"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.
