Strongest Family System

The great hall of the Walker clan was heavy with incense smoke and suppressed anger. Torches flared unevenly, their flames bending in the draft that slipped through the carved stone pillars. The long table at the center was lined with elders, each in their dark robes, each with a face carved with pride, suspicion, or rage. The air itself seemed to hum with unspoken violence.

Zilton Walker, clan head, sat at the far end. His broad frame leaned forward on the armrests of his chair, his eyes glinting like the edge of a blade barely sheathed. He had listened as Tom and Rain relayed the report: another Walker spy erased without a trace near the Magical City. A Spirit Root level nine, gone as if plucked from the world.

When they finished, the hall erupted.

"It is arrogance beyond bearing!" The teacups rattled as Elder Garan slammed his palm down on the table. "The Osborns hide like rats beneath the city's walls, yet their claws reach out to wound us. We should march—"

"And invite Grey Shadow Hall's censure?" Elder Rael cut in sharply, his wiry stance trembling with contained irritation. "Do you wish for our name to burn before the world for striking beneath sanctuary law? Think before you roar, Garan."

Murmurs spread across the elders. Some voices pushed for immediate reprisal, others for patience. The sound rose like a storm in a cavern—loud, echoing, and directionless.

Zilton raised one hand. Instantly, silence dropped.

His voice carried through the chamber, low but cutting. "We are Walkers. We do not shout like children at market stalls. We decide, and we act."

The elders straightened, the tension coiling tighter.

Zilton let the silence stretch before continuing. "The Osborns cannot be ignored. Billy is dead, and now our watcher has vanished. But we cannot strike the city directly. Grey Shadow Hall would intervene, and our enemies would laugh while we bled." His gaze swept across the room, pinning each elder in place. "So we will not strike the city. We will strike where law allows us—before the eyes of all."

A murmur rose again, this time edged with anticipation.

Elder Rain leaned forward. "You mean… The Four-Clan Competition?"

Zilton's lips curled faintly. "Every year, the clans of Celestial Brook gather to test their disciples. To measure strength. To remind the city that commands respect. This year, the Osborns will be made to join. And on that stage, before every witness, their blood will fall."

A ripple passed through the hall—part approval, part unease.

Elder Mara, her voice sharp, spoke up. "Clan Head, the Osborns are not of Celestial Brook. They are outsiders. Why would the other three clans agree to let them participate?"

Zilton's gaze turned on her, hard as iron. "They will agree. Because I will make them agree. Trade, pressure, or persuasion—each clan has its weakness. If they are hesitant, I will remind them that division invites vultures, while unity is strength. They would not dare turn me away.

His certainty was absolute, and it rolled through the chamber like thunder.

One by one, the elders nodded, their earlier doubts swallowed by the force of Zilton's resolve.

Tom's fist clenched. "Then it is decided. In the arena, there will be no Grey Shadow law to shield them."

"Good." Zilton's voice deepened, final and cold. "Until then, no elder, no disciple, no servant of the Walker clan will move near the Magical City. We will not give our enemy another person to erase until we know whose hand wields the knife. Watch and listen, but do not act. When the stage is ready, we will kill not in silence but in daylight—so none can deny the strength of our vengeance."

The torches hissed as though answering his decree.

The meeting broke up one by one, the elders rising from their seats with bows of deference before leaving to resume their duties. Only Zilton remained seated, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the braziers. His jaw was hard, but deep in his chest, a question ground: who was the person who dared cut at them from the dark?

His hand tightened against the armrest. Whoever it was, he vowed, their mask would be torn away.

In the meantime, morning light reflected across stone paths and tiled roofs inside the Osborn compound. A faint scent of tea and blossoming herbs from the courtyard garden permeated the air. With the jade bottles already delivered to his mother and Elder Morgan, Robert walked with a calm feeling of purpose. Now, there was one more door he needed to face.

The door to his father's study.

He stood for a moment, steadying himself. Then he knocked.

From within came the familiar voice—deep, measured. "Enter."

Robert pushed the door open. Inside, John Osborn sat at a low desk of dark oak, scrolls stacked neatly to one side. The faint steam of spirit tea curled upward from two cups. His father's posture was straight, his gaze calm, yet Robert knew well the weight that lingered behind those eyes.

"Father." Robert bowed.

John nodded once, gesturing for him to sit. "Come. Share tea with me."

Robert sat opposite, the cushion soft beneath him. They lifted cups together, the faint bitterness of the spirit leaving a grounding silence between them.

After a long pause, John set his cup down. His voice was quiet, but it carried a weight Robert had not expected.

"Robert… There is something I must ask. It has lingered in my mind since the battle with the James clan." His gaze sharpened. "Who was the mysterious man? The one who saved us in the forest. Why did he intervene? And why did he look to you?"

The words struck like iron against Robert's chest. He had known this question would come. He had prepared, but even so, his pulse quickened.

He bowed his head slightly, hiding the flicker in his eyes. The system must remain secret, even from his family.

When he lifted his gaze, it was steady; his expression measured. "Father… I told you before about the elder who aided me when I began to cultivate. When my body was broken, he helped me recover. He saw potential in me and took me as his disciple in secret."

John's brows furrowed. "This elder… You mean he has been guiding you all along?"

Robert nodded. "Yes. But his guidance is not like others. He said cultivation is a long road one must walk alone, but he has sent a person to protect me. He would only interfere when my life or the clan's life balanced on the edge of death. That day in the forest… He kept his word. Without him, the Osborns would have perished."

John leaned back slowly, absorbing the explanation. "And you know nothing of his name, his origin, his clan?"

Robert shook his head. "I do not. He kept it a secret. Perhaps he may tell as I get more powerful. Until then, he only tells me to cultivate with my own hands. To fight my own battles. He is only a shadow on the path, not the path itself."

Silence lingered. The faint crackle of incense filled the room.

Then John's stern expression softened. A rare smile tugged at his lips. "Then at least you have a protector. A hand that will not let you fall while you are still young."

Robert's voice grew firm. "Father, I told him already. My path remains with the Osborns. Whatever guidance he offers, it will not turn me from our clan. I will not leave."

John studied him for a long moment, then laughed suddenly, a deep and hearty sound that carried warmth through the room. "That elder speaks wisely, then. Strength given is nothing compared to strength earned. And you, Robert, are earning yours."

Robert allowed himself a small smile, but within, unease lingered. He hated lying to his father, yet the truth of the system was a burden no one else could share.

John raised his cup once more, his eyes gleaming with both pride and worry. "Remember this, son. The path of cultivation can be pretty brutal. Allies may walk beside you, but in the end, you must face the storms yourself."

Robert nodded, his hand tightening around his cup. He could feel it already—the storms gathering beyond the horizon. The Walkers are sharpening their knives. The shadows were stirring with unseen hands.

And though he smiled at his father, inside his chest, his heart whispered a vow: No storm will take the Osborns while I still stand.

The room was not filled with laughter nor with comfort but with silence—two men bound by blood, staring into the unknown future. One carried trust. The other carried secrets.

Meanwhile, in the Walker clan, the room smelt faintly of ink and cedar, its shelves stacked with scrolls of trade, maps, and war records. Sitting at the broad desk, Zilton dipped his brush in dark ink, the strokes sharp and deliberate as he penned letters to the three clans and to Grey Shadow Hall.

When the final seal dried, he called for his most trusted guard. Handing over the letters, he spoke softly, yet with iron beneath.

"Deliver these. No delays."

The guard bowed deeply and vanished.

Zilton leaned back, eyes glinting in the lamplight. "Osborns… Your stage is set."