The stone tiles of the staging area vibrated beneath Robert's feet as the first battle call thundered through the Crimson Arena.
The drums had already silenced, the crowd's murmurs dipped to a tense hum, and a slight breeze stirred the banners overhead—but he barely saw any of it.
His pulse, steady just moments ago, quickened when a familiar chime echoed in his mind.
Ding!
New System Quests Unlocked.
• Quest 1: Remain undefeated throughout the Clan Competition.
Reward: 10,000 system Points
• Quest 2: Win the Clan Competition as a team.
Reward: 50,000 system Points
The corner of his mouth lifted. Looks like it's watching again, he noted, the silence broken at last.
But more than the reward, it was the timing that struck him. The system didn't offer quests for sparring or mock trials.
He looked up, his gaze finding Ronan briefly—then flicking to Sarah, her lips pressed into a hard line.
Taylen, jaw tight, rolled his shoulders beside Emer. They felt it too—the tension crawling across the arena walls, the weight of reputation crushing down on every move they'd make.
The crowd buzzed around them. Elders whispered predictions. Merchants leaned in from shaded stalls. The opposing banners fluttered across the field—Smith Clan to the left, James Clan to the right.
First Round: Osborn Clan vs. Smith Clan
Elder Alex moved forward, giving the five a final nod. "Remember, don't just fight for yourself.
Strike with purpose. Breathe with focus. Make the clan proud with every moment you're in there.
Then the horn sounded.
The arena stones radiated heat under the morning sun as Sara stepped into the first match.
Sara watched Diesen step into the center of the arena, her attention snagged immediately. There was something about the way he carried himself—never rushed, never tense—that told her he was no stranger to the spotlight.
He had that kind of presence you couldn't fake; the kind you earned by being tested time and again. His broad shoulders made it clear he was used to hard work, but it wasn't all brute force—there was a fluid grace to his movements, like he was dancing through the air but still ready to strike if needed.
He'd pulled his hair back into a tight knot, more out of habit than vanity—every move calculated, even this.
And those eyes. Steel-grey and steady, like they held memories of battles fought in silence, decisions made in split seconds, and the weight of every choice that had brought him here.
You could almost feel the calm beneath his exterior—the kind of calm that comes not from not feeling fear, but from knowing how to live with it.
Sara's heart quickened, but she forced herself to breathe. She wasn't sure, but one thing was clear: this wouldn't be easy. Not by a long shot.
But good looks were only a hint of his presence.
Diesen wasn't just good-looking—he was the Smith Clan's most feared and respected fighter.
People had seen what Diesen could do—his fights weren't rumors, they were warnings. Today, every movement carried weight, not just muscle, but the raw, grounded force of earth qi thrumming just beneath his skin.
The two fighters bowed, blades flashing in the sunlight.
Things turned brutal fast.
Sara did her best to keep distance, slipping and weaving with the speed and precision she'd drilled for weeks.
Diesen, however, barely seemed fazed. He planted his feet with the patience of a mountain—unmovable, always watching.
Sara saw an opening and struck—but Diesen met her charge with a sudden shoulder check that knocked the wind out of her. The impact knocked her off her feet—her weapon clattered away, far from reach.
She staggered up, cheek bloodied, sword trembling in her hand, but the match had already tipped.
Diesen advanced, his stare unwavering, closing the distance without wasting a single movement—no bravado—just strength and unshakable focus.
She attempted to gather herself, but Diesen's following series of attacks displayed nothing short of precise and unrelenting force.
Each blow landed with a confidence that seemed to sap the energy from the arena itself.
The elder on the judging platform finally raised a hand.
"Victory—Smith Clan," he announced, and the crowd erupted, many eyes admiring Diesen not just for his strength, but for the unique mix of intensity and charisma that set him apart as his clan's finest.
Match Two – Taylen vs. Joslin of the Smith Clan
Taylen stepped onto the platform with steady breath and squared shoulders.
Every motion felt refined, every breath controlled. But readiness was a fragile thing—and somewhere behind the calm, a whisper of unease stirred.
Across from him stood Joslin, the second-strongest warrior of the Smith Clan—and the only woman among their top five.
She wasn't tall, and she didn't carry bulk—but there was a calm steadiness in her that only came from battle-tested instincts.
She moved with purpose—adjusting her scarf with care, then fixing Taylen with a steady, unreadable stare.
Her blade was short, curved, and scorched faintly along the edge—a sign of the refined fire qi she had mastered.
Her cultivation matched Taylen's—Body Tempering Level Nine—but her edge was in something far more dangerous: experience.
Taylen moved first, trying to press early, banking on speed and pressure.
His strikes came quickly—three clean slashes aimed low and center.
