Strongest Family System

The Carr clan's followers closed in, surrounding Robert like wolves on solitary prey. The sharp steel of their weapons sparkled in the morning light, reflecting their boldness and arrogance.

Robert steadied himself by taking a slow breath. He found himself in a tough spot, unable to tap into all his strength at that moment. If he showed too much, the carefully crafted facade he had built would come crashing down. Yet, he also knew he could not let himself be overwhelmed.

Balance was the answer: precise, well-timed skill demonstrations that were sufficiently restrained to conceal his actual cultivation.

His sword shifted in his grip, a subtle motion that settled his stance. The surrounding air seemed to grow tight as he whispered inwardly: Twin Dragon Sword Technique—First Form.

Meanwhile, two disciples lunged, one aiming low at his legs and the other slashing high toward his chest. With a fluid turn, Robert's blade cut a jagged crescent that deflected both blows. The collision sounded like a gong, and he twisted his wrist to change their momentum in the same fluid motion. Both Carr disciples staggered back, their eyes wide with surprise at the simple rerouting, as steel screeched and sparks flew.

Before they could recover, Robert stepped forward, his sword flicking like a serpent's tongue. The flat of his sword struck one man across the wrist, disarming him with a sharp clang. His other hand shot out, pressing against the disciple's chest with pinpoint precision. A ripple of controlled qi pulsed outward—not overwhelming, not explosive, but precise enough to shatter the delicate web of his cultivation. The disciple collapsed, his qi sea broken, gasping as though the very breath of life had been stolen.

The crowd's collective inhale hissed like a storm wind through the square.

Robert pivoted toward the second man. His opponent, still clutching his blade, swung desperately in a wide arc. Robert sidestepped with minimal effort, his cloak brushing against the steel as it passed, then rapped his knuckles against the man's forearm. Pain jolted through the disciple's body, his grip loosening, and Robert's follow-up strike pressed against the man's dantian with surgical precision. Another surge of controlled force spread inward, dismantling the fragile roots of cultivation.

The man crumpled, his scream sharp and hollow.

Two fell. Two were destroyed. Neither dead—but to cultivators, what Robert had done was worse than death.

"Monster!" Someone whispered from the edges of the market.

Ewan Carr's face darkened, his fury boiling over as his supporters hesitated. He thrust a finger toward Robert. "All of you—finish him!"

The remaining disciples surged forward, blades flashing in chaotic arcs.

Robert let out a breath and lowered himself into the Twin Dragon Sword Technique rhythm. His blade transformed into something almost alive, gracefully weaving through each attack. Every strike was perfectly timed—swift cuts that grazed the skin but never went deep enough to be fatal, and parries that expertly redirected incoming blows. With a precise touch to the dantian and a gentle surge of qi, each counterattack led to the inevitable shattering of another cultivation.

One disciple flew backward with a broken arm. Another dropped to his knees, his weapon clattering uselessly to the ground. A third screamed as his spiritual veins collapsed inward, leaving him an empty shell of what he once was.

The market square became a storm of chaos. Stalls toppled, goods scattered, and onlookers scrambled for distance, unwilling to be too close when history unfolded. Because make no mistake—this was history. No one, not even the city guard, dared to so brazenly cripple members of the Carr clan.

And Robert was doing it alone.

Within moments, half a dozen disciples lay sprawled across the stones, groaning, clutching their shattered cultivation. Robert stood among them, his cloak still settling back into place, his breathing steady and calm. Not a drop of blood marred his blade.

Only one opponent remained.

Ewan Carr.

He stared at Robert with disbelief, his earlier arrogance crumbling into something uglier—fear masked by rage. "You… you dare touch the Carr clan? Do you even know who I am?"

Robert's gaze locked onto him, sharp and unyielding. "A bully propped up by others' power."

Ewan roared and charged, wildly swinging his blade. His strength was unfocused and raw, like a storm without a plan. Robert's blade flashed in deliberate arcs as he faced him. Every time steel struck steel, sparks flew into the air, echoing Ewan's annoyance.

