The elder's arm fell. No dramatic flourish followed. No signal horn. Just the quiet certainty of authority—and the air changed. Robert Osborn felt it imdiately.
Max Brooks moved first. Not fast. Not reckless. He stepped forward with asured pressure, his boots grinding against the stone as if testing it. His sword hung low, angled just enough to threaten without committing. His aura rolled outward in steady waves, heavy with exhaustion yet still dense, still sharp.
Spirit Root Realm — Level Five, Peak Stage. Even wounded, Max was dangerous. Robert adjusted his stance, his weight settling into his heels, breathing slowly and controlled. His injuries protested the mont he shifted. His ribs tightened. His arm burnt faintly where blood had already dried beneath his sleeve.
Ten minutes, he thought calmly. I can hold for ten minutes. The crowd had gone strangely quiet. They had cheered earlier. They had shouted. Now they watched. Max attacked without warning.
A straight thrust—simple, direct, but backed by terrifying force. Robert slid aside, Shadow Step carrying him just off the sword's path. His counter ca imdiately, Twin Dragon Fang coiling toward Max's wrist.
Steel t steel.
CLANG. The shock rattled Robert's arm. Max barely floated. "Still standing," Max said under his breath. Not mocking. Almost impressed.
He pressed forward.
Their swords moved in tight arcs, neither wasting space nor overextending. Max's strikes ca heavy and deliberate, forcing Robert to respond perfectly or be crushed. Robert answered with precision—angles instead of strength, timing instead of force.
The first minute passed. Then the second. Sweat slid down Robert's spine. His breath stayed steady, but the effort grew heavier with every exchange. Max's stamina was monstrous; even injured, he drove forward without hesitation.
A low slash caught Robert's thigh. Blood blood. The crowd gasped.
Robert retreated two steps, Shadow Step cushioning the withdrawal. He did not rush. He did not panic. He reset his stance, breath syncing again.
Max advanced, with the sword rising.
"Still no tricks?" Max asked. "Just skill?" Robert did not answer. He stepped in instead. Their swords clashed again—faster now, sharper. Sparks scattered across the stage, skittering like fireflies before fading. Robert slipped inside Max's range, Twin Dragon Fang twisting upward—
Max blocked.
The impact sent both sliding back. Five minutes. Robert's arms trembled faintly now. His breathing deepened, drawing more air with each cycle. His vision narrowed at the edges, not from fear but from fatigue.
Max noticed.
He smiled—not cruelly, but with satisfaction. "There it is," he said. "You are slowing." He surged forward, pressure intensifying, the sword flashing in a tight sequence of strikes that forced Robert into constant motion. Shadow Step carried Robert sideways, then back, then forward again—each movent perfectly tid, each breath counted.
One mistake would end it. Seven minutes. Robert's shoulder took a glancing blow. Pain flared brightly and sharply. He tasted blood. The crowd leaned forward.
"he is bleeding again—"
"How is he still moving?"
Robert adjusted his grip, fingers tightening around the hilt. He drew deeper into his qi, not releasing more power—just refining what he already used. Cleaner circulation. Tighter control.
Max lunged, overcommitting for just a fraction of a second. Robert saw it.
Shadow Step carried him inward. Twin Dragon Fang coiled—not wide, not loud—just enough. The blade cut across Max's side. Blood was sprayed.
Max staggered, snarling, fury flashing across his face. He swung back with everything he had left, rage driving his arm. Robert t it head-on. CLANG. The impact echoed across the arena.
Both n froze for a heartbeat, swords locked, and their breath was harsh and uneven.
Then Max's knees buckled. He fell back one step. Then another. His sword slipped from his hand. Silence spread outward like a held breath.
The elder's voice cut cleanly through it.
"Winner—Robert Osborn."
For a mont, no one reacted. Then disbelief rippled through the stands.
Again? "He beat Max Brooks…?" "That is impossible—"
"How does he keep winning?"
Robert stood where he was, chest heaving, blood dripping steadily onto the stone. He did not raise his sword. He did not celebrate. He closed his eyes for a second—and exhaled.
The elder announced a thirty-minute rest. Robert barely heard it.
Back at the Osborn Clan area, he sank onto the stone bench again, the motion slower this ti. His body felt heavy, every muscle strained, every joint protesting.
He took the pills and sat in a cross-legged posture, breathing and circulating with his technique.
But this ti, it was harder. The healing warmth numbed pain but could not erase exhaustion. His qi responded sluggishly at first, resisting the command to flow cleanly. Robert forced patience, guiding it gently, refusing to rush.
One more fight, he told himself—just one. Thirty minutes passed too quickly. The elder's voice rose again. "The final match of the Top Three—Harvey Walker versus Robert Osborn."
The arena erupted. Shock. Excitent. Fear. Robert stood, steadying himself before stepping forward. Across the stage, Harvey Walker waited.
Tall. Calm. Untouched.
His sword rested at his side, his golden aura controlled and deep, radiating certainty. He looked at Robert and smiled—not warmly. "So," Harvey said, loud enough for the arena to hear. "Luck really carried you far."
Murmurs spread. "You beat injured opponents," Harvey continued. "You survive on timing and chance. But here?" His gaze hardened. "You will kneel."
Robert stopped several paces away. Harvey leaned forward slightly. "And when you do," he added quietly, "you will beg." The words sent a chill through the stands.
This was not banter. This was hatred. Old. Personal. Deep. Robert did not respond. He lifted his sword into position. The arena fell silent again.
Blades ready. Breath held. Eyes locked.
The final battle waited—inevitable, dangerous, and deeply personal.
The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Robert felt everything now—the ache in his bones, the thin line between steadiness and collapse, and the weight of every eye pressed against his back. Yet his grip did not falter. His breath remained even.
Harvey noticed that.
For the first ti, his smile thinned.
This was no longer a match decided by strength alone. It was resolved against certainty, restraint against dominance, and a quiet challenger standing before a power that had ruled unquestioned for years.
And the city waited to see which belief would break first.
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