Reincarnated into the strongest family

The morning sun gleamed brightly against the polished black carriage as Nox and his mother climbed inside. The air was tense but not suffocating—his mother's composed presence radiated confidence. Nox adjusted his collar, his hands steady despite the fluttering in his chest. This was the day.

As the carriage began to move, its wheels crunching softly against the gravel path, his mother glanced at him. Her crimson eyes carried a rare softness, though her words were firm as always.

"Today's the big day," she said, her voice calm yet commanding. "Remember, stay calm, and you'll be fine. I have faith in you."

Nox nodded, his face betraying nothing of the thoughts swirling in his mind. The academy, the duel, his opponents—all of it would converge here.

The ride wasn't long. The family patriarch's estate loomed ahead, a sprawling fortress of power and wealth that embodied generations of dominance. The carriage halted, and the footman opened the door. Clara stepped out first, her presence commanding immediate attention, followed closely by Nox.

As they approached the grand doors of the estate, Clara paused. Her hand rested briefly on Nox's shoulder, and she looked at him with a rare trace of warmth. "Remember who you are. You've worked for this." Then, with a single push, she opened the heavy doors.

The banquet hall was alive with murmurs and laughter. Unfamiliar faces filled the room—distant relatives, influential family members, and the competitors themselves. At the end of the hall, seated upon a raised throne-like chair, was the patriarch—Nox's father. His presence was commanding, his sharp eyes surveying the room. Beside him sat Nox's siblings, each exuding an aura of cold detachment as they turned their gazes toward him.

"Miss Clara and Young Master Nox," a voice announced.

The room quieted briefly, and heads turned. Nox felt the weight of their stares, some curious, others calculating, and a few openly hostile.

As they approached the head of the room, Nox's eyes flicked to his siblings. Their faces were a mix of contempt and indifference, except for one. A girl with striking blue hair and piercing black eyes, seated slightly apart from the others, seemed almost amused. She looked older—perhaps the eldest sibling—and her calm demeanor stood in stark contrast to the cold glares of the others.

"It's the youngest," she said with a faint smile, rising gracefully from her seat. "I've been wanting to meet you but couldn't until today. I'm glad we finally got the chance."

Her voice was smooth, confident, and oddly disarming. As she approached,

As she approached, the crowd seemed to gravitate toward Nox, their curiosity piqued by the interaction. The blue-haired girl stopped a step away from him, her eyes scanning him with an intensity that made him pause. She studied the room for a moment, taking in the hungry stares of their relatives, the disapproving glares of his siblings.

She sighed softly, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. "Looks like there are too many eyes on us right now," she said, her voice smooth and confident, but not unfriendly. "Let's talk after the duels are over, alright?"

Nox simply nodded, intrigued by her presence. She seemed to be the only one here who wasn't playing a part. As she turned and returned to her seat, the others in the room began to murmur again, their questions directed back toward him. But the moment with her had left him with an odd feeling—curiosity mixed with a strange sense of understanding.

The rest of the room descended upon him. Aunts, uncles, cousins—faces he barely recognized—all swarmed him with questions. Their voices overlapped, a cacophony of half-formed sentences and probing inquiries.

"How long have you been training?"

"What elements did you awaken?"

"Do you think you'll win?"

Nox responded as politely and minimally as he could, his focus remaining on the blue-haired girl as she returned to her seat. She hadn't been interested in the superficial interrogation. Her gaze had held something deeper—curiosity, perhaps, or something more guarded.

A sharp, commanding cough silenced the room. All eyes turned to the patriarch, who stood from his throne. The weight of his presence filled the hall as he began to speak.

"Family," he said, his deep voice resonating through the space. "Today, we gather to witness the continuation of our legacy. The duels we hold are not merely for glory or recognition—they are for growth. To forge the strongest among us."

His gaze swept over the room, pausing briefly on Nox.

"There will be no resentment, no bitterness. The results of these duels are final, and they are what will lead our family to greater heights. Remember: strength is the only thing that matters."

Applause erupted as the patriarch finished his speech. Clara's hand briefly rested on Nox's shoulder again, giving him an approving nod as the crowd began to disperse.

The dueling arena was an open expanse of sand and stone, surrounded by tiered seating that overlooked the battlefield. A large bracket had been erected against one wall, listing the names of the twenty participants.

Nox scanned the bracket, noting his name paired against a boy he didn't recognize. His first opponent. Three matches to victory. Three matches to secure his place at the academy.

The rules were clear: win your match, and you advance. After the first round, the remaining ten would battle again, halving the competitors. The third round would leave five, culminating in a free-for-all where only one victor would remain.

Nox's name was first.

He stepped into the arena, the crowd murmuring as he took his place. His opponent followed shortly after—a boy with fiery red hair and a fierce expression.

The overseer stepped forward, raising his hand. "First round. Nox vs. Tyral.

As Nox drew his wooden sword, his grip firm and his stance ready, the referee—an older family member with a sharp, calculating gaze—raised a hand, signaling the crowd to quiet down.

"Before we begin, the rules are simple," the referee announced, his voice commanding yet steady. "The match will end when one of two conditions are met. First: if your opponent is physically unable to continue, whether by injury or exhaustion, you will be declared the victor. Second: if your opponent forfeits by admitting defeat, raising their hand or signaling that they can no longer continue, the match is over.

"And lastly," the referee's eyes narrowed slightly, "this is a family matter, and no one shall take their opponent's life in this arena. However, we do not take kindly to weaklings, nor do we entertain dishonor. Should you lose, the victor has the right to decide your punishment. Whether it be exile or a permanent removal from the family, the decision is theirs. This is to ensure that only the strong prevail. You are not just fighting for the right to attend the academy—you are fighting to prove your worth as part of this family."

The air thickened with anticipation as the referee's gaze swept over each of the competitors. There was an underlying tension—an understanding that while death was off the table, a loss could still carry significant consequences. The stakes were high, and everyone in the room knew it.