Steel shrieked as the two opponents collided again, sparks scattering in the split-second clash of swords.
The cultivators' footwork dug firmly into the ground as they moved in tight circles, as if the very earth beneath them might give way.
The heat pressed down, turning the arena into a furnace. In the crowd, people shifted in their seats, silent and uneasy, their eyes fixed on the two fighters below.
The sharp clash of their swords broke the quiet, every hit calculated—a real display of their expertise and unwavering spirit.
Vernon embodied raw power; his sword swung with the force of heavy iron, every calculated motion pushing Robert backward, step by step.
Iron Wind Advance—his trademark move, the one that set him apart as the best of the Smiths—unfurled with a flourish. The air quivered with the power of his sweeping arcs. Each strike seemed ready to jolt the sword right out of Robert's hands.
Yet Robert endured, boots sliding, knees flexed, sword close to his core. He moved with the intent focus of a cultivator who had learnt pain and kept walking. Even as his left shoulder throbbed and his lungs burnt, he watched. He waited. He remembered.
A single misstep, a sliding heel, turned into a distraction—Vernon readied a crushing overhead blow, the steel singing downward, but Robert's shape blurred and flickered, the familiar edge of his shape changing in a heartbeat. The audience gasped as he twisted—mid-fall, the hallmark of the Shadow Step—dissolving sideways in a trick too quick for the eye.
Robert reappeared to Vernon's left, low as a hunting sword streaking out for the back of Vernon's knee. Instinct alone saved Vernon; he pulled his leg out of reach, spinning to parry, but not without a hiss. "Osborn footwork at its finest," Vernon muttered, almost with a hint of respect.
"That damned Shadow Step..."
"Better than standing still," Robert replied—just audible, his voice rough with effort.
They traded blows, Robert's sword flashing in closed, controlled bursts—Twin Dragon Fang, feint to shoulder and follow-through to thigh, then shifting up to target exposed ribs.
The crowd was hanging onto every twitch, every flurry. With every exchange, Robert's movement grew less predictable; once, twice, reappearing just far enough away to frustrate Vernon's counterattacks—a flicker at the edge of his vision.
Vernon tried to impose his rhythm, drawing Robert in with a slow, deliberate feint, then switching rhythm, sword lashing out with a cleaving arc.
It was almost beautiful—the very thrift of motion. Robert barely managed to avoid the shock traveling down both arms, feet digging trenches into the loose stage.
Blood seeped from the reopened scrape at his collarbone, running down under his tunic, feeling warm and sticky against his skin.
"Impressive," Vernon grunted, circling. "But tricks only get you so far."
"You would know. Stonebreaker Vise didn't work last time," Robert snapped back, breathless. He dropped backwards in another flicker—Shadow Step again—baiting Vernon in, deceiving his senses with the changing outline.
Vernon gave a thin, grim smile. "Learned that from Harden James?" His next attack came at an angle, sword thrust low, then snapped high, testing Robert's guard, looking for any openings.
Robert caught the sword on the crossguard, then twisted his shoulders, leveraging the momentum to break away. He quickly launched a flurry of moves: a sweeping shoulder cut, a sharp jab, and then a reverse grip to slash at Vernon's forearm.
.
His feet were always on the go, sometimes shifting so rapidly that their marks intertwined—perpetually balancing on the edge of the Shadow Step, as if they were about to slip away.
Hunger darkened Vernon's eyes. He pressed in, reckless, and their swords locked for a brief, vicious instant. The strain in both men's arms was visible—muscles corded, veins bulging.
"I can outlast you," Vernon hissed, sweat running through the dust on his jaw. With a sudden surge of strength, he whipped Robert's sword hand wide and aimed another brutal strike.
Robert, half stumbling, spun and let his weight fall—again, the Shadow Step, this time more draining than before. His vision flickered at the edges, but he managed to skirt just outside Vernon's reach.
Vernon, visibly annoyed, shook his head. "Running out of shadows, Robert."
"Not yet," Robert panted.
Now the crowd was leaning forward, silent as the grave, caught in the tension.
