The statement was released before sunset.
It spread through Asterra with impressive efficiency—copied onto crystal sheets, echoed by messengers, repeated by voices trained to sound reassuring.
"The exchange proceeded as planned. Minor resonance feedback occurred due to environmental interference. No danger was present. The subject remains stable."
Raishin read it once.
Then tore the page in half.
"Minor," he said quietly. "They compressed his core."
Mizuki stood at the window of their temporary quarters, watching distant towers glimmer under false calm. "They reframed it before we could object."
"They lied," Raien snapped.
"Yes," Masako replied from her seat. "That is reframing."
Kurogane lay on the narrow bed behind them, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His body felt wrong—not injured, not exhausted.
Mapped.
Every breath carried a faint internal resistance, as if something inside him had been bent and hadn't fully returned.
"They're setting a narrative," Mizuki continued. "If something happens later, this becomes precedent."
Raishin turned sharply. "We leave at first light."
"No," Mizuki said. "That would confirm instability."
Raishin's voice dropped. "Or prevent harm."
Before Mizuki could answer, Kurogane spoke.
"It's already late," he said softly.
They all turned.
Kurogane sat up slowly. "Whatever they were testing—it didn't end in that room."
Raishin felt it then.
A chill, deep and old.
"Describe it," he said carefully.
Kurogane swallowed. "The lightning didn't fight me. It… aligned. Like it recognized a structure."
Raishin's hands clenched.
"That's impossible," Raien muttered.
"No," Raishin said. "It's familiar."
The word hung like a blade.
That night, Raishin did not sleep.
Instead, memory found him.
Years Ago
The room had no windows.
Only stone. Wards etched so deep they bled faint blue light. A chamber built for endurance, not survival.
"You're holding it wrong," Hoshin Raiketsu said calmly.
Young Raishin stood shaking, lightning crawling beneath his skin—not striking, not discharging.
Compressing.
"I'm grounding," Raishin gasped. "Like you showed me."
Hoshin shook his head. "Grounding leaks. Containment teaches obedience."
Raishin screamed as pressure folded inward, nerves firing in places nerves weren't meant to exist.
"Listen to it," Hoshin continued, voice almost gentle. "Lightning wants form. Give it a boundary and it will comply."
Raishin collapsed to one knee.
"I can't—"
"You must," Hoshin interrupted. "The world won't forgive chaos again."
The air cracked.
Not outward.
Inward.
Raishin felt something tear—not flesh.
Orientation.
When it ended, he couldn't feel his left hand.
Hoshin stared—not horrified.
Fascinated.
"…It adapted," he whispered.
Raishin looked up through tears. "You said it would obey."
Hoshin met his gaze. "No. I said it would remember."
Raishin woke with a sharp inhale.
Morning light filtered through the curtains of Asterra.
Kurogane was sitting at the edge of the bed across the room, knees drawn up, eyes distant.
"It happened to you," Kurogane said quietly, without turning.
Raishin didn't deny it.
"That alignment," Kurogane continued. "That inward pressure. You felt it before."
"Yes," Raishin admitted. "And I almost lost myself trying to master it."
Kurogane's hands curled slowly. "It didn't hurt like pain."
Raishin closed his eyes.
"That's how it starts," he said. "When lightning stops hurting, it's learning."
A sharp knock cut through the room.
Mizuki opened the door to find a Concord courier bowing politely.
"An amendment," the man said smoothly. "A clarification to yesterday's statement."
Mizuki took the document.
Read it.
Her expression hardened.
"They're calling you responsive, not stable," she said, turning to Kurogane. "Subtle shift. Dangerous one."
Raien frowned. "What does that change?"
Masako answered. "It means the next incident will be blamed on inevitability. Not mismanagement."
Kurogane stood.
"So they're preparing the world."
"Yes," Mizuki said. "For escalation."
Raishin stepped in front of him.
"Then we don't give it to them," he said firmly. "No demonstrations. No compliance beyond minimum."
Kurogane nodded slowly.
But inside him, something shifted again—quiet, precise.
Lightning didn't protest the plan.
It adjusted.
Outside, Asterra's towers rang a gentle noon bell, broadcasting calm and cooperation.
Far below the streets, ancient conduits hummed in response—answering a pattern they had not felt in generations.
And for the first time since leaving the academy, Kurogane felt certain of one thing:
Whatever came next would not be a request.