The silence that followed the festival disaster was deafening.
Kurogane stood in the center of what had been the village square, now a field of cracked earth and scattered debris. Dust hung in the air like a shroud, slowly settling onto overturned tables and abandoned food. The great stone pillars he had summoned were gone, crumbled back into the earth as if they had never existed. But the evidence of what he had done remained—in the deep fissures that spider-webbed across the ground, in the terrified faces of his neighbors, in the way even his own mother couldn't meet his eyes.
He was five years old, and he had just destroyed any chance of a normal life.
"Everyone, please, remain calm!" Village Chief Takumi's voice cut through the shocked murmurs. He was an older man, his hair more gray than black, with a face weathered by decades of sun and worry. Lines creased his forehead like rivers carved into stone, and his hands—gnarled from years of farm work—trembled slightly as he raised them for attention. "Is anyone injured? Check your families, check your neighbors!"
People began to move again, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. Parents grabbed their children and hurried away, casting frightened glances back at Kurogane. Neighbors who had shared meals with his family for years, who had celebrated births and mourned deaths together, now gave them a wide berth, as if the boy's power might be contagious. Mothers pulled their children close, covering their eyes. Old men made warding gestures—ancient signs meant to protect against evil spirits.
Kurogane felt each look like a physical blow. He wanted to tell them he was sorry, that he hadn't meant for any of this to happen, that he was just as scared as they were. But the words wouldn't come. His throat felt tight, as if an invisible hand was squeezing it shut.
Jiro, the blacksmith's son who had started it all, was being hauled away by his father. The boy was crying—great, hiccupping sobs that echoed across the square. He babbled incoherently about walls and earthquakes and glowing eyes, his words tumbling over each other in his panic. "They were so tall, papa! The stones just came out of nowhere! And his eyes—his eyes were like—like—"
His father—Tetsuya, a massive man who stood nearly six and a half feet tall and could bend iron bars with his bare hands—looked shaken. His face had gone pale beneath his perpetual tan, and his usual swagger was gone, replaced by something Kurogane had never seen on the blacksmith before: genuine fear. Tetsuya glanced at Kurogane once, and in that brief moment, the boy saw himself reflected in the man's eyes. Not as a child. Not as a neighbor's son. But as something other. Something dangerous.
The look lasted only a heartbeat before Tetsuya turned away, practically dragging Jiro down the street toward their home. But it was enough. That single look told Kurogane everything he needed to know about how his life was about to change.
Daichi knelt beside his son, his knees cracking with the motion. He placed his large, calloused hands on Kurogane's small shoulders—hands that had held him as a baby, taught him to walk, tossed him laughing into the air on sunny afternoons. But now those hands felt heavy, weighted with something more than physical presence. "Are you hurt?" His voice was steady, controlled in the way adults' voices become when they're trying very hard not to show their true feelings.
But Kurogane could hear the tremor beneath it, like a fault line running deep beneath solid ground. His father was afraid. Not of physical danger, but of something worse—of what his son had become, of what it might mean for their family.
Kurogane shook his head slowly. The movement felt mechanical, disconnected. He felt strange—empty, as if he had poured something vital out of himself and didn't know how to get it back. His hands were trembling, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make them stop. It was as if they belonged to someone else, as if his entire body was foreign territory he no longer recognized.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered, and his voice sounded small and lost even to his own ears. "He pushed me, and I got angry, and then everything just... happened. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't—" His voice cracked, and he felt hot tears beginning to well in his eyes. "I'm sorry, papa. I'm so sorry."
Before Daichi could respond, Yui rushed over, her festival dress torn and dirty from where she'd fallen during the chaos. She dropped to her knees beside them with such force that Kurogane heard them impact the ground, but she didn't seem to notice or care. She pulled Kurogane into a fierce embrace, crushing him against her chest with desperate strength.
"It's alright, baby," she said, but her voice was thick with tears. "It's alright. You're safe. You're safe." She repeated the words like a mantra, like a prayer, rocking him gently back and forth.
But even as she held him, Kurogane noticed things he wished he hadn't. The way her hands shook against his back. The way her breath came in short, frightened gasps. The way her heartbeat, pressed against his ear, was racing like a trapped bird's. His own mother was afraid of him. She loved him—he didn't doubt that for a moment—but she was also terrified.