Desperation mounted: Vernon drove forward with a new sequence, each blade movement following the old rhythm of the Iron Wind, but now interspersed with feints and sudden changes.
Robert slipped under the first, resisted the next, and let his momentum spin him away from a third—every movement a calculated risk, every dodge a memory of the Shadow Step drilled until his legs ached.
Robert feigned left, and Vernon bit—anticipating another sidestep, he moved wide and left his core open. Robert's grip tightened; this was his fleeting chance.
He called every ounce of balance, letting his lead foot glide in a move so smooth it almost seemed to defy gravity—Shadow Step one last time. He was inside Vernon's guard before the Smith swordsman could recover, blade tracing a vicious downward slash for the exposed upper arm.
The sword connected—sharp, decisive—biting through fabric, scraping off armour, leaving blood pearling. Vernon spun, pain twisting his face. He braced for a desperate response, but Robert didn't meet the sword; he dropped low, flicking his sword up, and the flat hammered into the inside of Vernon's thigh.
Vernon shifted unsteadily on his feet, and for the first time, a genuine look of uncertainty appeared in his eyes.
His attacks slowed, the confidence of the Iron Wind sputtering against Robert's relentless footwork.
Robert noticed it right away: Vernon's posture sagged too low, his legs were spread too wide, and his grip was overly tight. Robert spun on the ball of his foot, sword flashing for Vernon's blade—not to attack, but to push. The swords locked, and with a brutal twist, Robert pulled Vernon's weapon from his grasp.
The air went dead quiet.
Vernon staggered, dropping to one knee, his breath ragged. Robert dropped his sword—not at Vernon's throat, but in salute, a trembling gesture of respect.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the elder's voice cut through, steady as always: "Victory—Osborn Clan!"
The arena erupted. Some jeered, more cheered, but all watched as Vernon, dignified even in loss, gave a single nod and rose.
"Well done, Robert. That damned Shadow Step finally beat the Iron Wind."
Robert pressed a bloodied hand to his chest, exhaled shakily, and let himself feel—just for a moment—the weight and release of victory earned the hardest way possible.
Bruised, battered, but standing, Robert Osborn bore his clan's pride beneath the blinding blaze of a legend born under an unforgiving sun.
Robert lowered himself onto the worn bench beside his fellow Osborn clan members, his body heavy with exhaustion and bruises, the warmth of the healing pill already beginning to dull the sting of his wounds. Around him, soft voices rose—tired but steady, as if everyone understood without saying a word what they had all been through.
The elder stepped forward again and raised his hand. "Current standings," he called out. "James Clan—sixteen points. Smith Clan—fourteen. Osborn Clan—sixteen."
The crowd stilled. No cheers, no chatter—just a tense hush as everyone processed the tie. James and Osborn were neck and neck, each one a step away from taking it all.
The Smith side, meanwhile, remained quiet. Faces were drawn tight, jaws clenched. Their fighters had given everything—but a slim loss still left a bitter taste. Some stood motionless; others gripped their blades harder than necessary, unwilling to let go of what remained.
Slowly, the crowd began to thin. The clatter of armor, the creak of boots on stone, and the low murmur of conversation echoed through the open arena.
The cultivators walked out of the arena, and the crowd gradually started to move—whispers emerging here and there, each person still burdened by the long, tense day they had just endured.
Most were looking for a chance to rest or at least find a peaceful spot to gather their thoughts before the match tomorrow. The supporters trailed behind, their spirits low, caught between feelings of hope and caution.
Robert remained behind for a while, his limbs heavy with fatigue. He looked across the trampled arena floor—dust still hanging in the air, the ground marked by every clash and fall. The sun dipped lower, casting long streaks of orange and shadow across the broken earth.
Tomorrow would be the real test.
He pushed himself upright, wiping a thin line of blood from his temple. Around him, the Osborn fighters moved without words, gathering what they had brought, eyes already fixed on what lay ahead.
No one needed to speak. The final battle loomed, and every step they took away from the arena carried the same quiet promise: they would be ready.