But Joslin was already there, blade catching his first swing with sharp control—no wasted effort. No flash.
One wrong move, one clean strike—and just like that, it was over.
She moved in close, catching him mid-step. With a sharp twist, her elbow drove into his chest, knocking him off balance.
Her blade cut clean across his ribs in a practiced swipe.
He tried to pivot, but his footing slipped—his left side opened wide.
She didn't hesitate for a moment. Her sword plunged into his thigh, the sound of muscle tearing echoing with a sickening crunch.
He dropped, one knee hitting stone, jaw clenched against the pain.
Taylen cursed under his breath, trying to stand, but he couldn't find footing. Joslin had dismantled him without breaking rhythm.
"Victory—Smith Clan," the elder's voice rang out.
Joslin gave a slight, respectful nod and then gracefully stepped off the platform, opting for a low-key exit.
No gloating. No smirk. Just the cold, quiet behavior of someone used to winning.
Taylen rose slowly, jaw tight as he walked back toward the Osborn side.
Physically, he wasn't badly hurt—but the sting of being so thoroughly outclassed in five clean movements cut far deeper.
Robert met his gaze and gave a brief nod. No judgment. Just a silent truth—they'd all need more than strength to survive what was coming next.
Match Three – Ronan vs. Quill
Ronan stepped into the arena without show or drama.
He wasn't the kind to get caught up in tension or noise—his focus was entirely on the fight.
The blade looked ordinary, but in his hands, it moved with a practiced edge.
Ronan's strength wasn't power or speed—it was precision, timing, and control.
Quill of the Smith Clan faced him, eyes sharp and movements loose with confidence.
He shifted from heel to toe, blade spinning lazily in one hand—not to show off, but to test rhythm.
Everyone knew Quill's strength wasn't raw power. It was misdirection—his feet rarely stayed planted, and his strikes came from strange angles.
As soon as the signal sounded, Quill lunged forward, his blade sweeping in a quick feint aimed at Ronan's shoulder.
Ronan didn't flinch. He shifted his stance and brought his sword across just in time.
Their blades collided with a sharp ring—the fight had officially started.
Quill twisted and came in again, lower this time, aiming for Ronan's side.
But Ronan responded with another sharp deflection—second parry. His sword barely moved more than necessary.
That was all Ronan needed.
He stepped forward into Quill's space, hit him in the chest with his elbow to knock him off balance, then sliced across just enough to force Quill's weapon hand to drop.
In one smooth move, he twisted the blade out of Quill's grip. The sword hit the stone with a clatter.
The fight was over.
"Victory: Osborn Clan."
Ronan didn't celebrate. He stepped off the platform, cool and unreadable, while the Osborn crowd finally allowed themselves a few cheers.
Match Four – Emer vs. Vallen
Emer stepped forward with quiet confidence, knowing well that raw strength wouldn't carry this fight.
Vallen of the Smith Clan matched him blow for blow, both men at the same Body Tempering Level Nine. The difference today? Technique and patience.
Right from the start, Emer moved without hesitation, his body weaving and shifting in ways that made it hard to predict.
He didn't block Vallen's strikes directly. Instead, he leaned away just enough, letting the energy of the attacks pass by before turning it against his opponent.
His steps were barely more than whispers on the ground—light, controlled, always poised to shift with precision.
Vallen didn't let up. He kept pressing, his blade darting in fast, testing thrusts—meant to uncover an opening, not land a decisive blow.
Each step he took forward pushed Emer to move faster. Emer's reactions grew tighter, his body adjusting on instinct alone.
"Emer didn't need to be stronger—he needed to be smarter.
This was the kind of fight won by reading the smallest openings, acting at the right second, and never letting his guard drop. One wrong step, and he'd lose everything."
Emer seemed to conserve energy by not overcommitting—waiting for the exact right moments to strike when Vallen showed just the slightest flaw.
Two minutes passed in this back-and-forth. Sweat dripped. Breaths quickened.
Then Vallen's attacks slowed. His grip loosened. Exhaustion crept in where skill alone wouldn't carry the day.
Finally, Vallen lowered his stance, a subtle but clear surrender.
"Victory: Osborn Clan," the announcer declared.
The crowd quieted with a respectful murmur. Emer didn't react with pride—just a firm nod, eyes already looking past this moment toward what lay ahead.
All eyes turned to the final match—the one everyone had been waiting for.
Robert.
A dull heaviness pressed down on Robert—this wasn't just another fight.
The crowd's noise faded into a low hum, as if even the air had slowed.
He tightened his grip on the Twin Dragon Fang, every fiber ready but calm.
What happened next was unknown—but whatever it was, it would mark a new beginning.
The first clash was about to begin.