The first rays of dawn crawled over the jagged peaks of the Forsaken Hills, bleeding a pale, sickly orange into the sky. Inside the Sanctum, York felt the shift in the atmosphere. The cool, intoxicating pull of the Lunar Eclipse faded, replaced by the dry, abrasive heat of the sun.

  He felt... different.

  The new branch, thick with emerald leaves, hummed with a quiet, predatory energy. His roots, now reinforced and mapping the very marrow of the estate, vibrated with every footfall on the stone above.

  Vitality is the only currency that matters, York mused, his consciousness expanding through his obsidian frame. Deductions are a gamble, but growth? Growth is a guarantee.

  Two miles away, in the heart of the House Lee encampment, Lord Varick Lee sat in a chair carved from the bone of a mountain drake. He stared at the Thorne estate, his eyes narrowed into cold, calculating slits.

  A scout, dressed in the mottled grey of a "Lee Vulture," knelt before him.

  "Report," Varick commanded, his voice like the scrape of a blade on stone.

  "The Thorne gates remain barred, My Lord," the scout rasped. "But the silence is... wrong. We caught glimpses of their common kin in the outer courtyards. They look like walking corpses. Pale skin, trembling hands, eyes hollowed by hunger. They are eating their own leather to survive."

  Varick didn't smile. He had survived the Forsaken Hills for fifty years by never underestimating a cornered beast. "And their warriors? Silas? The boy, Caleb?"

  "Hidden," the scout replied. "But the air around the Sanctum has grown heavy. Cold. We tried to get closer, but the hounds began to howl as if they saw a ghost."

  Varick tapped a ringed finger against the bone armrest. "They are starving. Silas is a proud fool; he will wait until his men are too weak to lift a shield before he begs for mercy. We wait two more days. When their blood is thin and their spirits broken, we will walk through their front door and salt the earth."

  He dismissed the scout with a wave. He felt no rush. In his mind, the Thorne name was already a footnote in history.

  As night fell once more, the Sanctum was no longer a place of mourning. It had become a war room.

  Silas Thorne stood at the head of a small, grim assembly. He looked at York, his eyes lingering on the new branch that shimmered with a faint, silver frost. The sight fueled his fanaticism. Every time the tree grew, Silas felt ten years younger.

  "The Lee vultures are circling," Silas said, his voice echoing through the hall. "They think we are rotting from the inside out. Let them think it. Every hour they wait is an hour the Guardian gives us to sharpen our teeth."

  He looked at the men gathered. Caleb stood at the front, his aura noticeably thicker, his skin humming with the heat of his Late-Stage Bronze Rank breakthrough.

  "Tonight, we hunt deeper," Silas declared. "The Ravager’s blood was a start, but the Guardian requires more. We need the marrow of the Great Ravine’s apex predators if we are to break the siege."

  "I’m going with you," a voice rang out.

  Silas turned, his brow furrowing. A young man stepped into the silver light. He was lean, with eyes that burned with a quiet, lethal intensity. This was the Thorne’s rising star, the one the younger scions whispered about.

  "Caleb," Silas murmured, "you’ve only just stabilized your breakthrough. Your blood is still volatile."

  "My blood is screaming for a fight, Father," Caleb replied, his hand resting on the hilt of a heavy, black-iron claymore. The air around him shimmered—a sign of Blood Condensation so dense it was nearly visible. "I am stronger than any man in this room, save perhaps you. If we are to hunt in the Ravine, you need my blade."

  Silas looked at his son, then at York. He saw the way the emerald leaves seemed to pulse in time with Caleb’s heartbeat.

  "Fine," Silas barked. "You lead the vanguard. But if you fall, do not expect the Ancestor to pull you back a second time."

  "I don't plan on falling," Caleb said coldly.

  THUD.

  A sharp cry of pain echoed from the shadows near the perimeter wall. Silas and Caleb spun around, blades half-drawn.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Two figures were tangled in a heap at the base of the stone buttress. Caspian and Cedric—the two boys who had tried to axe York days ago—scrambled to their feet, looking terrified but defiant.

  "We want to go too!" Caspian shouted, his voice cracking. "We’re Iron-Rank! We can carry the kills! We can't just sit here and wait to be slaughtered like sheep!"

  "Nonsense!" Uncle Ewan roared, stepping forward. "This is a hunt for wolves, not pups! Get back to the barracks before I use your hides for practice!"

  Caspian didn't flinch. He looked past Ewan, his eyes locking onto York’s obsidian trunk. "The Tree... it saved you, didn't it? It healed your arm. We saw the light. If the Guardian is fighting for us, why are we being told to hide?"

  Silas paused. He looked at the boys, then at York.

  York watched them through the Truth Horizon. He didn't need a system prompt to tell him the odds. They’re idiots, York thought. But they’re idiots with potential. If I let them go, they’ll die in the ravine. If I keep them here, they’ll never grow.

