Strongest Family System

The air split with Tom Carr's roar as his aura burst outward, pressing down on the hall like a tidal wave. Flames guttered in the torches, and disciples staggered back, their knees shaking under the crushing weight. The very stone tiles groaned as cracks splintered beneath the clan head's feet.

Tom raised his hand, qi swirling into a blade of light. His killing intent speared toward Robert's chest.

But before he could strike, the Shadow Reaper stirred.

At first, it was subtle—a change in the atmosphere, the slight bending of the torchlight. The aura then soared. Like black water bursting a dam, a cold, ancient pressure poured into the hall.

The effect was immediate. Tom Carr's forward step faltered. His body stiffened, as though an invisible mountain had fallen across his shoulders. His weapon of light sputtered, flickered, and collapsed into nothing.

A strangled gasp tore from his throat as the weight doubled, then tripled. His knees buckled. The patriarch of the Carr clan, a feared Soul Manifestation cultivator, crashed down onto the polished stone floor, kneeling before Robert.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Elders froze in place, eyes wide with horror. Disciples dropped their weapons in shock. None had ever seen Tom Carr yield—let alone be forced down as though he were no stronger than an insect.

Every gaze shifted between Robert and the shadowed figure behind him. In their minds, the truth was undeniable: the man cloaked in night was stronger than Tom Carr himself.

Tom tried to rise, veins bulging along his neck, but the Shadow Reaper's aura pressed harder, suffocating him like a python coiling tighter with each breath. His face darkened red, then purple, as he clawed at the stone beneath his hands.

Robert's voice cut through the tension—calm, low, and carrying absolute authority.

"I warned you," he said evenly. "I came not for battle, but for words. Yet you did not listen—you chose arrogance. And now you kneel."

The words landed like hammers, each one grinding Tom lower under the pressure.

Robert's eyes narrowed. "You have a choice. Answer my questions truthfully… Or die here at my feet."

Tom's lips trembled, but only a hoarse rasp escaped. The weight on his chest was too heavy. He coughed, spitting blood on the stone. At last, he forced words through his constricted throat.

"I… Will speak… Whatever you wish."

Robert nodded, lips curling into the faintest smile.

"Good." He flicked a glance at the Shadow Reaper. "Release him—enough that he may breathe. Not enough to let him forget."

The Reaper tilted its head, then eased its aura slightly. The crushing weight lifted just enough for Tom to drag in ragged breaths. Sweat poured down his face as he stared up at Robert, horror etched into his features.

"You…" he whispered, his voice quivering. "Who are you?

The boy's expression remained unreadable. His answer was simple and dismissive.

"No. Who I am is none of your concern. What matters is that you answer."

For a heartbeat, the hall was still—disciples and elders holding their breath, clinging to every word.

Robert stepped closer, his boots echoing on stone. His sword remained sheathed at his side; he needed no steel, not with the Reaper's shadow looming like death itself.

"You will tell me," he said, his tone as sharp as any blade, "what you know of the competition to be held in Celestial Brook City. Who is the strongest among those gathering?

Tom's jaw worked soundlessly. He looked once at his elders, but they were frozen, unwilling to even meet his gaze. Their silence told him what he already knew—no rescue was coming.

With a shaking breath, Tom lowered his head further, forcing the words out.

"I… Will tell you… Everything I know."

The weight of the hall thickened again, though not from the Reaper's aura. It was the collective disbelief—the image of their indomitable patriarch, forced to kneel like a prisoner before a youth no older than eighteen.

Elders clenched their fists, disciples bit their lips until blood welled, yet none dared move. They all knew what Robert's smile meant.

Whether Tom Carr lived or died now depended not on his power, not on his clan's prestige, but on the answers he gave.

And at that moment, for the first time in decades, the Carr clan trembled.

Tom Carr's breath came ragged; each inhale dragged through clenched teeth as though the air itself resisted him. Sweat dripped down his brow, streaking the hard lines of his face. His pride had been stripped bare, yet survival forced him to bow his head.

"I… will tell you," he repeated, voice hoarse. His eyes darted toward the Shadow Reaper, then quickly dropped again, unable to bear the oppressive stillness radiating from the figure. "But you must know, I am not privy to all matters. Still, I know enough."

