From Ruin to Reign Leander's Unbreakable Will novel Chapter 375

This was Quincy Riverstone—the eldest son of the Riverstone family.

The difference between the two brothers was stark. One shallow, one deep. They represented the family's creed. Move with the tide, survive through adaptation.

Quincy had entered the military at eight years old. He'd been trained personally by Old Mr. Riverstone. For more than a decade, he hadn't once left the field. Now, at twenty-three, he stood as a lieutenant colonel—an officer with a flawless record and limitless potential.

This was only his second year back home. And his younger brother had returned to him half-dead.

Quincy's voice cracked through the courtyard like a blade slicing air. "Who did this?"

He stood beside Skelly's broken body, staring at his brother's pale, lifeless face. Rage boiled in his chest like a storm about to burst.

The guards who had followed Skelly to Durham Abbey stood trembling under his glare. One of them stepped forward, his voice shaking, and repeated everything that had happened, word for word.

Quincy's expression darkened with every sentence. His eyes burned cold, his jaw clenched tight.

"So it was about a woman again," he muttered, a bitter sneer twisting his mouth.

He narrowed his eyes, thinking fast. "A nameless young man threw my brother off Westvale Peak? In all of Highcliffe, even Ethan or Tycen wouldn't dare pull something like that. Who would have the nerve?"

The lead guard took a step forward, lowering his head. "Mr. Quincy, that man wasn't ordinary. He barely lifted a hand, and we were all taken down in seconds. He's a martial expert."

"A martial expert?" Quincy's tone stayed calm, but his gaze sharpened. He'd spent most of his life in the army. He'd seen men who could bend steel with their bare hands, men who could crush bones with a single blow. He knew what that kind of power meant.

He paused, then spoke quietly.

"Go. Bring Mr. Gessinger here."

The guards looked at each other in shock. None dared question him. They bowed and hurried out to carry out his order.

Behind the Riverstone estate, a pavilion stood. Two elderly men sat across a stone table, a chessboard spread between them.

One wore a neat military uniform. His posture was straight, his hands steady as he held a white piece. Each move he made was sharp and precise.

The other man, with long white hair and a flowing robe, looked calm and timeless, his expression unreadable. His black pieces landed softly, one after another, as if they carried the rhythm of the wind.

The soldier played with aggression, each move cutting forward like a strike. But the robed elder countered every attack with patient grace. His defense flowed like water, smooth and effortless, turning certain defeat into narrow escape.

Soon, the board was filled with black and white. Neither could win.

The soldier finally exhaled. "Homer, your skill's improved again. I tried three openings to break your defense, but your moves wrapped around mine like silk. I couldn't find a single flaw. That was a fine match."

The robed man smiled faintly.

"Logan, you push too hard. You forget that chess, like life, is a balance. You must know when to press forward and when to yield. Only then can you control the game."

Logan Riverstone laughed quietly and shook his head. "No wonder they call you Gessinger the Dustless. You never rush, never stumble. You're still teaching me after all these years."

The two shared a small smile as they reset the board.

Before the next game began, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness.

A young acolyte in robes ran up to Homer and whispered something in his ear.

Homer's eyes flickered. He turned to Logan.

"Quincy's calling for me. It must be urgent. We'll continue next time."

Without another word, he rose and walked out of the courtyard.

Logan watched him go, his brows drawn together.

"Urgent business?" he murmured.

It puzzled him. Within the Riverstone family, Homer Gessinger was no ordinary man. He was their hidden protector, a living legend called upon only in times of true crisis. If Quincy had summoned him, something serious had happened.

Outside, Homer entered the main courtyard. Quincy was already waiting for him, his back straight and his hands clasped behind him.

As soon as he saw the old master, Quincy stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Mr. Gessinger."

Homer gave a slow nod. His gaze shifted toward the ground where Skelly lay broken and unconscious. His brow furrowed.

He paused, a faint smile ghosting his lips. I wonder, he thought, if anyone still remembers the name Homer Gessinger.

Quincy's eyes gleamed with cold fury. The killing intent in them was sharp enough to chill the air. Leander was a stranger—someone he had never seen before. If this had been a direct heir from one of Highcliffe's great families, Quincy might have softened his tone, maybe exchanged a few polite words first. But now, facing a nameless outsider, he didn't bother to hide his anger.

"You've got guts," he said coldly. "You knew my brother was from the Riverstone family, yet you still struck him down so hard?"

His voice lashed out like a whip. "You might be a martial artist, but don't think that a little strength gives you the right to act without consequence."

He gestured behind him. The soft rhythm of approaching footsteps filled the air. An elderly man in gray robes stepped into view.

"This is Mr. Gessinger," Quincy announced, his tone proud. "Forty years ago, he served as the teaching elder at Mount Martial. Since then, he's been the Riverstone family's most honored protector.

"If you can survive a single strike from him, I'll let this matter end here."

When he finished, Quincy stepped aside.

Homer stood before Leander, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression was serene but unyielding. "Young man," he said evenly, "I've walked a quiet path for many years. I don't enjoy using force. But as the guardian of the Riverstone family, I must deliver justice.

"I'll strike once. If you survive, we'll leave it at that."

The air began to hum. Power swelled around him like the pull of a storm. Wind whipped through the meditation hall, tearing at the curtains and rattling the floorboards.

Luna and Janey froze in terror. Their eyes widened, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. The man who had looked like a gentle monk moments ago now radiated enough strength to make the entire hall tremble.

Homer spread his palm. The air bent around his arm as if pulled by invisible tides. He was about to strike.

But Leander let out a low, quiet laugh. His tone was relaxed, his gaze half amused.

"Mount Martial's teaching elder?" he said, smiling faintly. "That's all?"

He raised a single finger, his voice cold and deliberate. "If you can take one palm from me without injury, I'll pretend none of this ever happened."

He moved. His hand drifted forward, soft and light as falling snow.

The moment his palm landed, the world seemed to explode.