The realization hurt worse than any physical pain he'd ever felt.
"Daichi." Chief Takumi's voice was quiet now, meant only for the family's ears. He approached slowly, his wooden sandals crunching on broken pottery. "We need to talk. Now."
Daichi rose slowly, reluctantly releasing Kurogane's shoulders. His hands lingered for a moment, as if he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to touch his son again after this conversation. "Yui, take him home. Don't let anyone near the house until I return."
"Daichi—" Yui began, fear sharpening her voice to a point.
"Please." He looked at her, and something passed between them—a conversation without words, built on years of marriage and shared understanding. "Trust me."
Yui nodded, though her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. She stood, pulling Kurogane up with her, and took his hand. It felt wrong, the way she held it—not with the easy, unconscious affection of before, but carefully, deliberately, as if he might break. Or explode.
As they walked through the village toward their home, Kurogane felt every eye upon them. People watched from windows and doorways, their faces pale shadows behind wooden frames. He heard whispers that cut deeper than any insult Jiro had thrown at him.
"Unnatural..."
"Cursed child..."
"Five years old and he can do that? What will he be capable of when he's grown?"
"We should send him away before he kills someone..."
"Did you see his eyes? They were glowing..."
"The elements themselves are afraid of him..."
Kurogane wanted to cover his ears, to run, to disappear into the earth itself. Instead, he kept walking, kept his eyes on the ground in front of him, kept his hand in his mother's trembling grip. Each step felt like trudging through deep mud, each breath like swallowing broken glass.
Their home, when they reached it, looked smaller than he remembered. Or perhaps he had somehow grown larger in the last hour, though that made no sense. Yui led him inside and closed the door firmly behind them, sliding the wooden bolt into place—something she'd never done during the day before. The sound of it clicking shut was final, definitive.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the low table where they normally ate dinner as a family. Her voice was steadier now, some of the immediate panic fading to be replaced by the practical determination that mothers seem to carry in their bones.
Kurogane sat, tucking his legs beneath him in the formal position his father had taught him. His hands rested on his knees, still trembling slightly. He stared at them, at these traitor hands that had done such terrible things without his permission.
Yui busied herself in the kitchen area, though there was nothing that really needed doing. She rearranged pots that were already organized, wiped counters that were already clean, adjusted the position of the tea kettle three times. Kurogane understood. She needed to move, to do something, anything, to keep her mind from spiraling into the darkness of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios.
Finally, she abandoned the pretense and sat across from him. For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. In the dim light filtering through the paper screens, Kurogane could see that his mother's eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. She'd been crying, probably since the moment she saw what he'd done.
"Mama," he began, but she held up a hand to stop him.
"Let me speak first," she said softly. "Please."
He nodded, closing his mouth and waiting.
Yui took a deep breath, composing herself the way she did before difficult conversations. "I want you to know that your father and I love you. More than anything in this world. Nothing—and I mean nothing—will ever change that. Do you understand?"
Kurogane nodded again, though he wasn't sure he believed it. How could they love something like him? Something that could destroy their home, their village, with a moment's anger?
"What happened today..." she paused, searching for words. "What happened today was frightening. For everyone, including you, I think. But it doesn't change who you are. You're still my son. You're still the baby I held when you were born during that terrible storm. You're still the boy who helps me in the garden, who asks a thousand questions about everything, who laughs at your father's terrible jokes."
She reached across the table and took his hands in hers. This time, her grip was firm, steady. "But Kurogane, you have power that most people will never understand. Power that frightens them. And when people are frightened, they do things they wouldn't normally do. They say things they don't mean. They make decisions based on fear rather than love."
"Are they going to make me leave?" The question burst out of him before he could stop it. "Are they going to send me away because I'm different?"
Yui's face crumpled, and fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I don't know, baby. I honestly don't know. Your father is talking to the chief now. They'll decide what happens next."
"I don't want to leave," Kurogane whispered. "I don't want to leave you and papa and Uncle Takeshi. This is my home."
"I know." Yui pulled him around the table and into her lap, even though he was getting too big for it really. She held him the way she had when he was a toddler, rocking gently, humming a lullaby under her breath. "I know, my sweet boy. I know."
