Ricky stared at Valemont for a long, quiet moment. His glowing compound eyes dimmed slightly, and after a heavy silence, he gave a slow, deliberate nod—as if burdened by the very weight of the task he had placed upon his disciple's shoulders.
The gesture was subtle, but it carried gravity.
It was the kind of nod a war general might give to a soldier marching off to certain death.
Valemont felt it.
A strange pressure settled in his chest—not fear, not hesitation, but something heavier.
And then he saw it.
For a fleeting second, buried deep behind Ricky's alien visage, there was something human—something soft. A flicker of concern, like a master silently mourning the cost his student might pay.
That glimpse was enough.
Valemont's grip on the bundle of alchemical ingredients in his hand unconsciously tightened. The heat from his own body seemed to set the dried herbs trembling.
Inwardly, he made a quiet vow, his thoughts burning with resolve:
