Strongest Family System

The Grey Shadow Hall loomed over him with a solemn presence, its dark stone walls beautifully carved with ancient sigils that shimmered softly in the morning light. As Robert got closer, the enormous doors creaked open quietly, as if the hall had sensed his arrival. He straightened his robe, took a moment to collect his thoughts, and stepped inside.

Even with the torches burning brightly, shadows lingered in the corners, and the air was cool and thick with incense. Robert moved with purposeful composure until he arrived in the room where Elder Devlin was seated. After knocking on the door, Elder Devlin replied, "Come in." The elder's sharp gaze cut through the dimness, weighing Robert as though measuring his resolve.

Robert bowed low. "Elder Devlin."

The elder gave a single nod, his expression unreadable. "You have come quickly. Good."

Robert straightened, eyes flickering toward the side of the chair. "He asks about Lady Sarah."

"She has already left the city," Devlin replied, his tone even.

Robert inclined his head slightly, betraying no disappointment. "Then what matter requires my presence?"

For a moment, the elder said nothing. Then his features hardened, his voice dropping low, carrying weight like a drawn blade. "Word has reached the Walker clan."

The words hung in the chamber. Robert's expression did not shift, though inwardly his pulse steadied, bracing itself. So it begins.

Elder Devlin leaned forward. "They know of Billy Walker's death. Their fury is great, but their restraint greater. Already, watchers from their clan have been sighted beyond the city's borders. They do not act openly, not yet.

Instead, they wait like hunters, hoping prey will step into their jaws."

Robert's gaze sharpened. "And their prey are those who leave the city."

"Exactly." Devlin's eyes glinted. "Any Osborn who crosses the boundary will not return alive. That is their unspoken promise."

Silence pressed down on the hall. Robert clasped his hands behind his back, shoulders squared. There was no fear in his expression, but the weight of the threat wrapped itself tightly around him. The Walkers would not fight in the open—they would gnaw from the edges, bleed them dry without striking at the heart.

He exhaled slowly. "They will use underhanded methods, then. Whispers before war."

Devlin's lips curved into a humorless line. "You see clearly. That is why I summoned you. Tell your people: remain within the walls. Do not give the Walkers a chance to act."

Robert bowed his head in acknowledgment. Then he lifted his eyes once more, steady. "Elder, if we are to endure this game, we cannot only guard. Information is a weapon, too. I ask that you inform me of any movements beyond the city that your hall uncovers. Even the smallest of details could change the outcome."

For the first time, a flicker of approval softened Devlin's stern features.

"This matter is small compared to the storms I have seen, but you are not wrong. I will have reports sent to you. If there is more you require, you need only ask."

Robert inclined his head deeply. "Your aid strengthens us more than weapons could."

They spoke further, quietly, about the balance of clans, about merchants shifting their allegiances, and about how silence could be as dangerous as noise. Devlin's words were never many, but each was weighed and deliberate, guiding Robert like stones across a dark river.

Finally, the meeting drew to a close. "Go," Devlin said. "Return to your people. Hold them steady. The city is a shield for now, but do not mistake it for safety."

Robert bowed one final time before taking his leave.

Outside, the air felt heavier than when he had entered. The streets of the Magical City bustled as always—merchants calling wares, disciples hurrying with scrolls and swords, the distant clang of forges—but to Robert, every shadow seemed deeper, every glance sharper. He did not doubt that Walker's eyes were among the crowd already, unseen and waiting.

He drew a small communication stone from his sleeve. Pressing his spirit energy into it, he spoke, his voice steady but clipped. "Sai."

The stone pulsed faintly, then Sai's voice answered, calm and precise. "I hear you, young master Robert."

Robert strolled along the street, his hand closing tight around the stone. "Keep a close watch on our disciples. No one leaves the Magical City without the Clan Head's direct permission. Not a single step beyond the gates. And if you see anyone moving with suspicious intent—anything at all—you inform me immediately."

A pause, then Sai's answer came, firm as steel. "Understood. I will see to it. They will not slip past me."

"Good." Robert let his breath ease, though the tension in his chest did not fade. "This is only the beginning, Sai. We must not falter, not even once."

The stone dimmed in his palm as the link broke. Robert slipped it back into his ring and lifted his gaze to the sky above the city. In the sky, clouds meandered slowly, their silhouettes tranquil, naive, and totally unaware of the world below.

But Robert felt the storm gathering in the silence. Somewhere beyond those walls, the Walkers were waiting. Watching.