They sat like that for what might have been minutes or hours—time seemed to have lost its meaning. Kurogane breathed in his mother's familiar scent: earth and herbs and the faint sweetness of the rice cakes she'd been making that morning, back when the world was normal and his biggest worry was whether Jiro would bother him at the festival.
That world felt a thousand years away now.
The village council chambers were located in a building near the center of Ashihara, just off the main square. It was the oldest structure in the village, built by the founders over two hundred years ago from timber that had been treated with earth sorcery to resist rot and insects. The wood had aged to a deep, rich brown that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
Daichi stood in the center of the chamber, acutely aware of the five pairs of eyes fixed upon him. The council sat in a semicircle on raised platforms—a holdover from the old days when councils literally looked down upon those they judged. Chief Takumi occupied the central position, with the other four elders flanking him on either side.
To Takumi's right sat Elder Fujiko, the village's most skilled healer and a woman whose water affinity was said to be the strongest in three generations. Her silver hair was bound in an elaborate knot, and her face bore the serene expression of someone who had seen both the best and worst of human nature and somehow maintained her faith in the former.
Beside Fujiko was Akihiko, the youngest of the elders at barely fifty years old. He had earned his position through his exceptional skill with fire manipulation and his shrewd management of the village's forge and metalworking operations. His arms were covered in scars from years of working with molten metal, and his eyes held a sharp, calculating intelligence.
On Takumi's left sat Masako, an ancient woman who claimed to remember her grandmother's stories of the Second Great War. Nobody was entirely sure how old she was—some said ninety, others claimed she'd seen over a hundred summers. Her wind affinity had faded with age, but her mind remained sharp as a blade. She was the keeper of village history, the one who remembered the old stories and old laws.
And finally, at the far end, sat Kenji—Daichi's uncle, which made this entire situation even more awkward. Kenji had always been the black sheep of the family, choosing scholarly pursuits over farming, spending his time with dusty books and ancient scrolls rather than working the land. But his knowledge of elemental theory was unmatched in Ashihara, and his opinion would carry significant weight in whatever decision they made about Kurogane.
"Daichi," Chief Takumi began, his voice heavy with the weight of responsibility. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I know this must be difficult for you."
"Difficult doesn't begin to cover it," Daichi replied, his voice rougher than intended. He took a breath, forcing himself to remain calm. Losing his temper wouldn't help Kurogane. "Chief, I know what my son did today was unprecedented. But he's five years old. He didn't mean to hurt anyone. He was provoked—"
"We know about Jiro's behavior," Fujiko interrupted gently. "Tetsuya has already been here with his son. The boy confessed to pushing Kurogane and calling him names. We don't hold your son responsible for defending himself."
"Then what's the problem?" Daichi asked, though he already knew the answer.
"The problem," Akihiko said bluntly, "is that a five-year-old child shouldn't be capable of raising stone pillars twenty feet high. The problem is that the kind of power we witnessed today typically takes decades of training to achieve, and even then, only the most talented sorcerers can manipulate earth with such precision. The problem, Daichi, is that your son is not normal."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"He's never been normal," Elder Masako spoke for the first time, her voice like wind through dry leaves. "I was there the night he was born, Daichi. I was one of the midwives who helped deliver him. Do you remember what happened that night?"
Daichi's jaw tightened. "How could I forget?"
"Four elements going berserk simultaneously," Masako continued, her cloudy eyes distant with memory. "Earth, water, fire, wind—all of them in chaos. The earthquake. The flooding. The fires that sprang up everywhere. The hurricane winds. All at the exact moment your son entered this world." She leaned forward. "I told your wife then, in private, that this child was marked by the elements themselves. That he was special. But I never imagined..." she gestured vaguely, "this."
"My nephew has been hiding his son's abilities from us," Kenji spoke up, not unkindly. "Haven't you, Daichi? For how long? When did you first notice he could manipulate the elements?"
Daichi's silence was answer enough.
"I thought as much," Kenji sighed. "Six months old, perhaps? A year? Showing abilities that shouldn't manifest until at least age seven or eight, if at all?"
"Six months," Daichi admitted quietly. "He raised a stone pillar while playing on his mat. Just lifted himself into the air without even thinking about it. And then..." he swallowed hard, "then the other elements started showing up. Fire when he was one. Wind at two. Water at three. All of them, council. He can manipulate all four elements."
