Strongest Family System

It was now too quiet on the battlefield. Only the stench of blood persisted, blending with the ground's moisture. Broken weapons gleamed in the pale shafts of light piercing the canopy, bodies were strewn about, and the ground itself appeared scarred by the events that had transpired.

The air no longer rang with the clash of steel or the roar of battle but with something heavier—silence weighted by loss.

Robert stood at the center of it all, his dual swords still sheathed at his sides, his shoulders trembling not from exhaustion but from the tide of emotions crashing against him.

He should have felt triumph. The James clan was gone—destroyed. Billy Walker's proud shadow had been struck down. By any measure, this was a victory. However, he noticed the cost they had to pay as he peered across the destroyed field:Familiar faces lost forever in the midst of Osborn and James's battle

His father's voice finally broke the silence.

"Enough."

John Osborn straightened his back, still pale from his earlier wound, though his aura burned steady again. He lifted his sword high and gestured toward the edge of the forest.

"we have done what we must. The rest is now for the living. Begin clearing the field—see if anything of value remains. Do not let our fallen warrior be among our enemies."

Clansmen started, tired bodies pushing into motion. Some limped, others leaned on comrades, but they obeyed. For them, John's voice was the command of the clan—so long as he stood, so too would the Osborns.

Robert turned when he sensed another presence. Elder Delvin hovered nearby, still as a shadow against the sky. His face was unreadable as the wind made his robes move slightly. For a moment, Robert thought he might finally ask what weighed on everyone's hearts—the identity of the black-cloaked man who had ended the battle.

But Delvin's eyes merely swept the field, then settled briefly on Robert before returning to John.

"This is not the time for me to interfere further," Delvin said quietly, his tone neither warm nor cold. "What is done here… Is yours to carry. I came to see if balance was needed, but it seems the scales have already tipped."

John inclined his head in gratitude. "Even so, Elder, your presence steadied the chaos. You have our thanks."

But Delvin raised his hand. "There is no need. I did not lift a blade in your defense. Thanks would be wasted. Instead, hear this warning: the Walker clan will not descend into open war. They will never stain their honor so directly. But watch out—they might send warriors, assassins, shadows, and schemes that you will not notice until it is too late. Walk carefully, Patriarch Osborn. The eyes of stronger clans are now upon you."

The words fell heavy, not like a threat but like a truth carved into stone. John exchanged a glance with Robert, and both nodded.

"Should you ever require," Delvin added, his voice dipping like a whisper through fog, "you may come to the Grey Shadow Hall.

Then he turned, and with a ripple of grey mist, Elder Delvin vanished from sight, leaving behind only the lingering weight of his warning.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The forest seemed emptier without him.

John breathed slowly, his voice soft and low. "Continue. Clear the field."

Robert bent to the work. He and a handful of younger disciples carried their dead comrades to one side, laying them out with as much dignity as they could muster. Blood stained their hands, their clothes, and even their souls.

Robert did not let himself cry, not here. Not yet.

Meanwhile, his system was pulsing quietly, a faint rhythm in the background.

Quietly, while others scavenged valuables from fallen James' bodies, Robert willed his cultivation art into motion. Streams of faint light, invisible to all but him, slipped from the corpses into his core. Soul fragments, essence, and power left behind in death—all drawn into him. It was a dark act in the midst of mourning, yet necessary. His clan needed strength. And he was determined to carry it, no matter what shadow it cast over him.

Hours passed. Sweat mixed with blood, the work is endless. When at last the battlefield was stripped of what could be salvaged—blades, armor, talismans, and coins—they burned the remainder. Smoke curled upward, black against the evening sky, carrying the scent of both clans into the heavens.

John gathered three elders and a dozen disciples. "With me. The James estate must not stand. If even embers remain, they will smolder into a flame of revenge. We will uproot them fully."

Robert stayed behind to direct the clearing and then followed the warrior of survivors' backs toward the Osborn clan. His footsteps were heavy, but now and then, he glanced up at the sky, remembering the last moment he had seen the figure in the black robe disappear, and he could sense the presence in the system.

When the Osborn warriors reached their gates, the clan leader was already waiting. The Osborn compound was alive with voices, both fearful and eager, children clinging to their mothers while elders stood grim-faced in anticipation.

When the gates opened and their fighters marched through, battered but alive, a cheer broke across the courtyard. The noise was raw, half relief and half grief, but it was a sound of life.

John's expression softened for the first time that day. He raised his hand and silenced the crowd.

"You have done well in battle," he remarked, his voice resonating among the gathered clan members. "You have given your tears, sweat, and blood for the honour of the Osborn name."

Tonight, we stand not in fear but in victory. Rest now—those injured, see the healers. The rest of you, prepare. When night falls, we will celebrate, not just for triumph over the James clan, but for the memory of those who gave their lives so we might endure."

A roar of assent thundered back at him. "Yes, Clan Leader!"

Robert stood slightly behind him, listening to the voices, letting them fill him. He saw faces streaked with joy and sorrow alike. He saw widows clutching children and brothers carrying the weight of lost siblings. He saw pride, but also pain.

And beneath it all, a thread of fear ran silent: the fear of what came next.

As night fell, lights lit the Osborn compound in gold and red. The great hall was alive with food, drink, and song. Warriors leaned together, retelling fragments of the battle in booming voices, raising cups to the dead and to the living alike. For a time, the grief softened, dulled by the intoxication of survival. Children ran through the halls with wooden swords, mimicking their elders, while healers moved quietly among the wounded, weaving shields and mending bones.

Robert sat at one end of the hall, his cup untouched. Surrounded by the soft laughter of Sarah and Eissa, there was a bittersweet quality to their smiles, hinting at the fresh grief they were both feeling.

Elder Alex leaned heavily on his staff, his brow furrowed, though his eyes softened when he caught Robert's gaze. Taylen, bandages tight around his arm, grinned weakly at a story told by Sai. Life persisted, although it limped.

From the head of the hall, John's voice rose once more. "Tonight we honor the fallen. Tomorrow, we will rebuild. The James clan is no more. You will not find their name in the city's records anymore. But the Osborns—" His fist smashed the table, banging cups and plates. "—the Osborns endure!"

The cheer was deafening.

Yet in Robert's heart, silence remained. He could not stop remembering the way Elder Delvin had looked at him, as though weighing something unseen. And he could not stop thinking of Billy Walker's final words: The Walker clan will pursue you across continents.

The celebration swirled around him, laughter and music filling the hall, but Robert's hand stayed clenched on his cup. His system pulsed again, reminding him of the vast reward now resting within his grasp. Power had come, yes. Victory had come. But so too had a shadow that no song could drown out.

At the other end of the table, Sarah raised her drink, though her hand trembled. Her brother's seat beside her was empty, the gap louder than any shout. When others toasted, she smiled faintly, but when her gaze dropped, Robert saw the tears glistening. She laughed when Eissa leaned against her shoulder, a child's comfort to a wound that no healer could mend.

Eissa herself had refused to eat. Her plate sat untouched, her small hands clutching a strip of cloth she had torn from her cousin's robe before the pyres. She whispered to it now and then, as if her cousin might somehow hear her.

John, meanwhile, laughed and drank with the elders, his face glowing with the mask of triumph. But Robert, who had grown up watching his father, could see the tension in his eyes. Every smile was practiced. Every laugh is deliberate. Beneath it, the worry sat like stone.

The Osborns had won. Yet somewhere deep in his bones, Robert knew—they had also been marked.

Tonight, they celebrated. Tomorrow, the reckoning would begin.