Marrionette clapped her hands once.
"Time's up."
And Malichi felt it before he fully understood it. A subtle lurch beneath his feet, a soft hum that ran up his legs. The stone floor of the library trembled, then began to rise.
It lifted as if the building itself had decided to breathe in.
The wide circular section where the hundred newly initiated disciples sat elevated smoothly, stone seams sliding apart with precise, practiced motion. Runes long hidden beneath the floor briefly glimmered, lines of pale blue light tracing complex geometric patterns before fading back into dormancy.
Within moments, the raised platform stood several feet above the rest of the library floor.
A mock stadium.
Malichi's eyebrows rose despite himself.
He glanced around. Most of the other kids were staring openly now, some with awe, others with unease. A few shifted nervously, adjusting their stances as if the sudden elevation had turned thought into reality: This is really happening.
Marrionette turned her head slightly and flicked two fingers toward the perimeter.
"Instructors," she said, tone casual. "Positions."
The response was immediate.
The cultivation instructors-men and women dressed in muted clan robes-moved without hesitation. They flowed into place around the arena's edge, spacing themselves evenly, forming a loose but unmistakable ring.
Each one radiated a restrained pressure.
Malichi had been around cultivators long enough his whole life to know. Peak Qi Manipulation.
He swallowed lightly.
Feeling it. Dozens of trained cultivators standing ready, attention sharpened, spiritual senses fully open. It was something else entirely.
They weren't here to watch.
They were here to intervene.
The elders, however, were another matter.
Malichi's eyes flicked briefly toward them. Elder Grigs and the others remained exactly where they were, floating or seated as if the arena were nothing more than an interesting decoration.
Unmoved.
Unconcerned.
That, weirdly, gave him some small comfort.
His gaze returned to his aunty.
Marrionette stood at the arena's centre, hands clasped loosely behind her back, posture relaxed to the point of insult. Her eyes swept over the gathered disciples with detached appraisal, as if she were evaluating tools laid out on a table.
"Listen carefully," she said.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried. It always did.
"Don't worry about holding back."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
Malichi's shoulders tensed slightly.
"The instructors surrounding you," Marrionette continued, gesturing vaguely at the ring of cultivators, "are all peak Qi Manipulation Realm. Their reaction time is more than sufficient to stop anything that crosses the line."
She tilted her head.
"So fight seriously."
That earned a few sharp intakes of breath.
"However," she added immediately, eyes narrowing just a fraction, "do not go for crippling or killing blows."
Her tone flattened.
"I don't care how angry you are. I don't care how much you dislike each other. This is an orientation, not a blood feud."
Malichi nodded internally.
That much was expected.
Even if the instructors could intervene, deliberately attempting to cripple a fellow clansman, especially in front of elders, would be a stain that never fully washed away. Reputation mattered in the Hans clan. Intent mattered even more.
Marrionette's gaze hardened slightly.
"If I see anyone trying to cross that line," she paused, "Just make sure it doesn't happen."
A few kids visibly paled.
She let the silence stretch, then sighed softly, like someone inconvenienced by the necessity of speaking at all.
"Now," she said, waving a hand, "all of you will fight. At the same time. No brackets. No teams unless you form them yourselves. Though their can only be one winner."
A beat.
"Begin when you're ready."
That was it.
No countdown. No signal horn.
Malichi exhaled slowly. His heart thudded. This was his first real chance to show something.
Not just to the instructors. Not just to the elders.
To everyone.
His gaze slid instinctively toward Zareck and Will.
They stood a short distance away, backs straight, expressions composed. Will looked focused, eyes sharp, fingers flexing slightly as if testing invisible tension. Zareck was… harder to read.
As always.
His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but Malichi knew better. There was something coiled about him, something unsettlingly calm.
I can't fight alongside them.
The thought was one he has had since his aunt had first explained they were all to fight.
If they stood together, the three of them, most of the other kids wouldn't touch them.
Some out of fear.
Some out of politics.
Some because Malichi Hans, son of Freidak Hans, carried weight whether he liked it or not.
If he grouped with them, it wouldn't be a fair assessment for any of them.
And he hated that.
Malichi clenched his fists briefly, then made a decision.
He would step away.
He created further distance between himself and Zareck and Will, angling toward a more open section of the arena where several other disciples were already eyeing one another warily.
Solo.
Offensive.
If he wanted to prove something, he'd do it alone.
He released a quiet breath-and then froze.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement.
Will glanced up, caught his gaze, and frowned slightly in question.
Malichi hesitated, then gave a small, apologetic shrug.
A second later, Zareck looked over too.
For a brief moment, the three of them simply looked at one another across the shifting space of the arena.
Then Will grinned.
He raised his thumb.
Zareck followed a heartbeat later, lifting his own hand in a casual thumbs-up, lips quirking into a faint smile.
Support.
Understanding.
Malichi felt something in his chest loosen.
He smiled back, genuine this time, and nodded once.
Good, he thought. They get it.
The tension in the arena finally snapped.
Someone moved.
Malichi didn't see who struck first, only that suddenly spiritual energy flared, bodies lunged, and the mock stadium erupted into motion.
Shouts echoed.
Stone scuffed under rapid footwork.
Malichi didn't wait.
He stepped forward and released.
His cultivation flared outward. Body Forging Realm, second level. Strength flowed into his limbs, into his stance, grounding him.
A boy rushed him from the left, wielding a short staff clumsily, eyes wide with adrenaline. The poor sod probably hadn't even realised who he charged at. Little chance he would have attacked if the adrenaline had not took hold of him.
Malichi pivoted.
He let the staff whistle past his shoulder, stepped inside the guard, and struck. Not with full force, but with precision. A sharp palm to the sternum.
The boy flew backward, skidding across the stone before rolling to a stop, coughing but unharmed.
A cultivation instructor appeared before he could even realise it and took the floored boy onto his shoulder and just as easily disappeared too the outside of the elevated arena.
Malichi was already moving again.
Another opponent approached more cautiously this time, fists raised, aura flickering unevenly.
Good, Malichi thought. At least they're thinking.
He adjusted his breathing, centred himself, and met the attack head-on.
This was what he'd dreamed for. Ever since he heard those stories of cultivation.
Around him, the arena had become chaos, pairs clashing, techniques half-formed, instructors stepping in flashes of motion whenever it was needed.
Above it all, Malichi caught a glimpse of Marrionette watching.
Her expression was unreadable.
That didn't matter.
Malichi squared his shoulders, stepped forward, and threw himself fully into the fight. Not as Freidak's son, not as an elder's nephew, but as a cultivator determined to carve his own place.
Solo.