After the intensity of the Osborn clan and James clan matches, everything slowed; voices dropped, and the energy turned brittle, edged with exhaustion and anticipation.
No one wasted the precious half hour. Some clan members used small glass bottles, swallowing energy pills to draw back stray threads of qi wasted from the last battles.
A few individuals used healing pills to aid in their recovery from injuries.
Robert sat on the end of a splintered bench, rolling his shoulder as warmth spread from the pill he'd taken, not quite enough to settle the deep ache in his arms.
Around him, the rest of the Osborn group kept quiet—Sara with eyes closed, steadying her breath, and Ronan rhythmically tapping a knuckle against the pommel of his sword.
Emer gave Taylen a waterskin, nodding wearily. Across the arena, the other clans were following suit: small circles of concentration, each person wrapped up in their thoughts as the break dragged on.
On a stepped platform above the crowd, the elder from the Grey Clan sat alone, his robe the colour of storm clouds. He didn't speak or move much—just watched the arena below, eyes sharp and unreadable. People kept sneaking glances his way, careful not to draw his attention.
Right away, Robert spotted him, accompanied by a young woman wearing the same style of robe.
His mind caught on the face—sharp-boned, unblinking—someone he'd met once in the grey shadow hall. She didn't look back. Her attention stayed pinned to the fighters below, soft hands folded in her lap.
By the time the bell chimed, announcing the beginning of the next round, the dust had barely settled. Elder moved to the center, banners flared overhead, and the James and Smith clans took their places once more.
The opening matches ran hot and fast. James took the field with quick-footed aggression and battered their way to three points, Smith managing to scrape out two after a pair of hard-fought wins that left one fighter limping. No one cheered as the scores went up—every clan was watching the leaderboard more than the ring.
They took another quick break, and then it was time for Osborn and Smith to step up for the next battle.
Four matches played out in quick bursts of steel and breath—fierce, sometimes messy, but with nothing held back.
Osborn's fighters dug in, swallowing hesitation, turning every draw for strength into ruthless momentum. By the end, Osborn had taken three wins, Smith only one.
Which left the platform cleared for the last of the set: Robert versus Joslin.
They met at the center—Robert, shoulders tight with the bite of expectation; Joslin, smaller but impossible to mistake, her stance as precise as ever, a flicker of respect in her gaze.
The Elder raised his arm, holding the whole arena in suspense. For a second, time seemed to stretch—then his hand cut through the air, sharp and certain. That was all it took. Steel rang out as the match burst to life.
They didn't trade words. Joslin led with quick, testing attacks, her blade moving at impossible angles, looking for the old weakness in Robert's footwork.
He dodged and stepped—not backward, not forward, just enough. Sweat prickled on his brow; his arms moved by memory, every lesson, every mistake paid for in yesterday's bruises.
The crowd faded—the whole world narrowed to the ring of steel on steel and the rush of air between distractions.
Joslin landed a shallow nick across Robert's shoulder, a brief bloom of pain.
He winced, shifted, and let himself move lower—springing back, then spinning tight beneath her guard. Joslin pressed forward, relentless, but this time Robert's sword caught hers; their faces were a breath apart, hers frowning in concentration, his tight with effort.
Shouts echoed as the clock wound down—each dodge, each strike carrying the stakes of the whole clan's future.
For a second, it looked like Joslin would break through, but Robert dropped his shoulder and twisted past, blade whistling up in a last, desperate arc.
As the clock wound down, the noise of their blades clashing nearly drowned out everything else. Jareh wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, eyes flicking over Robert's stance—searching for a weakness. Robert's chest heaved; the tang of iron and dust clung to every breath. Neither gave up ground. They moved in tight, wary circles, feet scraping across the sand while the crowd sat silent, waiting for something to give.
Just when it seemed they'd wear each other down to a standstill, Robert drew in a shallow breath and shifted his weight. With a sudden burst of motion, he slipped behind Joslin using Shadow Step—his footwork ghost-quick and barely visible.
