Freidak Hans rose from his seat.
The movement was unhurried, deliberate, yet it shifted the air in the hall as if something vast had stood up. Malichi felt it immediately, that quiet pressure that never needed to announce itself.
"Come at me," Freidak said.
Malichi blinked. "Father?"
"I want to feel it."
Malichi's surprise showed, despite his effort to suppress it. He straightened instinctively, confusion flickering across his face. "You already have," he said carefully. "A Body Forging cultivator can't evade the senses of a Core realm cultivator ."
Freidak's eyes narrowed.
A faint frown creased his brow, the kind that made entire halls fall silent when directed at council elders. Malichi felt suddenly as though he had answered incorrectly, though he could not say why.
Before Freidak could respond, a calm voice drifted from the side of the hall.
"Some things," Malichi's mother said gently, "are best felt, not simply discerned, my dear."
Malichi turned his head.
She stood near one of the pillars, hands folded within her sleeves, expression warm but knowing. There was no reproach in her eyes, only certainty.
Malichi exhaled slowly.
"I understand," he said.
He rose to his feet and took several steps back, putting distance between himself and his father. His heart beat faster now, not from fear, but from awareness. This was not a spar. Not a lesson.
This was evaluation.
Freidak did not move. He did not adopt a stance. He merely stood there, hands clasped behind his back, utterly open.
That alone was terrifying.
Malichi clenched his fist.
The teachings of the Celestial Roots Binding Manual surfaced in his mind, not as words, but as instinct. He did not try to gather energy evenly. He did not spread his focus across his entire body.
Intent sank deep into his arm, binding there with practiced familiarity. Muscle tightened. Tendons drew taut. Spiritual energy flowed along his arm.
His right fist felt heavy.
Dense.
As if it carried more of him than the rest of his body combined.
Malichi stepped forward.
Then he struck.
The punch was clean, direct, unadorned. No wasted movement. At least as much as a kid without combat experience could do. No flourish. Just forward momentum backed by focused intent.
The air thumped.
Freidak lifted one hand.
Two fingers met Malichi's fist.
The impact did not echo. It did not explode.
It sank.
Malichi felt the force of his strike vanish, absorbed completely, as though it had been swallowed by deep water. The shock ran back up his arm, rattling his bones and forcing him to take a half-step back to steady himself.
He expected as much.
Freidak lowered his hand slowly.
Malichi's arm throbbed. Not painfully, but insistently. His knuckles tingled, skin flushed with heat. He had held nothing back.
And his father had stopped it with two fingers. Probably with one if he felt like it.
Freidak studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.
"You chose a root," he said. "And you committed to it."
Malichi bowed his head slightly, breathing hard. "Yes, Father."
A faint smile touched Freidak's lips Brief, restrained, but unmistakable.
"Good," he said. "You've taken your first real step."
Again it wasn't really parsed as a question, but a statement.
From the corner, Malichi's mother watched them both, her smile deepening just a fraction.
The hall fell quiet once more.
But to Malichi Hans, it no longer felt empty.
Freidak's gaze did not leave Malichi's arm.
It lingered there, not on the skin or muscle, but on something deeper, on the way Malichi stood, the subtle tension in his frame, the faint residual hum that had yet to fully fade from his strike.
"The roots of Strength and Speed."
Malichi stiffened slightly, then relaxed.
"It's a simple pairing," Freidak continued, his tone even. "The first choice of countless cultivators who believe directness equals clarity."
Malichi lowered his head a fraction, unsure whether that was criticism or observation.
Freidak went on.
"Simple does not mean ineffective. Those roots have been tested more than any other across history. In competent hands, they are deadly." His eyes sharpened. "In decisive hands, even more so."
He nodded once.
Approval.
Malichi felt his chest loosen, just slightly.
"You've reached the second level of the Body Forging Realm," Freidak said. "And you're already pressing against the threshold of the third."
The thirteen year old nodded sheepily.
"In three days," Freidak added calmly. "That is no small achievement. Not in this city. Not even in the wider Bazurn Province."
The words carried weight.
Malichi bowed more deeply this time. "I… only advanced so quickly because I used a spirit fruit, Father."
Freidak's expression did not soften.
Instead, he frowned.
"Do not fake humility in front of me."
Malichi froze.
Freidak stepped closer, his presence suddenly heavier, more focused. "One low-grade spirit fruit does not carry a cultivator from nothing to the verge of the third level. It might smooth the path. It might shorten recovery."
His eyes locked onto Malichi's.
"But it does not replace talent, nor resolve."
Malichi swallowed.
"Yes, Father."
Freidak studied him for another heartbeat, then nodded slightly, the pressure easing.
"Remember that," he said. "False modesty is as distasteful as arrogance. Know what you are... and what you are not."
He turned toward the exit of the hall, robes whispering softly as he walked.
"You've done well," Freidak said over his shoulder. "But do not let early progress dull your awareness."
He paused at the doorway.
"The public lecture with Elder Grigs begins shortly," he added. "Do not be late."
Malichi straightened immediately. "I won't be."
Freidak gave a final nod and departed, his presence receding like a tide pulling back from shore.
The hall felt lighter.
Malichi remained standing for a moment, then released a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
His mother approached quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You handled that well," she said softly.
Malichi smiled faintly. "He always sees more than I expect."
She smiled in return. "That's why he leads."
Malichi nodded, then turned and made his way out of the hall, footsteps steady, mind already shifting toward the coming lecture.
Second level.
Near the third.
Three days.
As he stepped into the sunlight, Malichi Hans clenched his fist once, feeling the bound roots within respond instantly.
This was only the beginning.
And he intended to make every day count.