The elder's voice faded, and for a moment the world felt suspended between breaths. Robert Osborn stood at the edge of the stage, the stone beneath his boots darkened by old blood—his own and others'. His muscles ached with a deep, grinding fatigue that no pill could fully erase. His breath was steady only because he forced it to be. Every inhale scraped against sore ribs; every exhale carried heat from overworked meridians.
Across from him, Harvey Walker waited. He stood straight-backed, sword held loosely at his side, golden qi flowing around him, restrained rhythm. Unlike Max or Conner, Harvey looked untouched. His robes were clean. His breathing was calm. His presence pressed outward with quiet authority, like a mountain that had never known decay.
This was the Walker Clan's heir. The arena was silent enough that Robert could hear the faint creak of wood from the stands. Then Robert reached into his storage ring. The motion was simple, almost casual. Steel flashed.
