He hit the floor with precision, not power.
No wasted motion. No dramatic exertion.
Just clean, quiet efficiency.
Push-ups. Core holds. Motion drills. Form compression cycles designed by the system to burn energy in narrow bands—forcing each muscle group to operate at max load without the explosive waste of typical combat training.
He didn't need to bulk anymore.
He needed refinement.
Density.
Control.
Each breath came colder than the last, his body already past the burn, now entering that space where the stats began pressing back—not from fatigue, but from anticipation.
The system wanted him to breach the ceiling.
But he didn't give it permission. Not yet.
Not until he was standing at the vault's door.
The final set ended with a quiet exhale. Damien wiped his neck, chest still bare, the training shirt clinging loosely at the collar where sweat had collected but not spilled.
He heard the footsteps before he saw her.
Elysia.
Steady. Even. Echoless.
