Ethan stayed where he was, lowering his gaze to his hands.
White arcs still danced over his fingertips—so familiar it was practically part of his breathing. But for the first time, he understood it differently.
It wasn't that his power was weak.
It wasn't pure enough.
The reason his lightning hadn't punched through that spatial wall wasn't because Thunder's Power was lacking. It was because the white lightning he'd released still hadn't reached its most refined state.
That realization stilled him for a beat.
Then Ethan drew a slow breath.
He didn't rush to strike again. Instead, he redirected the power inside him, pulling back the lightning he'd been releasing, compressing it bit by bit—pressing, purifying, stripping away the scattered glow.
The white arcs gradually thinned. The messy, drifting light was peeled off layer by layer, until only the densest core remained in his palm.
