"Won't take long."

Dominic didn't smile. But there was something close to approval in the way his shoulders shifted. Subtle. Measured.

"I hope not," he said. "Because once you've stabilized further, we'll start loading you with techniques. Real ones. Combat arts. System-linked disciplines. Skills you'll need in the field."

He turned back toward the window, his voice cool.

"The armory's already been notified. They'll begin construction of a tailored set for you once your resonance parameters are finalized. You'll also receive access keys to the Blackthorne restricted archives."

A pause.

"Assuming you don't melt the cultivation room."

Damien blinked.

Just once.

It wasn't the content of Dominic's words that caught him off guard—it was the tone. Not cold. Not clinical. But laced, just at the very edge, with something else.

A joke.

An actual joke.

His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing with something halfway between amusement and incredulity as he turned to study his father more directly. But Dominic didn't so much as glance at him.

The man kept his gaze forward, posture perfect, expression unreadable. As if he hadn't just implied his son might burn a multi-million credit cultivation chamber to the ground.

Damien kept watching him for a beat longer.

Still nothing.

Huh.

He leaned back into the seat, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, almost involuntarily. Was that a test? If so, it was a subtle one. His father's version of teasing, apparently, came with the same delivery as a war council.

Before Damien could respond, Dominic spoke again, smooth and businesslike—resetting the tone.

"You've taken quite a bit of time off from the Academy. Most likely, you won't be able to return this week either."

The statement was neutral, but Damien heard what lived just underneath.

"Make sure your performance doesn't fall off."

There it was.

The subtext.

Not just an order.

An expectation.

Damien's smile faded—but not in frustration. Something steadier took its place.

Because that line?

It meant a hell of a lot more than it sounded.

For most of his life, if Damien skipped school, Dominic didn't say a word. Didn't check his grades. Didn't read the instructor logs. Because back then, Damien was irrelevant. A background variable. No expectations meant no attention, and no attention meant freedom that doubled as exile.

But now?

Now Dominic was watching.

Because Damien had clawed his way from the bottom five percent to 23rd overall in less than two months. Not just passing. Thriving. Numbers that had turned faculty heads, caught the eye of instructors who'd once written him off as a placeholder on their rosters.

So this line from his father wasn't a scolding.

It was a warning.

Not to slip.

Not to lose traction.

Not to waste what he'd just bled to build.

He wants results now.

Which meant—finally—that Dominic had moved him off the list of liabilities and onto the board of assets.

Damien didn't mind that.

Assets were visible. Assets had power. And more importantly—

Assets made their own rules.

Damien's smirk came back, sharper this time, curling like he'd just been reminded of some private joke.

He gave a slow nod, his voice quiet but edged with intent.

"I won't fall behind."

Because who was he?

Some kid who needed pep talks to keep his grades afloat?

Please.

If anything, the lectures about "academic responsibility" were more like background noise—low-level static that barely touched him. The Academy wasn't his battlefield. It was just a place to keep the record clean while he worked on the things that actually mattered.

Still… there was one problem.

A very specific, brown-eyed, perpetually serious problem.

He could already picture it—the way she'd stand in front of his desk, arms crossed, a stack of annotated notes in her hand like they were a weapon. The sigh that was equal parts frustration and grudging tolerance.

Her voice: "You can't just disappear for a week and expect me to cover for the lectures again, Damien."

His smirk widened.

Yeah… she'd nag. She'd probably lecture him twice as hard as Dominic just had. And honestly?

He didn't mind it.

Not one bit.

It was almost entertaining watching her get all worked up about "structure" and "standards" while he sat there, perfectly relaxed, half-listening.

He then let his head tip back against the leather, the city lights flickering past in streaks of gold and silver.

Strange.

For someone who made a hobby of ignoring lectures, he shouldn't have been thinking about her at all. But there it was—the faint tug in the back of his mind. The cadence of her voice. The way she'd plant herself in front of him like she could physically block his bad habits.

He'd only been gone a little over some days. And yet…

Yeah. He'd missed her.

Maybe this was some sort of post-Cradle clarity state, if one can even say it like that?

The sooner he stabilized, the sooner he trained, the sooner he could get back to the Academy—not because he cared about the classes, but because she was there. And apparently, she'd carved herself into his mental map without asking.

His lips twitched upward.

Fine.

He'd finish whatever Dominic threw at him. He'd burn through cultivation cycles until the system sang. He'd do it all at double pace, just so he could walk back into that classroom like nothing had happened and watch her scowl turn into that reluctant almost-smile she thought he didn't notice.

The car slowed.

Through the tinted glass, shadows of manicured hedges and ironwork fences rose on either side, swallowing the city glow. The road curved, and the lights of the Elford estate began to bleed into view—white stone under soft floodlamps, every line of the building deliberate, immaculate.

The mansion didn't just appear.

It crept into the world, step by step, until its full height loomed ahead, an unspoken statement of wealth and weight that didn't need to brag.

The gates swung inward without a sound.

Home.

The tires crunched over the last stretch of gravel before settling into the smooth stone of the drive.

A soft chime came from the dash. The car's onboard AI spoke in its precise, polished tone:

[Arrival confirmed. Welcome home, Master Elford.]

The sedan eased to a halt, hydraulics hissing faintly. A moment later, the rear door clicked open.

Damien stepped out first, boots meeting the polished stone with a muted thud.

The night air was cool, still carrying the faint scent of wet greenery from the manicured hedges. He drew in a slow breath—only for the quiet to ripple.

A prickle touched the edge of his awareness.

An object is approaching, sir…

The thought flickered across his mind as naturally as breathing, instinct slotting into place before conscious reaction. His gaze cut toward the source—

—and then it was too late.

The "object" closed the last meter in a single heartbeat, colliding with him. Not with force—no, the impact was measured, controlled—but enough to rock him half a step back.

Warmth wrapped around him instantly, arms locking tight with the kind of hold that didn't need words.

His breath caught for the barest second, and then the scent hit him.

Familiar. Clean, with the faintest trace of her preferred perfume—sharp floral layered over something softer, rarer.

His lips curved faintly.

"Mother…"

Vivienne Elford didn't answer immediately. She only held him tighter, as if the past days hadn't been separated by kilometers but by years, and as if letting go would be some kind of loss.

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