The father's name is Malric.

That night, the sky was starless. Malric led his daughter to an empty field on the outskirts of the city. Without many words, he threw a knife onto the ground, right in front of her.

"Pick it up," he ordered coldly.

His daughter bent down, picking up the knife with trembling hands.

"Attack me," Malric continued.

She hesitated. But his gaze was like a cold nail pinning her in place.

She stepped forward. She attacked.

Malric dodged effortlessly, then quickly reversed the move. The tip of his knife stopped just an inch from her neck.

"The real world gives no room for hesitation," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "If you want to survive, you must be faster. More ruthless."

He pulled back. Without giving her a moment to breathe, he tossed another knife.

"Again," he commanded.

Under the dark sky, the training continued—harsh and without mercy.