Strongest Family System

"Chris Osbron occupied his private chamber alone, the solid sandalwood workspace covered in documents, financial records, and wax-sealed messages from merchants spanning multiple regions. Unsteady lamplight carved sharp angles on his countenance, drawing attention to the tension creasing his brow."

The latest market reports were grim. Grain prices had dipped sharply after an early harvest in the southern valleys, flooding the markets and undercutting established suppliers. Worse, the ore caravans from the northern mines had been delayed twice in as many weeks—banditry, sabotage, or something more deliberate. Either way, shortages were already spiking iron and steel prices, choking the weapon-smiting contracts he relied on.

Chris leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Compared to last month, turnover is down fifteen percent. Liquidity slipping. Merchant confidence is wavering."

His voice had a soft, deliberate quality, but it was tinged with a sense of frustration.

If he cut prices now, it would bleed reserves, leaving the Osbron holdings exposed. If he held them steady, rival houses—James foremost among them—would exploit the opening with predatory rates. The balance was delicate.

He unfurled a scroll stamped with the symbol of the Eastern Trade Union.

Their emissaries had pressed for greater Osbron participation in joint caravans, citing "security through unity." But Chris knew the subtext: hand over a share of profit and autonomy in exchange for their "protection." A leash disguised as a partnership.

"No," he muttered, lips tightening. "We strengthen our own channels, not surrender them."

He dipped a brush into dark ink, sketching rough calculations across the margin of a ledger. Two routes remained viable:

Divert surplus resources to luxury goods—herbs, spiritual materials, and rare metals. High risk, but margins far greater.

"Consolidate connections with impartial merchant organizations in boundary communities. Expand control via smaller alliances, establishing webs too complex for the James clan to destroy completely."

Chris paused, considering. The James estate's sudden uptick in mercantile activity was no coincidence. Rumors suggested they were stockpiling resources, either for open confrontation or to strangle the Osbron economically.

"Then we will strike where they do not expect," he whispered, pulling a smaller chest closer. Inside lay maps of river routes and coded trade contracts. He traced one slender ink line from the Osborn-controlled southlands to an overlooked harbor town. "If we shift grain exports overseas and funnel spirit herbs through backwater channels, the James family's blockade will bleed them, not us."

"His brush moved urgently across the document, penning orders for swift dispatch: Contact trusted riverboat operators. Establish secure passage through lesser-traveled waterways."

Start talking directly with blacksmiths, providing them with iron substitutes made from our stockpiled bark alloys until the northern shipments get back on track.

Every plan carried risk, but hesitation meant collapse. Chris took a moment to seal the first letter, letting molten wax drip onto the paper before pressing his personal sigil into the warm, red surface.

The fragrance of sandalwood mixed with the warmth of fresh ink filled the space, making it feel both comforting and creative. For a moment, he sat still, listening to the muffled hum of estate activity outside, before whispering to himself:

"The clan needs strength on every front—steel, spirit, and shadow. I will make certain the market bends to us, not the other way around.

He set the brush down at last, eyes narrowing toward the window where pale dawn light crept through. The struggle ahead was inevitable, but Chris Osbron intended to meet it with calculation sharper than any blade.

Chris tapped the sealed letter against the desk, his mind already shifting to another avenue of profit. The pills.

The Osborn clan had finally broken past the bottleneck—Robert's and other alchemists' skills in alchemy were no longer limited to single-line entry pills. Two-line, even three-line foundational medicines now rest within their reach. That alone could tilt the market. Merchants would pay double for guaranteed purity, and sect disciples would claw each other apart for even a small supply.

"If we sell these under the Osborn name," Chris murmured, "we will not just stabilize the market—we will redefine it. Every pill that leaves our doors will announce our strength."

He reached for another sheet of parchment, quickly drafting new directives: expand the herb supply chain, purchase rarer roots in bulk, and advertise the Osborn seal on every batch that leaves their storerooms. With each sale, not only would coin flow back into their coffers, but their reputation would tighten like a noose around the James clan's ambitions.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

"Enter," Chris said.

The heavy oak swung open, and Sam Osborn stepped inside, his posture straight and respectful. His plain grey robe did little to dim the aura of quiet competence that clung to him. Bowing low, he greeted, "Elder Chris."

