The moon rose over the Forsaken Hills like a cold, silver eye, casting long, jagged shadows across the Thorne estate. Inside the Sanctum, the air grew frigid, smelling of old stone and the metallic tang of dried raptor blood.

  York began to breathe.

  It wasn't a breath of air, but a rhythmic pull of Aether. As he channeled The Silver Veil, the moonlight streaming through the high, narrow windows didn't just illuminate his branches—it was devoured by them.

  The obsidian bark began to pulse with a faint, rhythmic luminescence. Each emerald leaf acted as a shard of glass, catching the silver rays and funneling them into his core. To a casual observer, the Ancient Yew looked like a phantom, a ghostly apparition of living glass standing in the center of the dark hall.

  York watched his internal interface with a cold, calculating eye.

  [SYSTEM STATUS]

  [Name: York]

  [Vitality: 6.1 / 100 (Increasing...)]

  [Aether: 1]

  [Technique: The Silver Veil (Active)]

  [Status: Siphoning Lunar Essence. Estimated Gain: +1.0 Vitality per night cycle.]

  Slow, York mused. But sustainable. In this world of blood and grit, a steady source of life was worth more than a mountain of gold. He didn't need to beg for sacrifices every hour if he could simply drink the sky.

  The heavy iron-bound doors of the Sanctum groaned open.

  Lord Silas Thorne stepped inside. The man looked like a walking corpse. His armor was gone, replaced by a simple linen tunic that was stained with sweat and old blood. His shoulders were hunched, the weight of a failing lineage pressing down on him harder than any mace.

  He stopped in his tracks.

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  The sight of the Yew—pulsing with silver light, its leaves shimmering like polished jewels—struck Silas with the force of a physical blow. He didn't shout. He didn't call for guards. He simply fell to his knees, his forehead striking the cold stone floor.

  "Ancestor," Silas whispered, his voice thick with exhaustion and a new, terrifying hope. "You are awake. You have heard the cries of your children."

  York watched him. He could sense the man’s internal state through the Truth Horizon. Silas’s Bronze-Rank blood was sluggish, his lungs were scarred from years of battle-smoke, and a deep, internal hemorrhage from the day's combat was slowly draining his life.

  If he dies, the house falls. If the house falls, I am kindling, York thought. He wasn't a philanthropist; he was an investor. And his primary asset was currently bleeding out on his floor.

  It was time to test the second reward from the Weaver.

  The Martyr’s Pulse.

  York focused his intent. He felt a sharp, stinging sensation in his core—a literal tearing of his newly gained life force.

  [WARNING: Expending 1.0 Vitality to initiate The Martyr’s Pulse.]

  [Vitality: 6.1 -> 5.1]

  From the tips of York’s emerald leaves, tiny spores of green light began to drift downward. They didn't fall like dust; they moved with purpose, swirling around Silas like a swarm of bioluminescent insects.

  Silas gasped as the first spore touched his skin.

  It didn't just feel warm. It felt like a needle of pure energy stitching his cells back together. He watched in stunned silence as the spores sank into his flesh, passing through his skin as if it were water.

  Inside his chest, the ruptured vessels began to knit. The clotted blood in his lungs was purged, replaced by a surge of oxygen-rich vitality. His Bronze-Rank cultivation, which had been stagnant for a decade, suddenly roared to life. The "Blood Condensation" in his veins accelerated, his pulse thumping against his ribs like a war drum.

  "By the gods," Silas breathed. He stood up, his movements no longer stiff and pained, but fluid and predatory. He looked at his hands, watching the tremors of exhaustion vanish.

  He wasn't just healed. He was reignited.

  York felt the drain. Losing 1.0 Vitality felt like losing a limb, a hollow ache settling into his wood. But the look in Silas’s eyes made it worth the cost. The man no longer looked like a weary patriarch; he looked like a zealot.

  "The Thorne blood is not spent," Silas growled, his eyes fixed on the silver-glowing tree. "You have given me your own life to mend mine. I swear to you, Great Guardian... for every drop of sap you have spilled for me, I will bring you a river of enemy blood."

  He bowed once more, deeper this time, and strode out of the Sanctum with the gait of a man half his age.

  York watched him go, the silver light of the moon continuing to wash over his obsidian bark.

  Good, York thought, settling back into his lunar trance. Go and hunt, Silas. I’m going to need a lot more Essence if we’re going to survive the week.