The Five Chosen
Robert stepped into the hall. The stone floor was cold, but it helped settle his nerves.
Sunlight came through the windows in thin bands. "The light was dim, but it cast just enough glow to reveal the outlines of the room."
He caught the faint smell of incense, mixed with old wood and dust.
At the other end of the hall, his father, John Osborn, sat with two elders nearby. No one spoke.
Meanwhile, three familiar figures were sitting nearby: Ronan, Sarah, and a boy named Taylen Osborn, whom Robert hadn't seen in quite some time.
Taylen's posture was flawless; his robes were crisp, and his presence was controlled and confident.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Robert and Emer, and he gave a greeting. Ronan and Sarah also offered respectful nods as the two approached.
Robert and Emer returned the gesture with quiet focus.
The moment the clan head lifted his hand, all five of them turned, alert and focused.
Robert and Emer stepped forward and gave a short bow.
They didn't lower their heads too much—just enough to show respect.
"John Osborn and the elders exchanged a glance before offering a slow nod. Their expressions remained composed, but a flicker of approval passed through their eyes—quiet, yet unmistakable."
The clan head then continued, his voice calm but firm.
"You've all made significant strides," he said. "Every single one of you has displayed growth, discipline, and a level of potential that goes beyond what we anticipated."
He paused, eyes moving across the five of them.
"You've been chosen to stand for the Osborn Clan in the competition ahead."
A hushed silence followed. Even knowing the purpose of the meeting, the weight of the words still landed with force.
"The competition is in ten days," he continued. "You will face opponents from other clans—each one stronger, smarter, and more experienced than the last.
It's not just about skill. It's about making sure the Osborn name gets the respect it deserves.
The clan leaders beside him nodded in silent agreement.
John stepped forward.
John Osborn continued, his tone steady.
Over the next ten days, you'll be working on sharpening the skills you already possess. "Should the need arise, Elder Alex and Eissa will offer guidance on your path."
The five of them gave quiet nods. No one spoke, but the shift in their expressions was clear — they understood what was coming.
"We understand," Ronan said, voice steady. The others followed with quiet agreement.
John gave one final look at each of them. "You may leave now."
With a final respectful bow, the five youths turned and left the grand hall together, silent but focused.
The echo of their footsteps faded as they made their way to the clan's main training hall.
"Without a word, each of them moved to their designated spot in the training yard. The sharp ring of drawn steel filled the air, feet kicked up dust from the packed ground, and the space buzzed with focused energy."
"The first few days passed in a haze of sweat, aching muscles, and bruises—each session pushing their limits harder than the last."
Under Elder Alex's sharp eyes and Eissa's relentless pressure, Ronan, Sara, and Emer had no room for hesitation.
"Every mistake was spotted instantly—right in the middle of a move. Instead of stopping to explain, the elders responded by raising the intensity, forcing them to adapt under pressure."
By the seventh day, their timing had improved. Ronan's strikes came faster, more deliberate. Sara had stopped overextending on her lunges. Emer had finally begun reading his opponent's weight before committing to a block.
Even Taylen, who'd struggled at first, was starting to find his footing. His steps didn't shuffle as much. His hands didn't shake on the hilt. And when Eissa came at him fast, he didn't flinch anymore—he stood his ground.
Every thud, every flash of qi in the air, felt like something breaking loose inside them—hesitation, doubt, fear.
With the help of a high-quality pill that Robert had provided, Taylen successfully broke through to Body Tempering Level 9.
The breakthrough didn't just bring him more power—it strengthened his combat foundation, refining his reflexes and presence in battle.
Robert had it rougher than the rest. Breaking through took more than effort—it cost him two pills and everything he had in focus and will. But in the end, he managed.
His strength jumped a notch. The energy in his body felt tighter now, heavier. More real.
But the moment that rush settled, a thought hit him hard: this was only going to get more expensive. If they wanted to keep improving—he or anyone else—they'd need better stuff. Herbs. Pills. Spirit stones. Things they didn't just have lying around.
The system didn't speak much, but its quiet prods pushed him to look deeper into alchemy.
He understood now—he had to refine even higher-grade pills, not just for him but for the growth of the entire Osborn Clan.
Meanwhile, his Twin Dragon Fang sword technique surged ahead. With each practised motion and battle, his mastery grew sharper.
