While Damien was sealed inside the cocoon, time crawled forward in silent increments, unnoticed by the outside world.
The cocoon, once soft and malleable like flesh-wrapped silk, began to undergo a gradual metamorphosis. Its surface hardened with each passing hour, as if responding to some hidden command within. Thin threads of gold appeared—at first faint and flickering like fireflies—but soon thickened and multiplied, sprawling like a network of glowing roots. They intertwined over the cocoon's surface in an intricate lattice, pulsing gently as if alive.
These veins were not just conduits for raw mana—they carried something deeper, something older. Upon closer inspection, one would see minuscule runes flowing within them like fish in a stream, etched in luminous script that shifted with every pulse. Each rune, delicate yet potent, slipped into the cocoon's surface and vanished inside, where they began to shape what lay within—molding Ricky's essence with quiet precision.
