As the sun climbed to its zenith, dust from earlier fights still hung in the air; all eyes turned to Robert and Vernon.
The tension that had been building all morning finally settled like a blanket over the arena.
Vernon, the fourth-strongest in the Smith Clan, strode onto the stone with calm confidence.
He wasn't massive, but his presence was undeniable—shoulders squared, face cool, and a long scar running from his left jaw to his ear.
His handling of the blade was deceptively simple, suggesting both tradition and well-earned skill.
He had a patient, predatory confidence, the kind that came from facing countless opponents and rarely losing control.
Robert stepped onto the field, sword in hand. The moment he took his mark, the sound of the crowd dulled to a hush, hit only by the call of a distant aggressor and the judges' announcement: "Begin!"
The two closed right away—no circling, no warm-up.
Vernon's technique matched his reputation: his guard was tight, his steps unhurried, and every cut or thrust was measured, never wild.
He created little distractions, pushed Robert to commit, and then slipped just out of reach.
To most, the fight looked slow at first—a sequence of tentative slashes and parries—until it became clear neither man would risk a single opening.
Robert's advantage was adaptability. Each failed attempt to read Vernon's rhythm only sharpened his own.
As minutes ticked past, Robert's footwork grew more assertive. He began to test Vernon's defence with feinting strikes and sudden changes of direction, sword biting at wrists and knees.
Ten minutes in, sweat beaded on both their brows. Vernon landed a shallow cut on Robert's left sleeve, just grazing skin.
Robert managed to return it with a lightning-fast lunge, forcing his opponent into retreat.
Robert leaned in to follow. Vernon's sword hummed through the air, blocking a downward strike..., but Robert twisted—dropping low, rolling behind, and nearly taking his rival's leg out from under him.
The crowd gasped.
Vernon grinned, appreciation clear in his eyes. "Not bad," he muttered and pressed his next attack with renewed force.
The two clashed again—qi flashing as their auras collided, sweat flying, boots crunching on sun-warmed stone.
Pain flashed in Robert's wrist, but he pushed past it, focusing only on Vernon's breathing, the tightening of his jaw before each attack.
Twenty minutes in, both fighters showed fatigue—shoulders drooping, breathing coming harder.
But Robert refused to yield. In one moment of split-second clarity, he flowed around Vernon's high feint, stepped inside the guard, and slammed the back of his sword into Vernon's sword arm.
Vernon tried to recover—too late. Robert's next strike swept the tip of the sword across Vernon's shoulder, disarming him with a flick that echoed through the arena.
Vernon's blade hit the ground with a sharp, metallic ring.
The echo hung, then the judge raised a hand.
"Victory—Osborn Clan!"
A wave of relief passed through Robert, but all he let show was a short nod. Around him, the Osborn side erupted in cheers, while the Smith Clan watched in silence, trying to absorb the impact of what had just happened.
After Robert left the stage, the Osborn Clan held 3 points while the Smith Clan had 2 points.
Everyone took a half-hour break to rest and recover before the next battles began.
The opening fight ended fast.
Joslin stepped forward, guard raised, striking with swift precision. Her opponent couldn't keep up. He stayed on defense and didn't attack much.
After a few minutes of chasing her movements and barely defending, he gave up—his energy spent, his pride bruised.
Jareh went next. He wasn't graceful, but he didn't need to be.
The second the fight began, he didn't hesitate—just charged straight in, fists clenched tight. Each swing was heavier than the last, forcing his opponent to give ground, step by awkward step.
His attacks weren't polished, but they didn't need to be—he fought the way people do when they're tired of losing, every punch thrown with all the weight he could muster. You could hear the dull smack of knuckles on flesh and feel the crowd tense.
He wasn't thinking about form or strategy. He just wanted to break through.
The hit came low—fast and sharp, striking the gut. The James Clan fighter froze briefly before dropping to his knees, gasping for breath. That was the end.
He couldn't get up.
With those two wins, the Smith Clan jumped ahead. Quiet tension spread among the Osborns. They were still in it, but the pressure was growing. Every bout tomorrow would shape what came next.
The Osborn Clan felt the shift immediately. The air around their group grew heavier. They weren't out yet—but the margin was thin, and tomorrow, every match would count
Blake James stepped into the arena with a steady pace. He didn't show off. He stood calmly, like he understood what each move meant before he made it.
Calm and measured, he took control of the space without needing to prove it.
He won swiftly, barely giving his Smith Clan opponent time to react.
Elvis didn't rush when he walked onto the arena floor. You could hear a few nervous murmurs in the crowd—everyone seemed to recognise him, even before the announcer finished saying his name.
His style was more fluid, almost graceful, with a blade that struck like lightning. He won again, landing several strikes without missing.
Harden James stepped onto the stone platform. People in the stands stopped talking as he walked to the platform.
No salute, no hesitation. Just focus
His opponent didn't wait—he rushed in hard, going for an early advantage. Maybe he thought Speed could catch Harden off guard.
It didn't.
Harden caught the first strike on his blade and answered with a clean, brutal counter. The second hit came faster, driving straight through the guard and forcing the Smith fighter back on his heels.
There was a pause—just a beat—where everyone seemed to realise how this was going to end.
Two more hits, sharp and deliberate, and the match was over.
The points were updated.
The Osborn Clan had 3 points.
The Smith Clan had 4 points.
The James Clan had 3 points.
The sun was already down by the time the scores came in.
The James Clan was ahead with 9. Smith and Osborn trailed just behind—8 each.
Nobody was cheering anymore. The crowds that had shouted earlier were quiet now, the energy worn thin. A few whispered quietly among themselves, but most simply stared ahead, eyes fixed on the clan banners swaying gently in the evening wind.
After the last fight, the clans left. They took down their banners as the sky grew dark.
Robert and the others made their way back to the Osborn clan alongside their fellow clan members. The weight of the day's combat pressed on them, but so too did determination.
John Osborn stood waiting in the main hall, arms crossed as his gaze moved from one young fighter to the next—Robert, Ronan, Sara, Emer, and Taylen. Each had earned their place, and the strain of the day was written clearly on their faces.
He didn't raise his voice.
"Get some rest," John said, voice low but firm. "Tomorrow isn't just another match—it's the one that will decide what becomes of this clan."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Be ready. In body and in spirit. We can't afford mistakes now."
He looked at each of them in turn. "What comes next will shape our clan's future. Don't forget that."
They didn't say anything, just nodded—no grand speeches. No promises. They understood without words.
They never said it aloud, but everyone felt it—the tension hung thick and heavy in the silence between them.
Sara looked down, squeezing the hilt of her sword before she left. One by one, they disappeared down the hallway to their rooms. Doors clicked shut a moment later.
All that remained was silence, and everyone was left alone with their thoughts. Tomorrow would arrive soon enough.
The evening dragged on. The estate was just… quiet. Almost strangely so, like everyone was waiting for something to happen.
Outside, the branches shifted now and then, the only reminder that time was still moving.
Inside, no one said much. The silence wasn't just quiet—it felt heavy, like everyone was carrying something they didn't want to say.
Maybe it was nerves. Maybe a flicker of hope. Or maybe they were just plain tired, each caught up in their own thoughts, waiting without knowing exactly what for.
The halls were quiet, sleep came slow, and the unease hung thick. No one spoke of it, but every heart carried the same quiet question: who would endure the final day?