Robert said nothing. He simply inclined his head, his expression unreadable. The silence that followed was sharper than a blade, pressing Tom to continue.

He swallowed, shame flooding his words as he began.

"The competition… It is held once every year. Each clan is allowed ten participants. The rules are strict—under the age of twenty-two and at least Spirit Root level five to stand among the strongest contenders. For weaker cultivators, spirit root one or two, their purpose is merely to fill the spot."

Murmurs stirred among the elders, but one glance from the Shadow Reaper silenced them instantly. Tom licked his lips, his voice dropping lower.

"Of the Walker clan, I know the names of the strongest three. They are the ones to watch. The rest are pawns."

He looked up, only briefly, as though measuring Robert's reaction.

Robert's face remained cold stone, giving away nothing.

"Harvey Walker," Tom said, bitterness lacing his tone. "Spirit Root level five—peak stage. Twenty-two years of age. The son of Ziltion Walker himself. He is the clan's spear, their pride. Then there is Aaden Walker—Spirit Root level four, mid-stage, the son of Elder Rain Walker. Younger, but fierce. And Drake Walker—Spirit Root level three, peak stage, son of Elder Mara Walker. He is reckless but skilled."

Tom let out a shaky breath. "The rest of their ten will be Spirit Root level ones and twos. Nothing more than grass meant to slow others down."

Robert's gaze flickered, the faintest narrowing of his eyes. He had expected arrogance from the Walkers, but hearing the names and their cultivation spelled it plainly. Harvey Walker alone could dominate a battlefield of younger disciples.

Tom hesitated, then pressed on.

"From the Brooks clan… Max Brooks. Spirit Root level five, peak stage. Their most polished blade. Alongside him, Miller Brooks—Spirit Root level four, mid-stage—and Zara Brooks—Spirit Root level three, peak stage. Again, the rest are weaker, placeholders. But those three… they are wolves, sharpened for this competition."

The hall was utterly still now, every disciple straining to catch each word.

Tom clenched his jaw before continuing. "From the Clark clan, there are two lines of strength, both dangerous. Rachel Clark—Spirit Root level five, peak stage. She is as cold as the winter river. Evan Clark—Spirit Root level four, mid-stage. And Lewis Clark—Spirit Root level three, peak stage. From the Brown clan, there is Conner Brown—Spirit Root level five, peak stage, another contender for the top. His ferocity is unmatched among the younger generation. Alongside him are Dustin Brown, level four mid-stage, and Jade Brown, level three peak stage."

He shook his head grimly.

His voice dropped, bitter with defeat. "And so, boy… the truth is plain. The Osborn clan, the Carr clan, the lesser names—none of us stand a chance.

We may send our ten, but they will break upon the top four like waves against a cliff. The strongest are already chosen. The rest… are nothing."

Robert remained perfectly still. His golden eyes caught the torchlight, flickering faintly as though weighing every syllable, every detail.

Around them, the hall felt as if it hung on a knife's edge. The elders' faces were pale, the disciples' knuckles were white as they gripped their knees. To hear their patriarch speak in such tones—of hopelessness, of submission—was unthinkable. And yet no one could deny it.

Robert's silence stretched long enough to make Tom shift uneasily. He could not tell whether the boy was satisfied or merely deciding if his life should end here.

Finally, Robert spoke, his tone measured and quiet, yet carrying to every corner of the hall.

"So… the Walkers, Brooks, Browns, and Clarks hold the highest cards. The rest stand in their shadows. And you tell me your clan has no chance of breaking through?"

Tom's voice cracked. "None. Not against them. Not with the strength they hold."

Robert's expression remained unchanged, though inwardly his thoughts turned sharp.

So the Osborns truly are outmatched. If they wish to climb, they must face not one but many with roots at their peak. And I… I must decide where I stand in this game.

The hall quivered as the Shadow Reaper shifted, its presence like death given form. Every disciple fell. Tom bowed his head lower, his body trembling under the memory of its pressure.

Robert let the silence linger, savoring the weight of their fear. Then, slowly, he nodded once.

"You have answered well."

Tom exhaled, relief flooding him, though his body still shook like a bowstring stretched too thin.

Robert's eyes hardened. "But remember—had you have spoken false, had you withheld even one truth… You would already be dead."