Robert Osborn left the stage without ceremony. The roar of the crowd followed him like a distant tide, loud but already losing its shape, turning into sothing indistinct as his boots touched the stone steps leading down. Each step sent a dull ache through his ribs. His forearm throbbed where Conner's strike had torn skin and muscle, the wound hastily sealed by qi but far from healed.
He did not look back. At the Osborn Clan area, John Osborn was already standing, his face tight with concern that pride had not fully managed to hide. Essie rose as well, moving quickly but carefully, as if afraid that any sudden motion might make her brother collapse.
"You should sit," she said softly, her voice steady though her eyes were not. Robert nodded once and lowered himself onto the stone bench behind their section. The mont he sat, the tension he had been holding snapped loose. His shoulders sagged. His breathing deepened, uneven for a few beats before he forced it back under control.
Only then did he allow himself to feel it. Pain spread through his body in waves—his ribs, his arm, his side where Conner's sword had torn flesh. Weariness clung to him like a damp cloth, heavy and persistent. The fight had pushed him hard. Harder than he wanted to admit.
John Osborn placed a small jade bottle into his hand without a word.
"Healing pill," he said quietly. "Mid-grade. Take it now." Robert uncorked it and swallowed the pill. The bitter taste barely registered before warmth blood in his core, spreading outward in slow pulses. The pain did not vanish—but it softened, dulled at the edges, retreating just enough to beco manageable.
Essie passed him a second bottle. "Qi recovery." He nodded again and took it as well. This one burned. Energy rushed through his ridians, sharp and insistent, forcing stagnant qi into motion. Robert closed his eyes and leaned into it, guiding the flow instead of resisting it. His breath slowed. In. Out. In again.
Around him, the Osborn Clan fell quiet. No cheers. No celebration. They all knew what ca next.
Robert shifted into a cross-legged position, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His consciousness dipped inward, following the familiar pathways of his cultivation. Qi flowed through his channels in steady loops, washing over strained muscles and bruised bone.
Pain receded inch by inch. Fatigue loosened its grip. Not gone. Never gone. But no longer in control.
The next two battles will be worse, he thought calmly.
Harvey Walker… Max Brooks…
Both were stronger than Conner. More refined. Less reckless. If he stepped onto the stage again without being at full condition, he would lose. Not, maybe. Certainly.
Robert focused harder.
He adjusted his circulation, deepening the rhythm, pulling energy not just from the pills but from the air itself. Dawn qi still lingered faintly in the atmosphere, thin but clean. He drew it in, letting it mix with his own, smoothing rough edges left behind by the breakthrough.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The noise of the arena faded into the background hum. His awareness narrowed until there was only breath, pulse, and flow. The ache in his ribs dulled to a pressure. The burning in his arm cooled to a faint throb.
When he finally opened his eyes again, the world felt steadier. Not perfect. But ready. Two hours had passed. The elder's voice rolled across the arena, heavy and resonant.
"The Top Three battles are about to begin."
The crowd stirred instantly. People surged forward in their seats, conversations igniting like sparks in dry grass. Nas were shouted. Predictions thrown back and forth. The atmosphere tightened again, coiled and expectant.
Robert rose slowly to his feet.
Essie caught his sleeves. "Don't push yourself too far," she said, trying to sound casual and failing. "You already did enough."
Robert t her eyes and offered a faint smile. "I know." John Osborn said nothing. He simply placed a hand on Robert's shoulder, firm and grounding, then let go.
Across the arena, Harvey Walker and Max Brooks were already stepping onto the stage. The noise swelled. This was the match everyone had been waiting for from the beginning.
With his sword held loosely at his side and golden qi flowing in serene, disciplined currents all around him, Harvey stood tall and composed. His eyes were keen, evaluating everything, but his expression was unreadable.
Max Brooks faced him from the opposite side, shoulders squared, aura blazing with controlled intensity. The earlier fight with Essie had left marks on him—small cuts, a faint stiffness in his movent—but his presence was no less dangerous for it.
Two peak-stage cultivators. Two completely different styles. The elder lifted his arm.
"Begin."
They moved at the sa ti. Harvey advanced with smooth, efficient steps, his footwork economical, never wasted. Max t him head-on, sword flashing in a powerful horizontal arc that forced Harvey to pivot aside rather than block.
Sword rang. Sparks scattered.
Harvey countered imdiately, sword snapping forward in a precise thrust aid at Max's shoulder. Max twisted, letting it graze past, then answered with a downward slash that cracked the stone where Harvey had just stood.
They separated, then collided again. Fast. Clean. Violent.
Neither of them was ready to back down as their swords clashed in rapid duels. Harvey moved with purpose, his steps asured and almost graceful. Max's were heavier and more forceful, pressing forward with relentless pressure.
Blood appeared early.
A shallow cut opened along Max's forearm when Harvey slipped past his guard. Monts later, Max returned the favour, his blade carving a line across Harvey's thigh that darkened his robes.
Neither slowed. Neither spoke. The crowd barely breathed. They circled, swords low, eyes locked, then surged forward again. With every interaction, Qi flared, their auras grinding against one another like opposing tides.
Harvey shifted angles, drawing Max into overcommitting, then struck—only for Max to brute-force through the attack, shouldering past the pain to land a heavy blow that sent Harvey sliding back several steps. The impact rattled the stage.
Harvey straightened slowly, blood dripping from his leg, and for the first ti, his expression changed—sothing sharp and focused settling in his gaze.
He raised his sword. The next exchange was brutal. Their swords t again and again, sparks bursting with every impact, both n pushing their limits. Max's breathing grew heavier. Harvey's steps slowed just slightly.
Then it happened. Max lunged, pouring everything into a single forward thrust, trying to break through with sheer force. Harvey stepped aside at the last possible instant and countered in the sa motion, his blade flashing in a clean, decisive arc.
The strike landed across Max's chest. Not deep enough to kill. Deep enough to end the fight.
Max staggered back, blood soaking his robes, his sword slipping from numb fingers. He dropped to one knee, his breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.
Silence fell. The elder's voice cut through it.
"Winner—Harvey Walker."
The arena erupted. Not with surprise. With awe. Harvey lowered his sword and turned away without a word, his steps steady despite the blood trailing him.
The elder raised his hand again. "Thirty minutes' rest before the next match." The crowd buzzed, voices rising with speculation and anticipation. Many eyes turned, almost instinctively, toward Robert.
He felt them.
Every stare. Every question. Thirty minutes passed faster than expected.
Then the elder's voice rang out once more.
"For the next match—Max Brooks… and Robert Osborn."
The reaction was imdiate and explosive. Cheers. Gasps. Shouts of disbelief and excitent twisted together. No one knew what to expect anymore.
Max stepped forward again, pale but upright, his jaw clenched. Robert moved to the opposite side of the stage, calm, silent, his injuries hidden beneath a steady posture and controlled breath.
They stopped several paces apart. Max's eyes burned with resolve.
Roberts was still. The pressure between them thickened, heavy enough to taste.
The elder lifted his arm.
And the arena leaned forward as one.
The next battle was about to begin.
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