The center of the courtyard was a tempest of clashing blood energy.

  Caleb Thorne was the most ferocious among them. At the Late-Stage of the Bronze Rank, he held his ground against two Lee masters simultaneously, his aura surging with an indomitable spirit. Yet, under the relentless assault of two equal opponents, even his endurance began to fray.

  Lord Silas Thorne had also joined the fray. Though over sixty years old, his deep cultivation and decades of combat experience allowed him to hold a Lee captain at bay. Beside them, the most striking figure was the "Old Ancestor"—the ancestral puppet of the Thorne family.

  The puppet was a grotesque sight, possessing only one arm and one leg. It moved with a jerky, unstable gait, looking as if it might topple at any moment. Yet its body was as hard as tempered iron. Even when a Mid-Stage Bronze master slammed a full-force blow into its chest, the puppet was merely pushed back. The dent in its metal frame did nothing to slow its mechanical, lethal movements.

  York watched from above, marveling at the puppet’s resilience. If the Thorne family had a few more of these "Ancestors," their situation would never have become so dire.

  While the Bronze-Rank masters were locked in a stalemate, the Thorne vanguard was failing. The Lee family had brought more Iron-Rank warriors, many of whom were at the Late-Stage. Before long, several Thorne clansmen were wounded, their combat strength plummeting. If not for the initial ambush that had injured Vorgas Lee, the Thornes would have already been overrun.

  At this critical moment, a Late-Stage Iron warrior was knocked to the ground, coughing blood. Realizing he could no longer hold the line, he reached into his tunic and crushed his emerald leaf.

  A surge of powerful blood energy flooded his body.

  In the next heartbeat, the warrior leapt up as if possessed by a war god. His strength exploded, and he cut down his opponent in a single exchange. Staring at his hands in disbelief, he felt his blood energy surging and his wounds vanishing. Remembering Silas’s warning that the blessing was temporary, he didn't hesitate—he turned and charged at a Bronze-Rank enemy.

  The Lee master, currently entangled with the Thorne puppet, snorted in derision. "Foolish brat!" He swung his blade to swat away the "peasant," but when their weapons collided, the master’s eyes widened.

  How? he thought, his arms numbing from the impact. I am a Bronze master! How can a mere Iron-Rank boy match my strength?

  Across the courtyard, other Thorne warriors followed suit. One by one, they crushed their leaves, their combat power exploding as they tore through the Lee ranks. The screams of the Lee soldiers filled the rain.

  "What kind of sorcery is this?!" a Lee master roared in terror.

  Seeing the tide turn, the Lee masters tried to focus their efforts on Caleb to break the Thorne’s morale. But Caleb produced his own leaf. As he crushed it, his aura didn't just rise—it soared, touching the very threshold of the Silver Rank.

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  For the first time, Caleb saw the world differently. He could see the flaws in his enemies' movements, the gaps in their blood energy that had been invisible to him before. With a roar, he unleashed a strike that sent the Lee masters reeling, their blood energy thrown into chaos by the sheer intensity of his assault.

  The Lee formation shattered. Seeing their clansmen falling and their leaders suppressed, the remaining Lee master shouted the order they all craved:

  "Retreat! Fall back now!"

  But Silas Thorne would not let them go. "Kill them! Do not let a single one escape!"

  A few miles away, the duel between Varick Lee and Chen Elias was still raging.

  Varick was composed, his movements fluid. "Do you hear that, Elias? Your family is failing. Surrender now, and I might spare your life."

  Elias’s face was grim, but he said nothing, redoubling his attack. The two were evenly matched, but Varick felt no rush. He only needed to wait for his vanguard to finish the job in the courtyard.

  However, as figures emerged from the mist, Varick’s smile vanished.

  It wasn't the Thornes fleeing in terror; it was his own uncle, Harek Lee. The man was pale, his body covered in wounds, leading a group of terrified survivors.

  "Harek! What happened?" Varick shouted, parrying a blow from Elias.

  "There’s no time to explain! Varick, run! Or the House is finished!" Harek gasped.

  Varick stared in disbelief. He looked past Harek and saw the Thorne warriors approaching, their eyes burning with a cold, green light. Then, he saw Chen Elias reach into his tunic and produce an emerald leaf.

  "Varick, it’s over," Elias said.

  As Elias crushed the leaf, his aura exploded, jumping from the Mid-Stage to the Late-Stage of the Bronze Rank in an instant. He lunged forward, his strength now far surpassing Varick’s.

  "Run, Varick! You are the Patriarch—the House needs you!" Harek screamed, throwing himself forward to block Elias.

  Varick didn't hesitate. He was a pragmatist above all else. He turned and fled into the darkness of the mountains, his mind racing. What happened in that estate? Where did those leaves come from?

  The battle finally fell silent.

  An hour later, the Thorne family gathered in the Sanctum. The warriors who had been in the tunnel were now outside, clearing the bodies. The courtyard was a grisly sight, littered with Lee corpses and stained with blood.

  "Lord Patriarch," Ewan reported, his voice heavy. "We lost three brothers. Ten others are heavily wounded... some may not last the night."

  The joy of victory was instantly replaced by a somber silence. Silas looked at the fallen. "They shall be buried with honor. Their tablets will be placed in this Sanctum, so that all future generations may remember their sacrifice."

  Then, the ten wounded were brought before the tree. Two were already fading, their breathing shallow and ragged. The family’s physician stood by, helpless; their medicines had long since run out.

  Silas knelt before the Ancient Yew, his forehead touching the cold stone. "Great One... I beg of you. Save them."

  The other warriors knelt as well, their voices joining in a desperate prayer.

  High above, York looked down at the broken men. He felt a deep weariness. He had already spent so much of his life-force to grant the leaves, and his reserves were nearly empty. To save these ten would leave him in a state of extreme weakness.

  But if I let them die now, the victory means nothing, York thought.

  He gathered the last of his strength. He didn't drop leaves this time; instead, he released a soft, green mist from his canopy. The mist drifted down like glowing snow, settling into the wounds of the fallen.

  The effect was immediate. The bleeding stopped. The pale faces of the dying regained a hint of color. They weren't fully healed, but their lives were no longer in danger. They would survive.

  "The Guardian provides!" the warriors cried out, weeping with relief.

  York felt a hollow ache in his core. He was exhausted, his vitality drained to its limit. He looked at the Lee corpses still littering his courtyard.

  I’m broke again, York mused as he drifted toward a deep sleep. But the harvest is ready. Once they clear the bodies, I will drink my fill. And next time... I will be ready for the whole Lee army.