Robert's sword danced—sliding, deflecting, redirecting. Every motion echoed the flow of twin dragons circling in harmony, a display of mastery hidden beneath the guise of restraint.

Robert finally moved inside Ewan's defense as he lifted his blade overhead for a powerful blow. In one swift and smooth movement, he disarmed his opponent, flicking his sword upward. With his free hand, he pressed two fingers firmly against Ewan's chest.

A surge of controlled qi shot into the young man's body. Ewan stiffened, his scream tearing through the square as his cultivation unraveled like dry parchment consumed by flame.

He fell to his knees, his sword clattering uselessly to the ground.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Dozens of eyes stared at Robert—merchants, travelers, commoners—all of them wide with shock. Whispers rippled like waves:

"Who is he?"

"Someone dared to cripple the Carr clan?"

"Even with the Walkers behind them…"

"No one has ever…"

Robert bent down, plucking the storage rings from each fallen disciple with calm efficiency. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as though declaring to all present that he feared nothing from retaliation. When the last ring was pocketed, he sheathed his sword in one fluid motion.

Without a word, he turned and melted into the twisted alleys beyond the market.

He did not return to the Gilded Carp Inn. That place was compromised now. Too close to the market, too close to prying eyes and ears that would carry tales straight to the Carr clan's compound. Rather, Robert discovered a more modest inn nestled on the edge of the artisan district, a modest place where tired travelers slept and departed without naming themselves.

The innkeeper looked up, startled, as Robert dropped ten gold coins onto the counter. "No disturbances," Robert said quietly, his gaze firm.

The man hesitated only a moment before nodding fervently, scooping up the coins. "Of course, honored guest. You will have privacy."

Robert nodded once and carried his few belongings upstairs. The room was plain—bare walls, a narrow bed, a single window—but it was enough. He sealed the door behind him with a simple array, faint sigils glowing faintly before fading into invisibility. No one would enter without his knowledge.

He sat cross-legged in the center of the room, drawing in a slow breath. His body still hummed from the fight, but his mind was clear. Now was the time. He had risked too much to delay further.

"Root Awakening," he whispered inwardly, closing his eyes.

Immediately, his spirit roots flared to life, opening wider than before. He directed the vast reservoir of 20,000 soul points he had gathered, pouring them into his cultivation. The sensation was overwhelming—like floodgates breaking open, rivers of qi surging into his body from the surrounding him.

He focused, guiding the torrent with clarity. His spirit roots widened, stabilized, and became more refined. His perception sharpened; every thread of ambient qi in the room became clear, like dust motes illuminated by sunlight. His body tingled, his veins singing with power as energy rushed through him in steady waves.

Hours bled into days.

The city was roiling with gossip outside, whispers of a shadowy swordsman who had crippled the favorite son of the Carr clan in the center of the Morning Glory Market. The story was told in teahouses and private rooms alike by the third day, and it had made its way from the merchant district to the noble quarter. Some swore the man had eyes like molten gold. Others claimed he moved like a dragon hiding in human skin. A few insisted he must have been sent by one of the great sects to humble the Walkers by proxy.

None of them knew the truth.

Within the sealed chamber of the humble inn, Robert was deaf to all of it. He sat unmoving, locked in the endless tide of qi that rushed into his spirit roots. His body became a furnace, refining energy, tempering will, and reshaping marrow. Each breath he drew pulled more of the qi into himself, until it felt as though the walls themselves bent inward, bowing to his cultivation.

On the fifth night, his body shuddered violently. The final barrier cracked, then shattered. A surge of light coursed through him, illuminating the small chamber like dawn itself. His sea of qi expanded, stabilized, and solidified.

Spirit Root Realm, Level Two.

Robert opened his eyes. For an instant, golden light glimmered faintly before fading back into the calm brown disguise of his borrowed identity. He exhaled slowly, a breath that felt like the end of one life and the beginning of another.

His strength had grown. His foundation had deepened. But even now, he knew this was not a victory. It was preparation.

The Carr clan would hunt him. The Walkers would soon hear of him. Already, Celestial Brook City whispered his shadow.

And Robert Osborn was ready.