  Silas seemed to reach a similar conclusion, though for different reasons. He looked at the boys with a grim, fatherly pity.

  "Go back," Silas said, his voice softening but remaining firm. "Your time will come. But tonight, the Ravine belongs to the Bronze."

  "Caspian, Cedric—get back to the barracks."

  Uncle Ewan’s voice was firm, though the usual edge of irritation was missing. He looked at the two boys, his gaze softening with a rare flicker of pride. He knew the hunger that drove them; he had felt it himself when the Thorne name first began to slide into the dirt. But the Black Ravine was no place for Iron-Rank pups.

  "Caleb is going," Caspian argued, pointing toward the genius of the family. "If he can face the dark, why can’t we?"

  "Caleb is a Late-Stage Bronze," Ewan countered. "When your blood hums with the heat of a forge, then you can talk to me about the Ravine. Until then, you are the rearguard. That is an order."

  Silas stepped in before the argument could escalate. He looked at the boys with a thin, knowing smile. "Hunting is not the only way to serve the House. I have a task for you—one that requires stealth and sharp eyes. You will shadow the Lee scouts on the northern ridge. Do not engage. Just watch. Can you do that?"

  The boys straightened, their eyes lighting up at the prospect of a real mission. "Yes, Lord Patriarch!" they shouted in unison before vanishing into the shadows of the courtyard.

  Silas watched them go, then turned to the Ancient Yew, offering a final, silent prayer. The hunting party—Caleb, Ewan, and five elite Iron-Rankers—filed into the hidden tunnel, the stone slab grinding shut behind them.

  High above, York watched the departure with a detached, analytical eye. He wasn't worried about the boys; Silas had given them a task that would keep them busy and, more importantly, alive.

  His focus was internal.

  As the moon climbed higher, York felt a strange, pressurized surge within his wood. The Lunar Eclipse technique was active, but the rate of absorption felt... faster.

  He monitored the flow. Yesterday, at this hour, he had gained a mere 0.1 Vitality. Today, in the same span, he had gained 0.2.

  Double, York realized, a dark satisfaction vibrating through his core. It’s the new branch. More leaves mean more surface area. More surface area means more fuel.

  At this rate, he would gain 2.4 Vitality every night cycle. It was a massive leap from the flickering ember he had been a week ago. He felt his roots pushing deeper, greedily mapping the ley lines beneath the estate.

  Scaling, he thought. I’m not just a tree; I’m an engine.

  The Black Ravine

  The air at the tunnel’s exit was damp and smelled of rotting mulch and ancient stone. The party emerged into a narrow, bowl-shaped valley choked with obsidian-leafed trees and thorny thickets.

  "Stay sharp," Ewan whispered, his hand hovering over his blade. "The Ravine is quiet tonight. Too quiet."

  Caleb stood at the front, his skin humming with a faint, crimson heat. The breakthrough to Late-Stage Bronze had changed him; his senses were no longer just human. He could feel the rhythmic thrum of the forest’s heartbeat, the subtle vibrations of predators moving in the dark.

  "Wait," Ewan said, pulling a small ceramic vial from his belt. He began to sprinkle a fine, pungent grey powder over the men. Wraith-Bloom Dust. It was a bitter concoction designed to mask the scent of human sweat and blood.

  Caleb wrinkled his nose, his old arrogance flickering. "I don't need dust to hide from beasts, Uncle. My blood is dense enough to suppress my scent."

  "Arrogance is a quick way to find a grave, boy," Ewan grunted, dousing Caleb regardless. "Even a god-tree needs roots. Even a genius needs to stay hidden until the strike."

  They moved into the thicket, their boots making no sound on the mossy floor. For half an hour, they found nothing—no tracks, no droppings, no signs of life. The silence was oppressive.

  Suddenly, Caleb raised a hand. His eyes flashed with a predatory light. "There," he breathed, pointing toward a cluster of jagged rocks.

  The party crept forward, peering through the thorns.

  In a small clearing, bathed in the sickly silver of the moon, lay a beast the size of a mountain lion. Its fur was the color of dried blood, and its head was crowned with a single, ivory-white horn.

  "A Horned Crimson Stalker," Ewan whispered, recognizing the beast instantly. "Mid-Stage Bronze."

  The men exchanged glances. This was the perfect target. Strong enough to provide rich essence, but not so strong that it would risk the entire party.

  Ewan signaled the men. They knew the drill. This was the "Flushing" tactic. The Iron-Rankers would circle the clearing, creating a perimeter of noise and steel to drive the beast toward the only "open" exit.

  And at that exit, Caleb Thorne was waiting, his black-iron claymore gripped in hands that didn't tremble.

  "Go," Ewan mouthed.

  The hunt was on.