Strongest Family System

The sun was already beginning its slow descent when Elder Delvin crested the ridge overlooking the Magical City. From the skies, he could see how much had changed in such a short span of time. Once, the Osborn clan's estate had been modest, its walls plain and defenses thin, its presence in the city quiet and easily overlooked. But now.

There was no denying the changes.

Rising higher and more solid than the old ones, the new walls featured surfaces marked with defensive inscriptions that glinted gently in the dwindling light.

Watchtowers dotted the perimeter, each manned by sharp-eyed guards. Beyond the walls, expansions were visible—new courtyards, fresh training fields, and even a modest outer district where merchants and artisans had begun to settle.

Delvin's eyes narrowed slightly. The Osborns… are no longer shrinking into the shadows. Someone has given them the courage to grow.

As he descended toward the gates, the guards spotted him almost instantly. Their weapons glimmered with ready qi, but when recognition dawned on their faces, they hurriedly bowed.

"Elder Delvin of Grey Shadow Hall!" One of them said, lowering his head with practiced respect. "It is an honor. What brings you to the Osborn clan elder?"

Delvin's tone was calm and measured. "I must meet with your clan head. Take me to him."

"Yes, Elder!"

The guard gestured quickly, another running ahead to prepare. Delvin followed, his gaze quietly sweeping over the estate as he walked. The changes were not just structural—the disciples moving between buildings walked with new confidence. Their uniforms were tidy, their shoulders squared, and their qi stronger than he remembered.

They brought him not directly to the clan head but first to a newly constructed waiting area. It was lovely, with rows of blossoming trees, softly floating petals, polished stone benches, and a small pond with koi swimming in lazy circles. Spirit herbs, which were grown alongside the flowers to boost the qi of those who stayed here, gave off a subtle scent into the air.

Delvin lowered himself into one of the carved chairs, appreciating its simple elegance. It was not the extravagance of great clans like the Walkers, but it was not the poverty he once associated with the Osborns. They were moving upward.

A guard approached, bowing low. "Please wait here, Elder Delvin. I will fetch the clan head."

Delvin gave a single nod. "Go."

Across the compound, in the new training field, John Osborn stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The clang of weapons and the sharp cries of disciples filled the air. Sweat glistened on the foreheads of the young as they sparred, each strike fueled by desperation to grow.

Beside John stood Elder Zak Osborn, his trusted advisor and kinsman.

"We must push them harder," John was saying, his voice stern but steady. "Our disciples lack battle experience. If they cannot face blood and danger, all this training is nothing but form."

Zak nodded, stroking his beard. "Agreed. I have already arranged for more missions outside the city. Patrols against beasts, escorts through dangerous routes. If we want warriors, we cannot shelter them."

John's gaze swept over the disciples—each one the seed of the clan's future. A heaviness lingered in his chest. The world will not wait for us to catch up. If we do not seize strength now, we will be swallowed whole.

A guard approached at a near run, bowing quickly. "Clan head! Elder Zak! Forgive me for the interruption."

John's expression sharpened. "Speak."

"Elder Delvin from Grey Shadow Hall has arrived. He awaits you in the new hall."

Zak and John exchanged a look. Delvin did not make casual visits.

John gave a single nod. "See to the disciples, Zak. I will handle this."

He turned, his robes brushing the training ground dust, and followed the guard back toward the waiting area.

Delvin rose as John entered, bowing with formal respect.

"Clan Head John," Delvin greeted, his tone neutral.

"Elder Delvin." John inclined his head. "Your presence honors my clan. Come—let us not linger here. We will speak in the meeting room."

He gestured, and together they moved through the estate until they reached a newly expanded wing. The meeting room was modest compared to the magnificence of Celestial Brook's halls, but it carried warmth: polished wood, scrolls lining the walls, a brazier burning faintly with calming incense.

John motioned for Delvin to sit, then ordered a servant to bring tea.

