"Second prostration! To the shadow of the Thornes!"
"Third prostration! Kneel before the Bone-White King!"
The rhythmic chanting grated against York’s consciousness like a dull saw on raw nerves. He tried to open his eyes, but he had no eyelids. He tried to gasp, but he had no lungs. Slowly, the fog of oblivion began to lift, replaced by a strange, multidimensional awareness. He wasn't looking through lenses; he was sensing the vibrations of the world around him.
He was in a courtyard of ancient, weathered stone. Below him, rows of figures clad in cured furs and rough-spun tunics were pressed against the cold flagstones, their foreheads striking the earth with desperate reverence.
Am I dead? York wondered.
The last thing he remembered was the screech of tires and the blinding glare of high beams. A runaway semi-truck. There was no surviving that. In those final, agonizing seconds, he had used every ounce of strength to drag his broken body toward the center of the crosswalk. If he was going to die, he’d at least make sure the insurance payout was high enough to take care of his parents. It was the only noble thing a failed salaryman could do for his family.
He felt a phantom pang of grief, but it was quickly eclipsed by a violent surge of information. It wasn't a thought; it was a legacy—a memory of rotting wood and centuries of silence.
His perception snapped into sharp focus.
The people below weren't just strangers; they were relics. Their faces were etched with a primal, starving desperation. York tried to look down at himself. He expected to see a ghost or a mangled corpse. Instead, he saw a trunk.
It was barely two meters tall, no thicker than a fence post, and covered in bark the color of sun-bleached bone. He was gnarled, twisted, and utterly devoid of life. He wasn't just "like" a tree; he was the tree. A dying Yew, its branches brittle enough to snap in a light breeze.
The realization hit him with the weight of a falling mountain. He had survived a truck only to become a decorative piece of firewood for a cult.
"The rite is concluded!" a voice rasped. "Bring forth the life-tribute!"
At the command of an elder—a man with skin like parchment and eyes clouded by cataracts—several sturdy youths hauled the carcasses of three antlered shadow-stalkers onto the bare earth at York’s base.
The elder, Lord Silas of House Thorne, stepped forward. He held a yellowed scroll of beast-hide aloft, his voice trembling with a mixture of hope and exhaustion.
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"Great Guardian, Ancient Yew of the Thorne bloodline... we beseech you! Drink of this essence! Grant us the strength to endure the winter! Let your radiance shield us from the dark..."
York understood the words perfectly, though the language was nothing like English. The memories in his sap told him everything. This was a world where Great Houses didn't just rule through gold and steel, but through Vitality Cultivation and ancestral pacts.
And he? He was their Totem. Their "God Tree."
As a modern man, York found the idea of being a plant—even a worshipped one—deeply insulting. He tried to shake his branches, to scream that he was a human being, but he was a prisoner in a wooden cage. Only the wind moved him, swaying his skeletal frame with a mocking whistle.
Below, the ritual turned bloody.
The youths drew obsidian knives and slit the throats of the sacrificed beasts. Thick, crimson blood sprayed across the parched earth, soaking into the soil around York’s roots.
York’s internal monologue recoiled. A blood sacrifice? What kind of dark cult did I land in?
But as the blood reached his subterranean roots, his revulsion was drowned out by a primal, terrifying hunger. It was an instinct older than his soul. His roots didn't just sit in the blood; they hunted it. They coiled around the iron-rich moisture, drinking greedily until the soil was dry and the carcasses were pale husks.
A sharp ding echoed in his mind, followed by the shimmering glow of translucent text.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
Name: York
Race: Weak Ancient Yew
Vitality: 0.5
Blood Energy: 5 (Convertible to Vitality)
Spiritual Power: 2
Skills: [Eye of Insight] (Level 1)
Status: A flickering candle in the wind. You are dying.
Deduction: ???
[Please bind to a House to unlock further functions.]
York stared at the panel. 0.5 Vitality? He was practically a corpse already. The "flickering candle" comment felt personal.
He looked at the [Blood Essence] he had just gathered. Without hesitation, he focused his intent on the 5 points. If this could keep him from becoming kindling, he didn't care where it came from.
As he moved to trigger the conversion, a new prompt flashed in aggressive, blood-red script.
[CRITICAL CHOICE]Detected: House Thorne (Rank: Fading).Do you wish to bind your soul to this House？Note: Once bound, the process is IRREVERSIBLE. You will be anchored to this location.
[YES] / [NO]
York hesitated. Binding himself to a "Fading" house sounded like a recipe for a short second life. If he waited, could he find a better spot? A more powerful family?
But he looked at his 0.5 Vitality. He didn't have the luxury of shopping around. He was a stick in the mud, literally.
Just as he was about to make his choice, the heavy iron gates of the courtyard groaned. A scout, his face smeared with soot and blood, stumbled into the clearing.
"Lord Silas!" the boy screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "The Lees! House Lee has broken through the outer perimeter! They’re at the gates with torches and steel!"
The desperate peace of the ritual shattered. Silas’s face went pale, his grip tightening on his staff. The villagers looked toward their "God Tree" with eyes full of either fading hope or bitter resentment.
York looked at the [YES] button.
I guess it’s now or never, he thought grimly. I’m not going down as a pile of ash.