(POV: James)
The week following my conversation with Master Chawng was an exercise in quiet frustration. The idea of the blacksmith and the stream was a profound comfort in a quiet garden, but it was proving maddeningly difficult to apply under Professor Everhart's demanding gaze. His training had intensified, shifting from broad combat simulations to exercises of almost microscopic control.
Today's drill was the epitome of his philosophy. Before each of us stood a crystalline lattice, no bigger than my fist, suspended in a stasis field. It was a complex, beautiful web of razor-thin energy filaments, glowing with a soft blue light.
"Your objective is simple," Everhart stated, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You will thread a single tendril of your energy through the lattice from one side to the other. You will not touch the sides. You will not disrupt its energy field. This lattice represents a civilian populated area during a containment breach. A single miscalculation, a single surge of power, and you bring the entire structure down." His eyes swept over us. "You are surgeons. This is your scalpel."
Kara went first. She closed her eyes for a moment, and the air around her hand shimmered. A single, hair-thin line of superheated air—almost invisible—extended from her fingertip. With breathtaking control, she guided it through the labyrinthine paths of the crystal. It moved like a thought, silent and precise, emerging on the other side without causing so much as a flicker in the lattice's glow.
"Pass," Everhart said, his tone unchanging, but it was the highest praise he ever gave.
Drake was next. He grunted, his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried to project a tiny, controlled seismic vibration. It was a valiant effort, but sending a tremor is not the same as threading a needle. The moment the pulse touched the stasis field, the entire lattice vibrated violently and cracked down the middle.
"Fail," Everhart said. Drake swore under his breath, clenching his fists.
Then it was my turn.
I am a blacksmith who hasn't learned his craft, I reminded myself, taking a deep breath. Find the channel. The stream, not the flood.
I extended a hand, focusing my will. I didn't try to form a massive shield or a concussive blast. I tried to bleed off just a tiny wisp of Nexus energy, shaping it into a thin, shimmering purple thread. It felt like trying to pinch a ghost. For a moment, I had it. The thread was stable, and I began to guide it into the lattice.
The instant my power entered the stasis field, something went wrong. The purple thread began to glow brighter, the lattice resonating with it like a tuning fork. A low hum filled the air. My energy wasn't just passing through; it was reacting, feeding, and connecting with the crystal. It felt less like I was guiding it and more like I was holding onto a magnetic force that was pulling itself forward.
I fought to pull back, to dampen the flow, but it was too late. The hum rose to a piercing whine. The soft blue light of the lattice turned a violent violet, and with a deafening crack, the entire structure overloaded and imploded into a cloud of glittering dust.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Everhart walked over, his expression colder than I had ever seen it. He didn't look at the empty stasis field. He looked directly at me.
"Your power is a liability, Adept," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "It is too raw. Too close to the chaotic source of the Nexus itself. It doesn't just act; it reacts. It resonates with other energy systems in ways you clearly cannot control."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"I am training surgeons. You are swinging a sledgehammer in an operating theater. Tame it," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Or I will have you removed from this team before you get everyone killed."