The chamber erupted.
"Impossible!" Akihiko slammed his hand on the armrest of his chair. "Nobody can control all four elements. It violates every principle of elemental affinity!"
"And yet he does it," Daichi said simply. "I've seen it with my own eyes, dozens of times. He doesn't struggle with it. It's as natural to him as breathing."
"This changes everything," Fujiko murmured, her healing hands clasped tightly in her lap. "A child with affinity for all four elements... the last time such a thing was recorded was..."
"Kurogane the Eternal," Masako finished, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "The Darkness Emperor himself. And we all know how that story ended."
A chill ran through the chamber. Even Daichi felt it, despite his determination to defend his son. The name Kurogane was spoken only in warnings and cautionary tales. To have it invoked in connection with his five-year-old boy was like having a knife twisted in his gut.
"My son is nothing like him," Daichi said fiercely. "Kurogane was a monster who tried to enslave the world. My boy is gentle. He's kind. He helps his mother in the garden. He's never deliberately hurt anyone in his life. What happened today was an accident—"
"An accident with the power to level our entire village," Chief Takumi interrupted, not unkindly. "Daichi, I understand your desire to protect your son. Any father would feel the same. But we have to think about the safety of everyone in Ashihara. What if next time he gets angry, he does worse than raise some stone pillars? What if next time, people die?"
"Then we teach him control," Daichi insisted. "We help him learn to manage his power. We don't just abandon him because he's different!"
"We're not talking about abandoning him," Fujiko said softly. "But Daichi, you must understand—we're not equipped to handle this. Ashihara is a farming village. Our elemental users are modest in skill, focused on practical applications for agriculture and daily life. None of us have the knowledge or ability to train someone like your son."
"What are you suggesting?" Daichi asked, though dread was already pooling in his stomach.
The council members exchanged glances. Finally, Chief Takumi spoke.
"We need to contact the Elemental Council in the capital. They need to know about this. They have experts, teachers who specialize in training gifted children. The academies—"
"No." The word came out harder than Daichi intended. "No, you're not taking my son to one of those academies. Those places turn children into weapons. They strip away everything that makes them human and turn them into tools for war."
"That's not fair," Kenji interjected. "The academies serve an important purpose. They teach control, discipline—"
"They teach obedience," Daichi countered. "They take children from their families and indoctrinate them into serving whatever village or faction pays the most. I won't let that happen to Kurogane."
"You may not have a choice," Akihiko said bluntly. "The moment word of this reaches the capital—and it will reach the capital, Daichi, you can't hide something like this—the Elemental Council will send representatives. They'll evaluate your son. And if they determine he's a potential threat, they'll take him whether you consent or not."
"Over my dead body," Daichi growled.
"That can be arranged," Akihiko shot back, then immediately looked regretful. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. But Daichi, you need to face facts. Your son has power that hasn't been seen in ten thousand years. Power that, in the wrong hands or without proper training, could cause unimaginable destruction. The Elemental Council exists specifically to handle situations like this."
"My son is not a 'situation,'" Daichi said through gritted teeth.
"Daichi." It was Kenji who spoke, his voice gentle despite the tension in the room. "Nephew, I know this is hard. But think about Kurogane. Not about what you want, but about what he needs. Can you honestly say that Ashihara is the best place for him? Can you teach him to control his power? Can you help him understand what it means to wield the elements themselves?"
Daichi wanted to say yes. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to say yes, to claim he could handle this, to keep his family together. But he knew, in his heart, that Kenji was right. He was just a farmer with modest earth affinity. He could coax crops to grow a bit better, encourage soil to retain more moisture, maybe shift a large stone if he really concentrated. But what Kurogane had done today was beyond anything Daichi could comprehend, let alone teach.
His silence spoke volumes.
"I propose," Chief Takumi said carefully, "that we contact the Elemental Council and request that they send an evaluator. Not a retrieval team, not enforcers—just someone qualified to assess Kurogane's abilities and advise us on the best course of action. If they recommend training at one of the academies, we can discuss it then. But let's start with information. Let's understand what we're dealing with before we make any permanent decisions."
