Jareh pressed the attack, his sword swinging in broad angles meant to overwhelm, the force behind every strike enough to send dull shocks up Robert's arm each time he blocked.
Their blades crashed together, the sharp clang swallowed by the restless shuffling and low voices all around.
Robert kept his feet moving, never letting himself get caught flat, shifting his weight from heel to toe as Jareh tried to drive him back toward the edge of the arena.
Twice, Robert had to duck low, the tip of Jareh's blade carving just above where his shoulder had been moments earlier.
The sand was loose in some places, firmer in others, and his boots threatened to slip whenever he pivoted too sharply. A more immature, less seasoned opponent would have folded under that kind of steadiness, but Robert kept his stance compact, elbows tight, sword always close to his core.
He watched for patterns rather than power—Jareh had a flare in his nostrils and a subtle tightening of his off-hand just before he tried to feint left and bring the sword up right.
Robert responded by shifting his center, dipping his sword to parry at the last possible second, and countering with a sharp, low cut that forced Jareh onto the defensive.
Sweat pricked the shallow cut near Robert's collarbone, but he refused to give up any ground.
He let the pain seep into his muscles, allowing it to slow his breathing and sharpen his next few moves.
Drawing in a steady breath, he let his weight fall almost too far forward, inviting another one of Jareh's power strikes.
When Jareh took the bait, overcommitting, Robert rotated on the ball of his foot and let his body pass just underneath the arc of steel. He came up on Jareh's inside.
No flourish—just a short, practiced twist of his wrist, and the narrow edge of his sword pressed hard across the back of Jareh's sword arm.
The strike wasn't aimed to wound, only to disrupt his timing and throw off his next move.
Jareh roared, pain flashing across his face, but even wounded, he fought with a kind of stubborn momentum.
He tried a desperate sweep at Robert's torso, but Robert's movement technique—weight light on his toes, quick sidestep reminiscent of the Shadow Step but with a raw edge from fatigue—carried him just far enough out of reach.
Their swords clashed again, right above their heads. Both fighters locked eyes, their breaths rasping, as determination and exhaustion were nearly equal now.
The finish came in an unadorned instant. Jareh tried to recover, forcing another exchange, but his timing was off; the injury made his parry sluggish.
Robert threw a feint to his left, drawing Jareh with him. As soon as Jareh shifted, Robert dropped quickly to one knee and swung the flat of his sword into Jareh's thigh, hitting hard enough to break his stance and send him off balance.
Jareh toppled, his sword skidding away.
For a second, neither of them moved—just caught in the heavy quiet, both watching the dust settle around their feet.
Jareh made one shaky effort to stand, but his leg buckled, the pain too sharp. He dropped his sword, bracing on one knee, jaw clenched against the effort.
The elder glanced over, eyes narrowing, then raised his hand so the whole arena could see. "Osborn Clan wins," he announced, voice ringing out over the crowd.
Robert exhaled slowly, surprised at how long he'd been holding his breath. Around him, the Osborn fighters stood, exhaustion giving way to quiet relief on their worn faces.
No one on the James Clan bench spoke. They just watched as Jareh was helped off, his steps slow and uneven.
For that moment, all eyes were on Robert—not as the underdog but as the fighter who had held his ground when it mattered most.
Robert stood steady, blood slowly trickling from the reopened cut on his shoulder. He gave a brief, quiet bow—a small gesture of respect—and took the healing pills to ease the pain and speed recovery from the injury.
Benches scraped as fighters from every clan dropped into their seats, still catching their breath.
Robert loosened the straps on his wrist, wincing as he touched a fresh bruise. Nobody tried to talk.
No one stepped forward. The silence hung thick in the air, as if everyone was still digesting the last match, just waiting for the next game to be announced.
Robert's reopened shoulder wound throbbed faintly, but the healing pills steadily eased the sharpness.
The crowd's soft murmur faded as fighters from each clan sank onto splintered benches, their boots kicking up dust from the worn, cracked arena floor.
Bruises ached under sunburnt skin, and weariness pressed down on heavy limbs. Silence filled the air, broken only by the quiet rustling of cloth as hands searched for small pouches of herbs or swallowed sharp, bitter pills.
Robert sat still, carefully lifting a wrapped hand to rub at a dull ache in his shoulder.
Eyes flickered but avoided contact—everyone felt the sharp edge of the last fight still hanging in the air.
The elder's voice resonated throughout the arena, prompting both the Smith and Osborn clans to rise simultaneously. Boots hit the ground, dust kicked up, and the unmistakable sound of swords clashing echoed as they drew their weapons in flawless unison.
They didn't speak. No one needed to. They all knew what was at stake. Old rivalries and new tension hung in the space between them like a storm about to break.
First four fights? Over in a blink. Steel clanged, blades caught, and that was that. The Osborn Clan? They weren't here to mess around—they snagged three wins, sweat and grit all over their faces. Smith Clan? Managed one.
It's not a complete loss, but let's be honest, it's not exactly a celebration either.
The score sits at three-one. Now the whole place is dead quiet, like someone hit mute on the crowd. All eyes zero in on the stage. The last match, and you can practically hear everyone's nerves buzzing.
An elder voice echoing way too loud in the hush: "Final battle—Robert Osborn versus Vernon Smith!"
Vernon? Guy doesn't need to puff up or flex. His record does the talking—only one loss, to Harden James, and the rest? Straight wins.
He steps out, looking effortlessly cool, without a shred of doubt. You know who he is. Everyone knows.
Meanwhile, Robert's got the hopes of his whole clan squashing him like an anvil. The air's so tight, it's like everyone's lungs are stuck on pause.
Low voices ripple through the stands—some folks are betting, others just wondering if Robert's calm and timing can stand up to Vernon's bulldozer style.
Robert plants his feet, feeling the heat. He doesn't blink. Old fights flash through his mind—busted ribs, sore muscles, endless drills. Weirdly, it doesn't throw him off. Just sharpens him.
Vernon moves forward, slow and deliberate, as if he's in no rush at all.
Each move says, "Yeah, I've been through hell; what of it?" The scars on his jaw could narrate an entire saga.
This isn't just about points. It's about pride, maybe even survival.
The clans are watching like their lives depend on it—because, let's be real, maybe they do.
Both guys drop into their stances, every muscle ready to snap. The arena's silent—no chants, no smack talk, just the grind of boots on sand and a thousand people holding their breath.
Everyone's glued to the stage. A few coins change hands, but mostly, the place is waiting, strung out on tension.
Elder steps back and gives a nod—no big speech, just a look.
Vernon's eyes are on fire, stance locked in.
Robert's right there with him, tight as a coiled spring.
Then, without warning, the first strike sliced swiftly and cleanly through the air.
Swords crash, sparks spit, and the crowd feel every hit in their bones.
They're all over each other—light, shadow, attack, counter. Neither is backing up. Neither breaking. Just pure, raw battle.