Strongest Family System

As the duel concluded, Robert turned and returned to where the Osborn clan was gathered. His steps were steady, though each one carried the weight of the battle. His arms ached, the cuts on his ribs stung beneath his robes, and his breathing came slow and controlled—rhythmic, focused.

Without a word, Robert sat cross-legged upon the mat laid out by his elders. Someone handed him two small pills—one for healing, the other for restoring qi. He took them both without hesitation and closed his eyes. The sounds of the celebrating crowd faded behind the steady hum of energy spreading through his body. A wash of warmth traveled up his spine and down into his limbs as internal wounds began knitting together. Bruises softened. Muscles loosened.

He let his mind clear, falling into a light meditation. The cheers were not just for him—they echoed in celebration of what his clan had achieved.

It was to recover quickly. There was still work to be done.

Meanwhile, the elder stepped into the arena once more and raised his voice—not to the crowd, but to the two figures who now made their way to the center from opposite ends: John Osborn and Mathew James, the heads of their respective clans. The crowd quieted again, not out of fear—but respect.

"The outcome was clear to both of you," the elder said firmly."As per the agreement signed before the competition began, victory means the Osborn Clan will gain rights to the city's western trading market."

Mathew James clenched his jaw. His eyes, once full of pride and certainty, now burned with restrained fury. His strongest fighter had been bested—not by trickery, but in front of thousands, laid low through skill and discipline. He looked past the elder for a moment, his gaze landing on Harden, who was still being tended to.

He tightened his jaw, his words steady and firm with resolve.

"We will hand it over… Within five days."

The elder nodded curtly. "That is all."

Without another word, Mathew turned and walked toward the edge of the arena where Harden still sat, supported by two of their cultivators. One of them pressed a healing pill into Harden's hand, murmuring something quickly before helping him to his feet.

The James clan lingered only briefly. Their banners were lowered, their backs straight—but their pride was clearly wounded. They left the arena together, wordless, each step heavy on the gravel as the weight of defeat followed behind them.

The Osborn side, meanwhile, remained gathered—not loud, not boastful—but calm and resolute. The battle was won. The market belongs to them now. Still, none dared disturb Robert's recovery. They knew: his battle was over, but his path had only just begun.

The sun was still high when the Osborn clan finally returned to their estate.

"Dust coated their boots and robes, while the aftershocks of triumph lingered in the air."

Though they walked without loud chants or fanfare, there was no mistaking the pride in their steps.

Inside the estate, courtyards echoed with the sounds of quiet congratulations. Servants moved quickly, preparing a table lined with dishes and brewed teas, while the inner circle of elders gathered near the northern hall, forming a protective ring around John Osborn and Robert.

Robert had only just emerged from rest, his steps still a bit stiff but his spirit unmistakably calm. When he entered to join the gathering, there was no applause—just respectful nods, strong grips on his shoulder, and proud silence.

John raised a simple toast of warm tea. "For those who stood tall when it counted. And those who stayed standing."

The Osborn cultivators lifted their cups—not in drunken celebration, but in honor. There was laughter, muted and sincere. Smiles found their way onto even the oldest faces. Some younger disciples looked at Robert with a new sort of awe. Not as the boy from the training fields, but now as the one who had turned the tide of decades-long rivalry.

Meat was served. Sweet rice-filled wooden bowls. Scarred veterans told the story of the fight again and again in low voices, quietly impressed by every detail. No one spoke of revenge, or power, or conquest. They spoke of pride—earned, not taken.

But elsewhere, far from the warmth and quiet celebration, a different mood gripped the James estate.

Behind closed doors, in the darkened main chamber of their estate, Mathew James sat in silence, jaw clenched as Harden slowly settled into the seat beside him. Harden's skin was pale, and though the medicine given was already working, fatigue pulled down the corners of his mouth.

For a long time, no one spoke.

Finally, Mathew broke the silence. "He beat you clean."

Harden did not look away. "He did. Twice, I nearly had him... but he used that Shadow Step at just the right moment. I could not catch his rhythm."

Mathew eyes were sharp. "And he used two swords. How long has he trained for that?"

Harden shrugged bitterly. "Long enough to make it look natural."

From the dim edge of the doorway, an elder emerged. "This defeat weighs heavily."

"It won't be the last if we stay idle," Mathew replied sharply. "They've taken control of the market—more spirit stones, more medicine, and greater ways to follow."

"Mathew's jaw tightened, and when he spoke, his words came out in a cold, controlled whisper."

"We have to eliminate Robert, or the Osborn clan will keep outpacing us.

"But we need to carry this out so smoothly that no one ever suspects we were involved."

He turned to one of his trusted elders. "Find a reliable rob cultivator. Offer whatever payment it takes, and assign a few of our men to oversee it.

Make sure it is not done in daylight—wait until Robert's alone. That is when they strike."

The elder gave a grave nod, then asked quietly, "Should we send someone with body tempering cultivation or Spirit Root Realm?"

Mathew response came without hesitation. "Send someone to Spirit Root, first level. I want no mistakes."

A silent agreement passed between them; schemes were already set in motion. The elder bowed and left to see it through, while the rest of the room sat in watchful silence, the shadows in the James estate growing a little darker.

"Across the city, a peaceful stillness had at last taken hold of the Osborn estate."

With the celebration behind them, the elders—each taking a moment to convey their admiration and sincere gratitude to Robert—had headed off to their chambers for some well-deserved rest.

Clan members, still glowing from their victory, thanked Robert in passing before slipping away to their quarters, fatigue and satisfaction mixing in every step.

At last, the great hall was nearly empty. Only Robert remained, seated at the low table with his family—his father, John, who watched him with proud eyes; his mother, who poured calming tea into carved wooden cups; and his younger sister, who perched beside Robert, eyes wide with awe that barely hid her relief.

"It was the first time all day that the quiet brought ease rather than weight."

John Osborn rested a steady hand on his son's shoulder, his touch calm and supportive. "You carried us today, Robert.

"Always remember, you did not just bring honour to our name; you honored everyone who considers this place their home."

Robert, spent but content, managed a quiet smile in return. His mother set a steaming cup before him and smoothed his hair, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Rest now. You have done enough for all of us—no more burdens tonight."

Beside him, his sister clutched his arm. "You fought like a hero, Robert. I always believed you would."

The four of them sat together for a while, no grand speeches or future worries, just the simple gratitude of safety and family. The estate lay outside, wrapped in a serene slumber, completely oblivious to the schemes that were unfolding in the night beyond its boundaries.

For one short evening, victory belonged to them—and for Robert, this quiet gathering was worth more than any applause.

After a while, conversation dwindled to gentle smiles and sleepy glances. Robert's mother squeezed his hand one last time; his sister hugged him tightly, and his father gave a simple, approving nod—nothing more needed to be said.

With the warmth of their words and the love of family still in his heart, Robert quietly got up from the table. He said goodnight to his family, giving each of them a warm hug, before making his way down the hall to his room.

The corridor was hushed, lit only by a thin golden light seeping in from under each door—a sign that, at last, the Osborn estate truly rested. Robert stepped into his room and gently closed the door behind him.

For the first time that day, exhaustion caught up with him, heavier than any sword or mantle of responsibility.

He let out a final, contented breath before he nestled down to catch some sleep.

The sounds of muted celebration were gone, replaced by the steady beat of his own heart and the promise of a new dawn.

Tomorrow would bring its share of challenges again. But for this night, Robert fell asleep not as a cultivator or a champion but as a son, a brother, and a young man who was finally at peace.