Strongest Family System

That moment was as tight as a bowstring. Moonlight slipped through the branches, casting delicate, pale patterns across the clearing.

David's fingers brushed against his sword, and he felt his shoulders tighten as a subtle tension settled in.

In a breath, the wait ended.

David snapped an order, and the four mercenaries surged forward—blades ready, faces twisted with the promise of violence. Robert barely glanced at Emer and Ronan as he called, "The tall one's mine. The rest are yours. Don't let any of them escape."

His friends' eyes went cold and focused. Emer drew his blade in a flicker, its steel flashing, while Ronan set himself to intercept two of the attackers immediately. All at once, the clearing erupted into chaos: shadows flying, steel catching moonlight, and the sharp shout of bodies colliding.

David lunged straight at Robert, his speed shocking for a man his size. Robert reacted instinctively, feet blurring in the pale grass as he drew both swords and dropped into Shadow Step—a swift, elusive movement that made him melt away and reappear a hand's breadth from his enemy.

David reacted just as fast.

He drew his blade in a split second, stopping Robert's fierce downward strike with a forceful block.

"Blades collided with a sharp ring, and sparks flared, vanishing into the moonlit dark."

David's sword style was brutal but precise—iron-hard blows and short stabbing thrusts mixed with sweeping cleaves meant to break defenses, clearly shaped by years in bloody combat.

But David was more than raw strength—his footwork was uncanny, a movement skill Robert recognized from stories: Wolf's Tread. Each step anchored, lines of power running through his stance, always keeping him just out of reach or bracing for the comeback.

Robert pressed the attack, both swords whirling. His technique was built on lightness and unpredictability—quickstep, leaping from angle to angle, and exploiting every opening.

He twisted and whirled, the blades buzzing around him, pushing David to his limits. Yet, the mercenary stood firm, countering each strike with the steady confidence that only comes from years of experience.

Elsewhere in the clearing, Emer and Ronan fought as one. Emer's blade snapped and darted in low, precise cuts, his body tight with focus. He parried a wild swing, then countered in a crescent, forcing his opponent into Ronan's reach. Ronan knocked two blades aside with blunt force before driving forward, his body tempering strength sending one mercenary staggering back.

But the real storm was between Robert and David. David's attacks were relentless—each sword swing carrying the weight of years, each movement crisp with deadly intent. He forced Robert back, striking with sudden feints, low kicks, and the sharpest of turns. Robert barely caught a boot to the ribs and spun, avoiding a heavy overhand blow that left his shoulder numb.

"Not bad," David muttered, voice low and amused. "But you bleed just the same."

Robert's heart pounded, his arms vibrating from the force of impact: his sword skills, Twin Dragon Fang and Shadow Step, combined speed and misdirection.

He darted sideways, letting both blades blur in a weaving, unpredictable dance. Steel shrieked as Robert ducked a slash meant for his throat, countered with a crosswise cut that nearly nicked David's thigh, then flowed away just as another brutal chopping strike came down.

The battle whirled—Robert felt his legs tiring, his breath coming shorter. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give ground. He loved this pressure, this razor's edge—yet he could sense the price with every shiver of pain in his side.

Their swords locked, pressed together inches from each other's faces, and for a heartbeat, Robert saw the cold calculation in David's eyes. David twisted, disengaged, spun low, and struck—a sweeping attack that grazed Robert's arm, burning across his bicep.

Robert grunted, his sleeve wet with blood.

He turned abruptly, teeth gritted, struggling to bring his thoughts back into focus.

His mind sharpened: every mistake now meant death. He settled his grip and drew in a slow breath, waiting for David's next attack.

David came again, blade flickering.

With a swift move, Robert unleashed Shadow Step, slipping behind David's guard so quickly and precisely that it felt like he had vanished and reappeared in an instant.

With a quick spin using Wolf's Tread, David anticipated the attack, raising his blade to counter it.

Their swords met again, the clash echoing through the clearing.

A flicker of motion in his boundary—Emer and Ronan had dispatched two of the attackers, but the other two were still fighting fiercely, turning to help their leader.

Robert pushed himself to keep driving, going through the pain as he pressed David even harder now.

