Strongest Family System

The James estate's gates creaked open, and a flood of armored figures came out onto the road.

Leading the charge, the warriors paraded in tight formation, swords gleaming at their sides, shields strapped to their backs. Their armor banged with each synchronized step, a sound that merged with the steady thud of boots striking the stone. With their eyes bright and full of resolve, they moved forward as one, their energy surging ahead like a powerful wave.

The elders of the clan followed closely behind, keeping a steady pace.

While they did not wear iron, the weight of their presence was more formidable than steel. The wind rustled through, causing their dark silk robes to flutter, and beneath that refined fabric, talismans inscribed with glowing runes sparkled in the light. The jade slips were gently tucked away into their sleeves, while scrolls bound with golden thread remained hidden, completely out of view.

Each elder walked with a tranquil confidence, a quiet strength that served as a reminder to everyone present that they were the true foundation of the James clan.

At the center of the queue, Mathew James emerged, his gaze unwavering and directed forward. He stood as a beacon, bringing together warriors and elders with a steadfast resolve. On either side of him, flags displaying the James crest danced in the wind, the black threads glinting like shadows cast by flickering flames.

From the rooftops, city citizens watched in silence. Some clutched their children close, while others whispered prayers. None dared call out. They simply watched as the stream of warriors and elders pushed forward—an army in all but name.

And at the very rear, Billy Walker drifted along with quiet ease, a faint, unsettling smile playing at his lips. Where the warriors' steps roared and the elders' aura weighed heavily, his silence was sharper still, a blade hidden in plain sight.

The James clan did not sneak toward war—they announced it with every footfall. With each step they took, the road seemed to quiver, guiding them toward the Osborn estate, which was clearly their final destination.

The march stretched for miles, the steady beat of boots and the clatter of armor resonating against the earth. Dust floated in thin layers, sticking to the armor and resting on the flags that fluttered. With every step, the air felt denser. Even the wind understood the significance of what was coming next.

When the road finally curved east, the Osborn estate came into view in the distance—a fortress of high walls and looming gates, its rooftops sharp against the pale morning sky.

The warriors at the front slowed down just enough to appreciate the incredible view that lay ahead.

A few held their hilts more tightly, while others inhaled slowly, their teeth clenched tight.

The elders behind them remained composed, their eyes narrowing as they studied the defenses ahead, tracing every battlement and tower.

Mathew James lifted his hand, and just like that, the whole parade came to a standstill.

The sudden silence was unsettling; even the birds that had followed the march fell quiet. He stood tall, robes swinging in the breeze, his gaze locked on the estate's distant walls.

"So," he said softly, though the words carried easily to those nearest him, "the Osborns still think stone will protect them."

The warriors shifted, restless energy crackling through their ranks.

At the rear, Billy Walker's faint smile deepened. He tilted his head, studying the estate like a predator studying its prey. The Osborns' walls loomed large, but to him, they looked more like a cage than a fortress.

The James clan began moving again, slower now, every step deliberate. With each pace, the distance closed, and the Osborn estate grew, the air thickening with the inevitability of violence.

By the time they reached the final rise in the road, the walls of the Osborn stronghold filled their vision, dark and unyielding. Warriors adjusted their shields. The elders touched their talismans and swords. And somewhere beyond those walls, the Osborn clan waited.

The storm was seconds from breaking.

From the tallest watchtower of the Osborn estate, a horn echoed through the morning mist.

Its low, brassy note carried across the courtyards, snapping every man and woman in the compound to attention.

Robert was already on the wall, his eyes fixed on the road curling through the fields. At first, it was only a blur of motion, a dark wave against the pale ground. But as the dust thinned, the shapes sharpened: rows of armored warriors, swords and spears glinting in the light, elders moving with calm precision behind them. The James clan had come.

"They are here," Robert said quietly. His knuckles whitened against the stone.

John Osborn stepped forward beside him, his wide shoulders casting a long shadow. His gaze was steady, but the surrounding air seemed to harden, the weight of command radiating outward. Behind them, Elder Chris and a dozen formation masters opened scrolls, their hands already sketching glowing runes into the air. The lines of light stretched across the battlements, weaving into a lattice that clung to the stone like a second skin.

