The courtyard of the Westeros manor lay eerily quiet after the chaos of the Layton retaliation, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the scattered debris. Kayle Westeros stood near the gate, the mechanical arm strapped to his forearm still faintly humming, its blue glow dimming as his adrenaline ebbed. His legs trembled beneath him, the Bloodline Curse clawing at his strength, but he refused to sit—not yet. Not while the taste of victory lingered, sharp and sweet on his tongue. He'd beaten Robert Layton twice now, humiliated him in front of his own men, and sent a message: the Westeros name wasn't dead. Not by a long shot.
Ryan kicked the last of the unconscious Layton servants beyond the gate, dusting his hands with a grin. "That's the lot of 'em, Young Master! They'll think twice before messing with us again." The boy's enthusiasm was infectious, his wiry frame bouncing with energy as he jogged back to Kayle's side. Kayle gave a curt nod, his mind already turning to the next step. The system's voice echoed in his head: "Reward allocated: 15 Initial Evolution Points + Enhanced Trap Blueprint. Host advised to assess resources for future threats." He'd figure out what to do with those points soon, but first, he needed to know what he was fighting for—and what he had left to fight with.
"Lilia, Tom," Kayle called, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "Get everyone together. We need to talk." He turned toward the manor, forcing his legs to carry him inside. Each step was a battle, but the mechanical arm braced him, a lifeline he clung to as he crossed the threshold.
Inside, the main hall was a grim testament to the family's decline. The once-grand space was now a hollow shell—faded tapestries hung in tatters, the long oak table was chipped and splintered, and a single flickering lantern cast weak light over the gathered servants. Ten of them remained, a pitiful remnant of the dozens who'd once served the Westeros banner. They were a ragged bunch—farmers, cooks, stablehands turned makeshift guards—each face etched with exhaustion and uncertainty. Lilia stood at Kayle's side, her small hand gripping his sleeve, while Old Tom shuffled in last, his cane tapping a slow rhythm against the floor.
Kayle took a deep breath, steadying himself against the table's edge. "I know things have been hard," he began, his voice cutting through the quiet. "The Laytons think we're finished—weak, broken, ready to roll over and die. They're wrong." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the room, meeting every pair of eyes. "Today, I showed them what happens when they step on our ground. But that's just the start. I need to know what we've got left—what we're working with. Speak up."
A murmur rippled through the servants, hesitant at first. Then a wiry woman with gray-streaked hair stepped forward—Martha, the cook who'd stayed when others fled. "Young Master, the fields are barren. Haven't had a decent harvest in years. We've been scraping by on what the villagers trade us, but it's not much. The stables are empty—horses sold off long ago. And the armory…" She hesitated, glancing at Old Tom. "Just a few rusted swords and a broken shield."
Kayle's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Keep going."
A younger man, broad-shouldered and scarred—Jasper, once a fieldhand—spoke next. "The walls are crumbling, sir. The gate barely held today. If they bring more men, we're done for. And the village… they're scared. The Laytons have been taxing them dry, saying it's their land now. Most folks won't fight unless they've got somethin' to believe in."
"Anything else?" Kayle pressed, his tone calm but commanding. The mechanical arm clicked softly, as if urging them on.
Old Tom cleared his throat, stepping closer. "There's the mineral vein, Young Master. Under the estate, deep in the hills. Your grandfather swore it was somethin' special—not just iron or copper, but some kind of rare ore, glowing with power. He called it 'element energy crystal.' Said it was why the Westeros line rose in the first place. But the mines collapsed decades ago, and we never had the coin or the know-how to dig it out again." His eyes narrowed, voice dropping. "The Laytons must've heard whispers. That's why they're circling."
Kayle's pulse quickened. Element energy crystal. The words sparked soiled through his mind, sparking a memory from his past life—games he'd played, stories he'd read, where rare resources fueled empires. If Old Tom was right, that vein could be their salvation—or their doom if the Laytons got it first. He flexed the mechanical arm, feeling its power thrum through him. The system chimed: "New task issued: Investigate Family History. Reward: Initial Refining Knowledge." A grin tugged at his lips. Perfect timing.
"Tom," Kayle said, turning to the steward. "Where's the family archive? The old records—where are they?"
Old Tom blinked, surprised. "In the cellar, Young Master. Been gathering dust since your father's time. Books, maps, some old trinkets from the mining days. Why?"
"Because we're not just surviving anymore," Kayle replied, his voice hardening. "We're fighting back. That vein's ours, and I'm going to figure out how to use it." He straightened, ignoring the protest of his cursed body. "Martha, get what food we have ready. Jasper, Ryan—start patching the walls best you can. Lilia, you're with me. We're digging through those records tonight."
The servants exchanged glances, a flicker of hope igniting in their tired eyes. Martha nodded briskly, Jasper cracked his knuckles with a grin, and Ryan whooped, "Yes, Young Master!" Lilia squeezed Kayle's hand, her face brightening. "I'll help, Brother. We'll find something—I know it!"
Kayle led her to the cellar, a damp, shadowy pit beneath the manor. Cobwebs clung to the stone walls, and the air smelled of mold and decay. A rickety shelf sagged under the weight of leather-bound tomes and rolled parchment, relics of a prouder era. Kayle pulled a dusty volume free, coughing as a cloud of grit billowed up. The title was faded, but he could make out Westeros Lineage and Mines. He flipped it open, scanning pages of cramped handwriting—notes on the vein, sketches of glowing crystals, and cryptic mentions of "lost techniques" tied to their ancestors' rise.
"Here," Lilia said, tugging out a smaller book. "It's about refining ore! Look—'The crystals hold energy beyond mere metal… with the right craft, they amplify power.' What does that mean, Brother?"
Kayle's eyes narrowed, a thrill racing through him. "It means we've got a weapon," he murmured, tracing a diagram of a glowing shard. "Something the Laytons don't understand yet." The system chimed again: "Task completed: Investigate Family History. Reward dispensed: Initial Refining Knowledge." A flood of information poured into his mind—basic methods to extract and shape the crystals, rudimentary but enough to start. He clenched his fist, the mechanical arm whirring. "We're going to turn this place around, Lilia. Starting with that vein."
She beamed, clutching the book to her chest. "You're amazing, Brother! They won't know what hit them!"
Kayle smirked, the weight of his family's legacy settling on his shoulders—not as a burden now, but as a blade he'd sharpen and wield. The Laytons wanted a fight? He'd give them one they'd never forget.