David's movement faltered—just for a moment, his breath catching. Robert seized it, using both swords in a crossing pattern: one blade blocked David's response, and the second stabbed low, catching David across the thigh. Blood welled. David snarled, eyes wide with disbelief and fury.

With wounds opening on both sides, the fight had turned desperate. David fought like a beast, ignoring pain, swinging hard for Robert's wounded arm. Robert resisted, barely staggering sideways, vision swimming with exhaustion. But then he saw the opening: David's weight overcommitted in a final, wild thrust.

Robert reversed his grip and sidestepped at the last instant, using Shadow Step to circle behind. In one smooth, practiced movement, he drove his sword into David's side, deep and decisive, yanking it free as the mercenary leader sank to his knees.

Breathing hard, blood soaking into his sleeve, Robert kept his swords up, staring down at the now kneeling David. The mercenary's face twisted, then slackened, his strength finally failing as he toppled sideways into the grass.

Across the clearing, Emer and Ronan finished the last of their opponents, chest heaving, eyes scanning for any remaining threats. The only sounds now were ragged breathing and the wind moving softly through the trees.

Robert stood still for a moment, heart racing, pain flaring in his arms and ribs—a vivid reminder of the fight's cost. But for now, he had survived.

For a long moment, Robert stood in the clearing, blood cooling on his skin, the pain in his ribs and arm pulsing with every breath. Nearby, the bodies of his enemies lay motionless, scattered between bent grass and broken branches, their threat snuffed out under the pale moon.

The battle had been fierce, but for the moment, he and his friends had made it through.

He turned to Emer and Ronan, who were catching their breath, blades still in hand. "We should not hang around," Robert said in a low voice, sounding quite determined.

All right, you two go ahead first—make your way back to the estate quickly. I will be right behind you."

"But Robert—" Emer started, concern clear on his face.

Robert shook his head. "Don't worry. I need a moment." He knew they wanted to stay, but he could not let them see what came next. "Go. I will handle things here."

With uneasy glances, Emer and Ronan slipped away, keeping low and silent as they vanished into the shadow-streaked woods. Only after he was sure they were gone did Robert crouch, pulling out a small vial of healing medicine from his belt. He uncorked it, swallowed the pill, and let the cooling rush of power knit his torn muscles, easing the sharpest aches.

Breathing easier, Robert moved to the bodies. His eyes went cold and distant as he knelt at each fallen foe. He called on the hidden strength within him, reaching out and drawing in the last remnants of their souls' power, and absorbed it in silence. Magic pooled behind his eyes, knowledge and strength mingling with his own for just a heartbeat.

When the task was complete, Robert took a thoughtful half hour to remove any trace of what had occurred. He put in every effort to conceal the aftermath of the fight, pulling branches over the bloodstains, covering up footprints with loose dirt, and wiping down the hilts of the swords left behind.

There was nothing he left behind that could link him to the Osborns or to his own identity.

At last, when the task was complete and the cool night breeze had whisked away the lingering scent of blood, Robert melted into the shadows and quietly slipped away, employing Utilize Shadow Step to glide across the wild lands quietly.

Within half an hour, he was back at the outskirts of the Osborn estate, heart pounding but steps steady.

Emer and Ronan were waiting just inside the gates, relief plain on their faces when he arrived. "We are back," Robert said quietly. "We do not speak of this to anyone—understood?"

Both nodded in agreement, the solemn promise of shared danger in their eyes.

"Get some rest," Robert told them. "Tomorrow we focus on moving forward, as if nothing happened tonight."

"Good night, Robert," they said together, each turning to disappear toward their rooms.

With some time to himself at last, Robert returned to his room.

He sank onto the edge of his bed, feeling the weight of fatigue wash over him as he went over the fight in his thoughts.

The Spirit Root Realm had been a real challenge—but his new strength had carried him through. Soon, even greater dangers would come, not just for him but for all who bore the Osborn name.

He set his jaw, steady and sure. Tonight had made one thing clear—survival was not just about courage. It meant having strength, staying close as a team, and being ready for anything. When exhaustion finally caught up with him, Robert drifted off—not tormented by fear or violence, but holding on to the promise of strength that lay ahead.