Within moments, steaming cups of spirit tea were placed before them.

The servant bowed low and departed, closing the door behind her.

Only silence remained.

John studied Delvin's expression. The elder was rarely this direct. Finally, John spoke. "Tell me, Elder Delvin. What matters brings you here today?"

Delvin lifted his cup, inhaled the steam, then set it down untouched. His eyes met John's.

"I bring word from Celestial Brook City. The Four-Clan Competition approaches. This year, your clan has been… Invited."

The words hit the air like a dropped stone.

John froze, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he leaned back, though his hand tightened on the armrest. "Invited? The Osborn clan has never been part of this competition. Why now?"

Delvin's gaze was steady, but there was weight in it. "You know why, John. Billy Walker is dead. His blood stains the soil of your city. Though his death was earned, the Walker clan cannot admit such shame openly. They cannot strike you outright, so they use the competition as a means to undermine you. They want you under the light, where blades may find you without consequence."

John's jaw tightened. Rage flickered in his eyes, but he swallowed it. "So this is their game. Revenge dressed as honor."

Delvin inclined his head. "Exactly."

For a long while, silence filled the chamber, broken only by the faint crackle of the brazier. John's mind raced. The Walkers wanted blood—but hidden beneath their vengeance was an opportunity. If the Osborns backed down, they would be branded as weak and forever targeted. If they stood and proved themselves… perhaps respect could finally be won.

"Tell me the rules," John said at last, his voice low.

Delvin spoke slowly and carefully. "The competition is three months from now. Any disciple under the age of twenty-two may participate. The requirement is Spirit Root Realm, level five and below. You must prepare your disciples to face all four clans' powerful cultivators.

John's hand tightened around his cup until the porcelain cracked faintly. "Spirit Root Realm, level five…" He thought of Robert, of the boy's rapid growth. Of the mysterious power guiding him.

Perhaps fate itself delivers us this chance.

Finally, John exhaled. "So be it. If the Walkers think they can bury us on the competition stage, then let them try. We will meet them head-on."

Delvin studied him, a faint trace of admiration flickering in his eyes. "That is the spirit you will need. If you require assistance, Grey Shadow Hall will not interfere—but we will ensure the rules are not broken too blatantly."

John gave a short nod. "Your neutrality is already helping enough."

They spoke a little longer—small details, reminders of the dangers ahead—before Delvin finally rose.

"Prepare well, John Osborn. The storm gathers quickly. I pray your clan survives it."

John stood with him. "We will. This I promise."

Delvin gave a last bow and departed, his figure soon vanishing beyond the gates.

The estate grew quiet again, but John remained in the meeting room long after. His thoughts churned. The Walkers want us destroyed. But if we show weakness, we will be swallowed by every clan circling us. This competition is not a trap—it is a battlefield. One we must win.

At last, he called for a guard.

"Summon Robert to my study."

The guard bowed and ran off.

Robert Osborn was in the training hall, his sword flashing under the fading light. Sweat poured down his brow, his chest heaving as he moved through each strike with relentless focus. Every motion was sharp, every swing brimming with unyielding intent.

All of a sudden, a guard appeared at the edge of the field, giving a low bow.

"Young master Robert! The clan head requests your presence in his study."

Robert froze mid-swing, the blade humming faintly in the air. He lowered it slowly, eyes narrowing. "My father?"

The guard nodded.

Robert wiped his brow, sheathing the sword across his back. His mind raced. Why now? What has changed?

Without saying a word, he trailed behind the guard as they made their way to the study, each step weighed down by a thick, unspoken tension.

The torches along the corridor flickered, casting long shadows. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, a habit he had developed whenever unease gnawed at him.

And though he did not yet know the words waiting in his father's mouth, Robert felt it in his bones. Whatever this summons was, it would change the course of the Osborn clan forever.

The study door loomed before him, closed and silent. He raised his hand to knock.