Below, in the courtyards, the Osborn warriors stood in tight formation, armor strapped and weapons ready. Some adjusted shields, others checked the runes etched into their blades. None spoke. The silence was sharper than any battle shout.

"Remember," John said, his voice calm but firm, carrying to those nearest. "We will not break here. We stay strong, and then we steer them in the direction we desire."

Robert's eyes never left the approaching enemy. The sight of the James flag cresting the final rise made his chest tighten, but he forced himself to breathe steadily. This was no longer preparation—it was the edge of the storm.

The James clan had arrived at their gates.

The Osborns stood ready.

The James clan halted just beyond bowshot, their line stretching across the fields. Flags flapped in the wind, black and crimson against the pale sky. Standing at the front, Mathew James hoisted his spear and thrust it into the ground, the muted thud breaking the silence that lay between the two clans.

From the Osborn walls, Robert could sense the heavy gaze of a hundred eyes fixed on them—hungry, determined, and itching for blood.

His grip tightened around the railing as the wind pulled at his cover.

"They want us to break first," Elder Chris muttered, standing close by. "See how they hold their formation, steady and silent? They are waiting for a signal to crush us."

John Osborn did not answer. His gaze moved slowly across the enemy host, lingering on the elders gathered behind the first ranks. Then his voice rose, low but clear, so that only his son and Chris could hear.

"Let them wait. The longer they stand there, the more restless their young ones become. That restlessness will drive them forward when we want it."

Robert nodded faintly, his chest heavy with the weight of what was to come. Down below, Osborn warriors shifted their footing, checking straps, adjusting blades, each one ready to leap into battle at a word. But John gave no order to strike, only lifted his hand for silence.

The atmosphere between the two clans grew heavy, pulled tight like a bowstring. Dust swirled along the road, weaving into the silence.

Even the birds had fallen silent, as though the land itself held its breath.

Across the field, Mathew James raised his arm. The Osborn walls seemed to pulse beneath Robert's feet. He knew—this was the moment everything would break.

But not here. Not yet.

The first clang of steel shattered the stillness. James' warriors surged forward in a wall of armor and flashing blades, their battle shouts splitting the air. Dust rose beneath their charge, and for a heartbeat, it seemed the Osborn estate would drown under the tide.

But on the walls, John Osborn's voice cut sharp and calm.

"Fall back."

The words rippled through the defenders like lightning. Gates swung open, Osborn warriors spilling out in controlled ranks. Not rushing—not panicked. Every step was measured, shields angled, blades drawn, retreating in a line that bent but did not break.

From above, Robert signaled the formation masters. Immediately, talismans flared along the roadside, small bursts of light snapping at the heels of James's forefront. The attackers slowed, startled by traps that erupted in smoke and sparks, just long enough for the Osborn line to step further back.

"Good," Robert murmured, watching the distance widen. "Make them believe we are yielding."

Across the field, Mathew James laughed, his voice carrying over the clash. "Cowards! Already running?" He raised his spear high, rallying his warriors to charge forward with fresh determination.

Behind him, Elder Billy's chuckle followed like a shadow.

Step by step, the Osborn clan withdrew, never turning their backs, always resisting just enough to keep the James clan pressing harder. A scuffle here, a clash of steel there—then another retreat, timed and precise.

By the time the sun tilted west, the estate walls stood abandoned behind them, growing smaller with each passing moment. The dark outline of the eastern forest loomed ahead, its tall pines standing like quiet guardians.

John rode at the rear, his eyes never leaving the advancing James clan.

"They think us cornered," he said quietly. "Good. Let them believe it."

Robert walked beside him, his gaze fixed on the treeline. He could already feel the forest breathing, the shadows deepening, the terrain bending to their side. Here, numbers would falter. Formations would fracture. And in the heart of the trees, his hidden blade—the Shadow Reaper—waited unseen.

The Osborn clan stepped across the boundary where grass gave way to root and soil. Behind them, the James warriors followed, roaring in triumph, blind to the ground they had chosen.

The trap was set.

And the forest swallowed them whole.