The morning came quietly, air heavy with the kind of expectancy that never makes it into stories.
Robert woke before dawn without much sleep, just as the first light slipped across his ceiling.
For a long minute, he lay staring at those soft lines, listening—nothing but muffled footsteps and the rasp of someone connecting a strap in the next room.
Nothing was said. No big speeches, no dramatic words. Just the quiet, the kind that settles when everyone knows something's coming but no one knows exactly when.
He dressed and made his way through the corridors, where Ronan was already waiting by the doorway, sword wrapped tight in his hand.
Sara appeared, face pale but set with resolve, followed by Emer and Taylen—nobody saying much, but nobody falling behind.
They left the Osborn compound together with the leader and clan elders, boots thumping softly along the uneven path toward the arena's rising walls.
The wind tugged at their sleeves, a little sharper than it had been the day before.
The Osborn estate stood quiet behind them, its empty halls a reminder of the calm before the storm.
Ahead, the morning crowds were already building, banners and dust mixing in the low light.
They arrived to find the Smith Clan already gathered—quiet and watchful, heads lowered but eyes sharp.
Osborn's group settled into their section, backs straight, watching the gate where their opponents would arrive.
There was still time before anything started. Robert's mind wandered—the competition's shape, the matches still ahead.
Osborn would have to face the James Clan three times today and fight the Smith Clan two more times.
Every match mattered now. Even a single misstep could tilt the outcome—and everyone watching knew it.
He had won five matches already, standing just halfway to the finish line, as this tournament demanded.
Five more to go.
He ran through what he knew in his mind: Harden James—the one everyone watched, who won yesterday's match without so much as blinking. Telvis, fluid and fast, always in control. Blake, steady and relentless.
Joslin's hands worked with practiced speed, her eyes scanning every angle, each movement sharpened by discipline.
Vernon's warning from the day before rang in Robert's ears—a test of how far he'd come. And a reminder of how close he stood to the edge.
If he lost now—if he faltered, even once—it wouldn't just cost him. The clan's chance could slip away just like that, decades of work undone by a single misstep.
The thought bit at him, sharp and insistent, as the sky lightened above the arena walls.
The crowd's energy shifted—the low hum extended, then snapped silent all at once.
Robert pulled his eyes up. At the far gate, the James Clan entered the arena as a group, walking tall and tight-shouldered. There was no laughter, no arrogance, just a confidence that didn't need to shout.
Harden took his place at their front, eyes already fixed on the platform.
Robert watched them pass—no words, no nods, but something passing between fighters who knew what this day was.
The rest of the Osborn team watched with him. For one heartbeat, nobody breathed.
The elder called for the first team to assemble.
Morning light was just slipping over the arena wall, making Robert blink against the glare. The chill hadn't lifted yet—his hands still felt cold as he gripped his sword. He flexed his fingers behind his back, hoping no one would notice they were shaking a little. This was it. This was the day.
In this moment, there was no space for anything else—just this.
He turned back to his team, met each of their eyes in turn, and gave a simple nod. The time for doubt or regret was gone. All that was left was the fighting and what came after.
Somewhere in the stands, a drum sounded once, deep and steady—a heartbeat for the battle to come.
The tournament's last day began quietly. The crowd murmured softly, trying to break the weight in the air. Fighters from the Osborn and James clans faced each other, eyes steady but tense, moving carefully like they hadn't said their last word yet.
Fights came and went in quick succession—no delays, no wasted motions. Each clash was raw, full of grit, and left no room for hesitation. By the time four matches had passed, the score was tied at two apiece. Neither side showed signs of retreat.
The crowd's eyes fixed on the platform, but the silence wasn't empty—it hung heavy, like the moment was holding its breath, too.
Robert stepped forward, slow and steady, each footfall careful. His heart thudded, louder than usual. It wasn't fear, exactly. More like that tight stillness before a storm breaks loose, when everything feels stretched thin and unbearably close.
As the two took their places, the tension thickened. Blake, third-ranked among the James fighters, looked Robert up and down, a grimace flickering across his face.
Blake sneered, stepping forward. "Your clan's done pretending. After today, no one's going to remember the name Osborn."
Robert didn't bother answering. He met Blake's gaze, calm and steady, hands loose at his sides.
If the barb discouraged him, he didn't show it. The platform judge glanced at both, then signaled for the match to begin.
Blake wasted no time—he charged in with his full strength, blade flashing through the sunlight in a calculated assault.
Blake gave a crooked grin and leaned in just enough for Robert to hear. "You know we're taking this, right? Doesn't matter what you've got left, Osborn—you're finished today."
For a moment, it seemed Robert was on his back foot. His footwork tightened, each parry coming a little closer than the last. Even the elders on the benches leaned forward, watching closely.
But then, as the exchange peaked, Robert's movement shifted. He adjusted his stance, breath slowing, and waited for Blake's rhythm.
The moment the chance appeared, Robert moved—quick as a shadow. He stepped aside, the world seeming to jump beneath his feet, and vanished from Blake's reach with a sharp Shadow Step.
Twin Dragon Fang gleamed in his hand.
Blake tried to recover, but Robert's counterattack—fluid, fast, and precise—cut through Blake's defense before he could react.
Each motion held new confidence; every swing was the mark of mastery, not brute force. The crowd saw it too.
Just a minute later, Blake felt his blade ripped from his hand, sending it spinning across the floor.
He staggered, chest heaving, unable to mount another defense. Robert's sword hovered at his shoulder—simple, silent, and final.
The judge's voice rang out: "Winner—Robert Osborn! Osborn Clan!"
A stunned hush fell across the arena as the reality set in.
Many had known Robert was weak, but few expected him to handle Blake, James Clan's third-best, with such assurance.
The Osborn section erupted in applause. Across the field, even some neutral onlookers were murmuring—this was no small feat.
Now, with the score tipped, everyone's attention sharpened. If Robert could beat Blake that convincingly, what would happen when he faced the even stronger James fighters next? The final rounds promised to be more than just a contest of skill—they looked ready to become a turning point for the whole competition.
And as Robert left the stage, barely glancing over his shoulder, the question on everyone's lips was the same:
How far could the Osborn Clan go with Robert leading the charge?