The academy changed after the ultimatum.
Not visibly.Not openly.
But Kurogane felt it everywhere.
The air along the corridors was tighter, wards recalibrated to higher sensitivity. Observation arrays shifted more frequently, their presence subtle but constant—like eyes that never blinked. Even students who knew nothing of council matters began to move differently around him.
They gave space.
Not respect.Not fear.
Caution.
Kurogane walked alone across the upper courtyard, hands tucked into his sleeves, lightning unusually still beneath his skin. Not calm—contained. As if it were listening for something it hadn't yet been allowed to answer.
Raien joined him halfway across the stone bridge, walking slower than usual. The cane of crystallized fire tapped softly against the ground.
"They've restricted the eastern perimeter," Raien said casually. "Full lockdown protocols. No announcement."
"That means external pressure," Kurogane replied.
Raien glanced at him. "…You're getting better at reading people."
"Or worse at ignoring signs."
Raien gave a tired smile. "Fair."
They stopped at the edge of the bridge, overlooking the lower training fields where younger students practiced basic control drills, blissfully unaware of how thin the line between stability and disaster really was.
"I heard the council shortened your timeline again," Raien said quietly.
"No," Kurogane answered. "They clarified it."
Raien snorted. "That's worse."
Silence settled between them.
"You didn't ask," Raien said eventually.
"Ask what?"
"Whether I regret it."
Kurogane looked at him then.
Raien's expression was open—but guarded. The look of someone who had survived something and wasn't sure whether survival was a blessing or a debt.
"Do you?" Kurogane asked.
Raien exhaled slowly. "No."
A pause.
"But I'm not sure the academy deserves the version of you they're trying to create."
Kurogane didn't respond.
Because that thought had already taken root inside him.
The summons came at dusk.
No bells.No ceremony.
A single glyph flared to life on Kurogane's door—gold-edged and unmistakable. Mizuki Yukihana's authority.
He arrived to find the council chamber occupied—but incomplete.
Not all elders were present.
That worried him.
Mizuki stood at the center, hands folded behind her back. Raishin leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're early," Mizuki noted.
"You said immediate," Kurogane replied.
She nodded. "Good."
Masako sat alone among the seats, her old eyes sharp despite her stillness. Akihiko was conspicuously absent.
"The council has received confirmation," Mizuki said. "There has been a breach."
Kurogane's stomach tightened. "Inside the academy?"
"Not yet," Masako said softly. "But close enough to matter."
Raishin spoke. "Someone leaked your existence."
Silence hit like a physical blow.
"Outside factions," Mizuki continued, "were not meant to learn of you until classification stabilized. That window is gone."
"Which factions?" Kurogane asked.
"Several," Masako replied. "None publicly. All carefully."
Raishin pushed off the wall. "They don't want you dead."
"That's worse," Kurogane said quietly.
Mizuki watched him closely. "This is no longer an internal matter."
"So this is why the perimeter tightened," he said.
"Yes," she answered. "And why your training cannot remain defensive."
Kurogane lifted his head. "You're deploying me."
Raishin stiffened. "He's not ready."
"He doesn't need to be," Mizuki said. "He needs to be seen."
Masako nodded slowly. "A controlled exposure. Limited scope. High supervision."
Kurogane felt the lightning stir faintly in response—not eager, not hostile.
Aware.
"You're turning me into bait," he said.
Mizuki didn't deny it. "We're changing the narrative."
Raishin's voice dropped dangerously. "At the cost of his body."
"At the cost of uncertainty," Mizuki replied. "Which is already here."
She stepped closer to Kurogane.
"You will not fight," she continued. "You will exist under pressure. Appear publicly. Be observed. And most importantly—you will refuse to escalate."
Kurogane frowned. "And when they push?"
"Then we see," Masako said, "what kind of storm you truly are."
Raishin closed his eyes briefly.
"This is why lightning destroys nations," he said quietly. "Not because it strikes—but because people try to use it before they understand it."
Mizuki met his gaze. "Or because they fear it enough to strike first."
Kurogane exhaled slowly.
Three months.Eyes everywhere.The world leaning in closer.
"I'll do it," he said at last.
Raishin snapped his eyes open. "Kurogane—"
"On one condition," Kurogane continued, voice steady.
Mizuki raised an eyebrow. "Name it."
"If lightning moves," he said, "it moves on my terms. No forced release. No override."
Silence followed.
Then Masako smiled faintly.
"…He's learning where the real line is."
Mizuki considered him for a long moment.
"Accepted," she said.
As Kurogane turned to leave, Raishin spoke softly.
"The world doesn't know what it's asking for."
Kurogane paused at the doorway.
"Neither did lightning," he replied. "Until it met resistance."
Outside, the sky was clear—but too clear. The kind that came before pressure remembered it had somewhere else to go.
And deep inside Kurogane's chest, lightning settled—not content, not restrained.
Waiting.