He had now reached 85% proficiency, the sword arcs flowing like liquid fire, dangerously beautiful.
With a quiet inhale, Robert locked his grip on the sword, every muscle bracing for what came next.
The days of being looked down upon were over.
The morning sun had barely crested over the Osborn estate when the summons came.
All five stood tall—Robert, Ronan, Sara, Emer, and Taylen—summoned to the grand hall.
The moment they stepped in, the room felt heavier. Not physically—but something in the air made them straighten up.
John Osborn stood at the front, arms behind his back. A few elders stood nearby, silent.
He looked them over, then gave a small nod.
"You've come a long way," he said. "Today's different. The Clan Competition starts now."
Silence enveloped the room. Even the younger crowd seemed to be holding their breath.
"Our target is the West Market," John continued, his expression growing grave.
"That district is the backbone of the Osborn Clan's income.
If we lose it, we'll find it much harder to gather the resources necessary for cultivation and trading.
Everything we've built—and everything we hope to develop—depends on this battle."
"He pointed toward the map laid out before them, its surface marked with routes and clan borders."
"Three clans are participating in this competition.
Each clan will send five representatives. Each member must fight in ten matches—fifty battles total per clan.
"Whichever clan secures the most wins will earn their place in the final match," the elder explained.
Robert lifted an eyebrow and asked calmly, "Which clan will we face in the final round?"
"Only the first and second-ranking clans will face off in the final match," John explained with a nod.
In this competition, all five members from each qualifying clan will face off, fighting one at a time.
"The clan that comes out on top will gain full control of the Market, just as our agreement states."
A heavy silence settled in the hall.
"Don't treat this like a game," John said, not raising his voice, but everyone heard him. "This isn't just about showing off."
We're talking about our future here. If we succeed, we'll gain valuable resources and enhance our standing.
"If we lose, we'll be left behind—and our enemies won't hesitate to strike."
He looked to each of them in turn. "You've trained hard. You've broken limits. "Now, the real fight begins—not just for yourself, but for every soul in the Osborn Clan."
John nodded once and stepped back, his gaze steady. "Two hours until it begins. Use the time well."
The gates of the Crimson Arena rose before them, rough black stone etched with worn clan symbols—each one telling stories of battles past.
Around the arena, voices mingled—older clan elders in heavy robes, young fighters bouncing on the balls of their feet, eyes sharp and restless, and merchants setting up stalls, their chatter mixing with the clink of coins.
A few flags hung limp while others snapped sharply in the breeze, frayed threads dancing at their edges. The crowd shifted restlessly, unease crawling beneath the surface like pressure building before a summer storm.
Robert moved through the gates with Ronan, Sara, Emer, and Taylen close behind him.
The deep blue Osborn crest adorned their robes, crisp and clear for all to see.
As they entered the staging area, rival clan members watched from across the stone courtyard—some with amusement, others with veiled hostility.
"Look who finally showed up," someone muttered from the James Clan's side, earning a few chuckles.
Ronan smirked but said nothing. Robert's gaze stayed forward, sharp and steady.
His aura, though restrained, flickered with controlled power—a silent reminder that the Osborns were no longer a clan to mock.
An elder climbed the platform and looked out over the crowd. His silver eyes moved slowly from face to face. The gold badge on his robe caught a flash of sunlight. When he spoke, his voice was steady and carried through the arena.
"By ancient accord, the West Market shall be claimed through strength. Three clans. Five warriors each. Ten individual battles. The top two scoring clans will proceed to the final team battle."
He fell silent for a moment, giving the weight of his words time to settle.
"To the victors—rights to the market. To the defeated—withdrawal for ten years."
An uneasy silence settled, as if the wind itself had paused to watch.
John Osborn stood behind his clan's formation, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Elder Alex and Eissie stood beside him, their eyes on the younger generation.
Quiet pride burned in their stares.
"This is it," Emer whispered beside Robert.
Robert nodded. "No mistakes. No hesitation."
Sara moved forward, stretching her fingers. "Let's show them the strength of the Osborns."
The drums began to beat—a slow, thunderous rhythm that signaled the first battle was moments away.
As Robert glanced toward the sky, he let his breath flow calmly. A faint thrum echoed in his core—the system stirring. These battles wouldn't just measure power; they would shape the path ahead.
And the first clash was about to begin.