She spun just a fraction too late. Robert's blade flickered—a sharp, precise arc that slipped beneath her guard before she could react. The air hissed as the Twin Dragon Fang moved, and the tip of his sword grazed her side with a quick, cutting sting.
Joslin stumbled back, her blade held low. Robert grimaced, pressing a hand against a fresh cut on his arm—both of them were bruised and battered, the fight leaving its mark on each of them.
For a moment, nobody in the stands moved or spoke—people just stared, letting what they'd just seen sink in.
Then the elder's voice carried clear across the arena: "Point—Robert Osborn! Osborn Clan wins!"
A wave of noise swept through the stands—cheers, gasps, and some outright shouting.
No one had expected Robert to pull through after taking those hits, much less overcome Joslin, who'd nearly had him cornered.
There was shock and a surge of excitement; talk flickered from seat to seat about what the remaining matches might hold.
On the Osborn side, Ronan finally slumped back on the bench, wiping sweat from his brow with a shaky laugh. Sara stared at the ring for a second longer, then shook her head in disbelief and nudged Robert's shoulder with a crooked smile.
Down the row, someone from the rival clan gave a slow nod, almost like they couldn't help but acknowledge what just happened—even if they didn't want to say it out loud.
If this match were anything to judge by, the next rounds would be far from predictable—and now, everyone was watching, waiting to see what Robert and the Osborn Clan would do next.
The sun beat down harder as the Osborn and James Clans stepped onto the arena once more, summoned for the next round.
The brief half-hour break felt like barely enough—just time to down a bitter recovery pill, stretch half-healed muscles, and steel the mind for what was next.
The stands were louder now, energy sharpened by Robert's last victory; every clan sensed the finish line approaching. The opening four-battle between Osborn and James flew by in a rush. Blades clashed, and Elder called outcomes with brisk finality—two wins each, keeping the tallies even and the stakes pressed tight. Just as quickly, the elder summoned the names for the fifth and final match: Robert Osborn versus Jareh James.
As their names left the elder's mouth, a ripple ran through the crowd. Jareh wasn't flashy by reputation, but stories spread of his raw, relentless force—his ability to drive through anyone unprepared for the weight behind each strike.
They stepped onto the sand, neither eager for wasted words. Elder gave the signal. Jareh came in first, stance low and direct—swinging with heavy, sweeping cuts that tested Robert's reactions from the very start. Robert shifted and slid, pulling from every spar and every lesson that had gotten him here.
His swordwork was sharper now, honed by exhaustion and hard-fought nerve.
Steel rang out in rapid sequence.
"Jareh's form was rough, but every strike landed with crushing power—like being hit by a battering."
Robert had to dig deep, using Shadow Step to slip from reach and answer with careful, darting counterstrikes.
Robert almost lost his footing as the sand shifted beneath his heel—he caught himself, chest heaving, sweat stinging the cut on his brow. Jareh's boots scraped close, the sound swallowed by the heat and the hush of the crowd.
They didn't break eye contact. Each time Robert dodged just in time, Jareh grunted and swung harder, her blade dragging a shallow furrow in the dirt where Robert's leg had just been. Neither spoke. Their world shrank to short breaths, tired arms, and the sound of metal and grit. Nobody seemed ready to back down.
Muscle and grit tangled in each breathless moment, neither willing to give half an inch—not yet.
The crowd's cheers faded into a tense hush, all eyes locked on where the blades flashed under the afternoon sun.
Robert felt the ache in his arms and the roar of blood in his ears, but he saw it—just for a second—a gap in Jareh's defense. He stepped in, ready to strike.
Jareh's blade shot forward, faster and heavier than it had been before.
In that instant, both swords moved. Steel met steel—a clash sharp enough to cut the silence.
And as the elder leaned forward, dust spun in the air, and the outcome still hung, breathless and undecided.
The match hung in that razor-thin pause, every heartbeat of the arena waiting for what would break first.