The city had devolved into a cage, a precarious haven where one mistake could turn tranquility into violence. And Robert knew—sooner or later—someone would test its strength.

The busy city shimmered in a warm, glistening light as the afternoon sun sparkled down from the sky.

Merchants called out to passersby, while groups of cultivators strolled by, swords sheathed at their sides. Meanwhile, Robert quietly slipped into a narrow alley, seeking refuge from the light that illuminated the streets.

He saw a place where no one could see him after reaching. He exhaled slowly and summoned the system's inventory. From the void, a black robe materialized in his hands, and he covered himself with it.

He draped it over his shoulders, pulling the hood low until even the faintest gleam of sunlight could not catch his face. Cloaked and silent, he looked like just another shadow among many.

He went out of the side gate, disappearing into the crowd of travelers. His steps were unhurried, yet his mind was sharp, already tracing the path of his plan.

Walker spies are patient hunters. But hunters can also bleed.

Robert's lips pressed into a thin line as he walked. The plan was simple: track the one watching them, and let the Shadow Reaper strike.

It took him half an hour to reach the massive gates of the Magical City.

The entrance was as busy as always, merchants calling out prices, guards checking tokens, and cultivators flowing in and out like a restless tide.

He did not linger at the gate. Instead, he slipped toward the cluster of inns that crowded the roadside. Rooms there were rented by merchants, wandering disciples, or those preparing for a night journey. Perfect cover.

Robert chose one at random, tossing a few silver coins onto the counter before retreating upstairs. The room was bare but clean, with a narrow bed and a single window facing the city road. He closed the shutters and sat cross-legged, his robe pooling around him like a shadowed sea.

Patience, he reminded himself, though his blood burned to move. Night will reveal him.

Hours dragged. The noise of the city faded as the lanterns dimmed one by one. By the time, the streets outside grew quiet.

Robert rose. His eyes sharpened with intent as he stepped into the darkness beyond the inn.

The moment he reached the city outskirts, he let his spirit energy stretch outward, spreading like an invisible net. His soul sense brushed over rocks, trees, passing cultivators, until…

There. A flicker. A presence lingering too still, too deliberate.

Robert's eyes narrowed.

He lifted a hand, summoning the Shadow Reaper. Darkness swirled before him, forming into a towering figure clad in armor of shifting mist, its sickle glimmering faintly with killing intent. The air chilled, as though death itself had taken root nearby.

"Find him," Robert whispered.

The Reaper vanished into the night, and Robert followed, silent as a ghost.

It did not take long. The spy stood on a ridge just beyond the road, half-hidden among the trees. From afar, he looked like any other traveler. But the badge gleaming faintly at his chest told another story: a crimson sigil of the Walker clan.

Robert's heart clenched, then steadied. Spirit Root level nine. His own strength would not be enough to bring this man down quietly. But that was why the Reaper existed.

The Walker spy scanned the city gate with a predator's patience, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of a blade. Waiting. Watching.

Robert waited, letting the night deepen. Then, when no other souls lingered nearby, he gave the silent command.

The darkness stirred.

From behind the trees, the Shadow Reaper emerged, silent as smoke. Its sickle flashed once, a curve of black light.

The spy sensed danger a breath too late. His head whipped around, eyes wide with shock—

Then the blade cut through him.

No cry escaped. Only the thud of his body against the ground broke the night's stillness.

Robert stepped forward, his face unreadable as the last shreds of soul energy bled from the corpse.

A faint shiver passed through Robert as the absorbed energy seeped into him, sharp and invigorating. It was not powerful enough to boast of—but it was proof. The Walkers bled like any other.

He looked down at the corpse. "One less set of eyes watching us." His voice was low, meant only for him.

No trace could be left. With a flick of his sleeve, the Reaper dragged the body deeper into the shadows of the forest, burying it within darkness that would not loosen its grip.

Robert turned away, pulling his hood down once more. The city's glow beckoned in the distance, and beyond it, the Osborn compound.

His steps were steady, but his thoughts churned. If they sent one spy, more will come. Stronger. Smarter. This was only a warning strike.

Yet there was satisfaction, too—a message sent back in silence. The Osborns would not cower.

As the first hints of dawn touched the horizon, Robert crossed back through the gates unnoticed. By the time the city woke, he had returned to the compound. Cloaked in shadows, he carried with him the weight of what had been done—one life cut short, one storm delayed, but never stopped.

The Walkers would learn soon enough.

The Osborns were no longer prey.