past the Sanctum walls, weaving through the foundations, and finally, into the cold, damp earth of the ancestral crypt.

  Through the vibrations in the soil, York "saw" it.

  A heavy stone sarcophagus. Inside lay the Revenant—the black-armored husk of a Thorne ancestor. York’s roots brushed against the cold metal of the armor, feeling a flicker of dormant, necrotic hunger.

  So, York mused, his consciousness lingering in the dark of the tomb. The family has a monster in the basement. Good. I think we’re going to need it.