Strongest Family System Chapter 109 109: Top Ten Battle (Part 3)

The elder's raised arm cut the roaring crowd into silence.

The second match was about to begin.

Max Brooks and Conner Brown stepped forward at the sa ti, both tense in different ways—Max had the quiet confidence of a trained spear-user, while Conner moved with the brittle tension of soone who knew defeat ant humiliation. The Brown Clan, lowest among the four, rarely tasted victory in the upper ranks.

But tonight… Conner's gaze held sothing fierce.

He tightened his grip on his spirit staff as the elder nodded.

"Begin."

Max launched forward imdiately, his spear snapping into motion like a striking hawk. He drove a line of shimring qi toward Conner, aiming to overwhelm him with speed.

Conner t the thrust head-on.

His staff twisted sharply—quick, clever, almost slippery in its movent.

The staff's wooden shaft glowed with earthy qi, stabilizing each deflection.

The two clashed again.

And again.

Spear light shimred in long arcs; staff strikes cracked against them with precise rhythm. Conner's movents grew smoother with every breath, his confidence rising as the rhythm of the battle began to settle.

Max grunted.

"You have improved."

Conner did not answer. He could not afford to.

Max spun his spear, qi thickening along the tip until it whistled—a mini cyclone of tallic essence forming around the strike.

"Spear Art—Piercing Gale!"

The technique sent a spiraling point of silver qi ripping toward Conner.

Conner slamd his staff into the ground.

Earthen qi surged upward, forming a curved stone shield.

BOOM!

Dust exploded outward.

The shield cracked—but did not shatter.

Gasps rippled through the arena.

"He blocked it—using raw earth qi!"

"Brown Clan actually has soone this capable!?"

Even the Brook Clan elders stiffened. Their initial confidence in Max began to crumble.

Max shook his stinging hand. His spear vibrated, complaining of the shock.

"This is annoying," he muttered.

Conner rose behind the shield, sweat streaking his brow, but his eyes blazing. He spun his staff in a full arc.

"Staff Technique—Three-Direction Sweep!"

A blur of brown light swept upward from three angles—overhead, waist, and knees.

Max dodged the first two.

He could not dodge the third.

THUD!

The blow struck his leg, spinning him sideways. Max stumbled, barely catching himself.

Before he could reset, Conner closed in—staff movents now fluid, confident, relentless.

Conner's strikes were not elegant. They were not impressive at first sight.

But they were effective.

Efficient.

Ruthless.

Max braced himself as another heavy blow crashed into his spear arm. He winced, his grip slipping, qi scattering.

Conner struck again.

And again.

Each hit found the smallest openings, as if Conner saw the fight in slow motion.

A murmur grew through the arena.

"He is reading Max's movents…"

"No… He is predicting them."

The final strike ca fast—Conner slid right under Max's guard and drove the staff upward into his ribs.

WHAM!

Max flew backwards.

His spear flew from his hand, skidding across the stone.

Silence cascaded through the arena.

Max Brooks—one of the steady contenders—fell to one knee, gasping.

The elder stepped forward.

"Winner—Conner Brown."

For the first ti in years, the Brown Clan pavilion erupted in cheers. Their clan head, an elderly man with kind eyes, covered his mouth as tears threatened to fall.

Conner stood frozen for a mont, staring at his staff as if unsure whether he had truly won.

Then he breathed out—relief mixing with raw pride.

He bowed toward Max with sincerity.

Max nodded back, frustrated but respectful.

The second match ended with a reversal no one predicted.

The balance of the top ten was shifting.

The arena barely had ti to recover from the surprise before the elder stepped up again.

"For the third match—Number Two and Number Ten."

Evan Clark and Miller Brooks.

Two young n stepped forward—one with the cold sharpness of a blade, the other with the quiet steadiness of a mountain.

Evan Clark carried a thin saber, his qi swirling like cold mist around its edge. His eyes showed a hint of arrogance—earned or not.

Miller Brooks looked calm—too calm. His posture relaxed, broad-shouldered and slow-moving, almost giving the impression he was not fully awake. But his aura… it humd beneath the surface like distant thunder.

The Clark Pavilion leaned forward.

"Our Evan will win."

"He is faster. Miller is too heavy."

But the Brooks Pavilion remained uncharacteristically calm.

Harvey Brooks smirked.

"Miller does not lose when it cos to endurance."

Evan lifted his saber.

"Let us end this quickly."

Miller nodded. "As you wish."

The elder raised his hand.

"Begin."

Evan disappeared first.

A flicker of blue qi trailed behind him as he shot forward in a streak—like lightning, skimming across steel.

His saber swept in a clean arc, fast enough to slice the air with a shrill cry.

Miller raised one arm.

The blade struck his qi-hardened forearm—

CLANG!

The sound vibrated through the arena.

Miller did not move.

His boots did not slide.

His expression did not change.

Evan blinked.

"That should have cut."

Miller's voice was mild.

"You are fast."

Then he punched.

A simple, direct punch—nothing flashy, nothing complicated.

But the air warped around his fist.

Evan vanished sideways, his speed saving him by a hair. The stone where Miller's punch landed cratered inward.

Evan landed, catching his breath.

"That strength is absurd."

Miller did not chase.

He waited.

The crowd held their breath as Evan lunged again, saber flickering through sequences of cutting arcs.

Sparks danced.

Miller deflected the blade with the flat of his forearm, with his palm, with the back of his wrist—each motion small, precise, and practiced.

Evan's frustration grew.

He spread his stance.

His saber qi burst outward, forming a crescent moon shape.

"Saber Art—Moon-Splitter Arc!"

The attack curved in from two angles, cutting inward like twin jaws.

Miller finally moved.

His feet shifted.

He inhaled.

His qi surged like rolling boulders.

"Brooks Art—Stone Collapse."

He stepped forward and slamd both fists together, sending a shockwave rippling outward.

The moon-shaped slash broke apart on impact—dust exploding in every direction.

Evan stumbled backward, coughing.

He slashed wildly, sending smaller blades of qi.

Miller walked through them.

When he reached Evan, he exhaled slowly.

And struck.

One punch.

It didn't break a bone.

It didn't tear flesh.

It simply removed all the strength in Evan's body, dropping him to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.

The elder raised his voice.

"Winner—Miller Brooks!"

The crowd roared again—three intense matches, three stunning outcos.

The top ten was no longer predictable.

Evan was carried off the stage, dazed.

Miller returned to the Brooks pavilion, greeted with proud shoulder slaps and bright, relieved smiles.

Even the elder paused before speaking again, as if the montum of the competition had shaken even him.

Today was different.

Today, the weak were rising.

Today, the expected was collapsing.

The elder slowly raised his hand—

"Prepare for the next match."

He didn't announce the fighters yet.

He let the silence stretch.

The entire arena leaned forward.