The infirmary remained silent save for the occasional flickering of the mana lanterns. Damien sat upright, one hand resting on his lap, the other gripping the hilt of his Zhamandao.
His fingers traced the patterns carved into its surface, feeling the faint warmth pulsing beneath his touch.
The spirit within the blade stirred.
"You're awake," Damien muttered, his voice low but steady.
A moment of silence passed before the response came—hesitant, uncertain.
"I… think so," the Zhamandao's spirit replied, its voice carrying a faint echo, as if struggling to maintain form.
