Strength, Agility, Endurance—they weren't just stats anymore. They were threads in a tapestry he hadn't finished weaving. He had a plan for them. A vision. And he wouldn't squander points blindly chasing numbers when he could feel the transformation coming. His body, his instincts, even the system itself—it all whispered the same truth.
Soon.
So he left them untouched. Shelved for later use. For when the next wall rose, and he'd tear it down with exactly the force required.
His interface faded, and the room fell into silence once more.
Now that the voices of his mother and father had faded behind polished doors and perfumed politics, it was time.
Time to return to the only place that mattered.
The grounds.
The training field.
Because this was the part of the plan no one would see coming—not until it was too late.
Damien moved to the closet without ceremony, fingers brushing over rows of custom-tailored outfits, silks, branded eveningwear, a graveyard of pretense.