Chris inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Sam. You have managed the caravans and market ties well till now. I entrust you with something greater."

He extended the sealed letter across the desk. "Deliver this to the contact at the River Jade Hall. The terms inside are precise—do not deviate. This route will anchor our supply chain where James' eyes cannot reach."

Sam received the letter with both hands, tucking it securely into his sleeve. His eyes flickered with understanding. "It will be done, Elder."

Chris studied him for a long moment, then asked, "And the alchemists? How far is their output?"

A shadow of pride crossed Sam's face. "Young Master Robert's efforts have pushed them to new heights. The cauldrons burn from dawn to dusk.

Already, we have stockpiled two batches of Body-tempering pills and other basic pills with grade two-line. A third-line batch is underway. With steady herb supplies, production will only increase."

"Good," Chris said, his tone sharpening. Make sure every merchant is aware that the Osborn seal stands for quality that is simply unmatched in the province. Adjust the price accordingly—let everyone know we are not just selling ordinary medicine, but a legacy of strength.

Sam bowed once more. "I will see to it immediately."

Chris leaned back, gaze settling on the flickering lamp. For the first time that night, the tightness in his chest loosened. With Robert at the cauldron, Sai in the shadows, and Sam commanding the markets, the foundation of the Osborn counteroffensive was falling into place. Still, he knew this was only the beginning.

Sam departed with steady steps, the sealed letter close to his sleeve. His movements carried the quiet confidence of a man entrusted with the clan's lifeblood. By dawn the next day, he was gone along the river roads, and Chris Osbron turned his attention back to the ledgers.

Ten days passed.

The Osborn estate breathed easier than it had in months. The caravans reported no surprises from the west, prices in the local markets held steady, and merchants—cautious at first—were now speaking the Osborn name with new respect.

Achemist cauldrons had not cooled. His efforts yielded steady supplies of Body-Tempering Pills, alongside batches of higher-grade two-line medicines. Rumors of the two-line batch were already rippling through the Pavilion networks, stirring anticipation.

Sai's reports came each evening, delivered with the tuned stone. "No movement from the James estate," he repeated more than once. His silence between words carried a confidence that he would have noticed the faintest ripple if it had been otherwise.

Meanwhile, Robert himself was not idle. After countless nights of sweat-soaked meditation, his Shadow Step technique had grown steadier, his breathing rhythm finally locking into harmony with his spiritual circulation.

The silver glow of Respiratory Harmony shimmered from his dantian, stabilizing into power far beyond his peers. From there, he pressed into new territory, breaking into Spirit Root Level 1, mid-stage. The foundation was no longer shaky—it was firm.

But while Osborn halls enjoyed a brief calm, trouble brewed elsewhere.

Far to the east, within the beautiful streets of Celestial Brook City—a city more ancient and powerful than Magical City—another stage was being set. Unlike Magical City, Celestial Brook teemed with influence.

Its markets spanned entire districts, its towers were staffed by wandering sect envoys, and four great clans dominated its political web: the Walker, Brooks, Clark, and Brown.

Each clan guarded cultivators of terrifying strength, some said to have reached Soul Manifestation Level 5, their aura strong enough to smother entire courtyards with a glance.

It was into this city that Mathew James, leader of the James clan, now entered.

His carriage bore no crest, but his sharp eyes behind the curtain gave away his intentions. The Osborn's had held their ground longer than expected; Mathew knew this was no longer a matter of local rivalries. To uproot the Osborn foundation, he needed allies whose weight could crush even a rising clan without effort.

The carriage rolled to a halt before a sprawling manor draped in banners of gold and deep azure. Servants bowed low, announcing his arrival. This was the residence of the Walker clan, one of the most dominant families of Celestial Brook City. Their patriarch, Zilton Walker, was whispered to be a cultivator at Soul Manifestation Level 5, his strength unmatched within the city walls.

Mathew stepped down, adjusting his coat. The faint pressure of hidden auras in the Walker courtyard pressed against his senses, reminding him he was stepping onto a stage where one misstep meant annihilation.

Straightening his back, he whispered to himself, "For the James clan's rise… We will not remain bound to provincial struggles. If the Osborn's think themselves ready to stand against us, let them first face the storm I will bring from Celestial Brook."

And with that, Mathew James strode toward the Walker clan hall, a shadow of ambition burning in his eyes.