It was a reasonable compromise, though it felt like surrender to Daichi. But what choice did he have? If he refused, if he tried to hide Kurogane or run with his family, they'd be fugitives. And fugitives with a five-year-old who could accidentally destroy a town if he had a nightmare.
"How long?" Daichi asked quietly, defeated. "How long until they send someone?"
"Messages to the capital typically take a week by normal courier," Fujiko said. "But for something of this importance, I imagine they'll send someone by rapid transport. Perhaps three days, four at most."
Three days. Daichi had three days with his son before everything changed forever.
"Fine," he said hollowly. "Send your message. But know this—I will not let them take my son without a fight. I will not let them turn him into something he's not. If they can help him, truly help him learn to control his power without breaking his spirit, then we'll cooperate. But if I sense for even a moment that they're trying to weaponize him or manipulate him, then treaty or no treaty, council or no council, I will take my family and disappear. Are we clear?"
Chief Takumi nodded slowly. "Crystal clear. For what it's worth, Daichi, I hope it doesn't come to that. I truly hope they can help Kurogane become the person he's meant to be."
"So do I," Daichi replied. "Because if they can't, then I don't know what happens to any of us."
The next three days passed in a strange, suspended reality where everything felt simultaneously normal and completely alien.
Kurogane wasn't allowed to leave the house. Chief Takumi had gently suggested—though it was clearly more order than suggestion—that it would be "best for everyone" if the family kept to themselves until the evaluator arrived. So Kurogane spent his days inside, watching the world through gaps in the window screens, feeling like a prisoner in his own home.
His mother tried to maintain normalcy. She still cooked three meals a day, still told him stories, still tucked him in at night. But there was a fragility to her movements now, a brittleness in her voice that hadn't been there before. She smiled, but her eyes were always distant, already mourning a loss that hadn't happened yet.
His father spent most of his time in the fields, though Kurogane suspected he wasn't actually working. More likely, Daichi was avoiding the house, unable to face what was coming. The few times he was home, he was quiet, subdued. He'd sit and stare at Kurogane with an expression the boy couldn't quite read—part pride, part sorrow, part something that looked almost like fear.
Uncle Takeshi visited on the second day, bringing fresh vegetables and news from the village. He sat with Kurogane for hours, teaching him old songs and telling stories about the family's history—stories that went back generations, tales of their ancestors who had first settled in Ashihara valley. It felt important, like Takeshi was trying to give Kurogane something to hold onto, a tether to his past that couldn't be cut no matter what happened next.
"Your great-great-grandfather," Takeshi said, his voice warm with reminiscence, "was the finest earth-shaper this village had ever seen. Could make barren soil bloom with just a touch. People came from miles around to ask for his help with their farms." He smiled. "He'd be proud of you, nephew. Probably terrified too, but definitely proud."
"I wish I could be normal," Kurogane said quietly. "Like the other kids. I wish I didn't have this... whatever this is."
Takeshi's expression grew serious. "Never wish to be less than you are, Kurogane. The elements chose you for a reason. Maybe we don't understand it yet. Maybe you don't understand it yet. But one day, you will. And on that day, you'll be grateful for these gifts, even if right now they feel like curses."
"How do you know?" Kurogane asked. "How do you know it'll be okay?"
"I don't," Takeshi admitted with disarming honesty. "But I have faith. Faith in you. Faith that you're stronger and better than whatever challenges come your way. You're your father's son, after all. And your mother's. You come from good stock, boy. Don't forget that."
On the third night, Kurogane couldn't sleep. He lay on his futon, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of his parents in the other room. They were trying to be quiet, but their voices carried.
"—can't just let them take him—" his father was saying.
"—don't have a choice—" his mother replied, her voice thick with tears. "—if we run, we'll be criminals—"
"—don't care—he's our son—"
"—think about what's best for him—not for us—needs training—needs—"
Kurogane pulled his blanket over his head, trying to block out the words. But they seeped through anyway, like water through cloth.
They were going to send him away. To some academy, some school far from home where strangers would teach him to control powers he didn't understand and didn't want. He'd be alone, surrounded by people who didn't know him, didn't love him.
He curled into a ball, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that wanted to come. But he wouldn't cry. He was five years old, yes, but he was also the boy who could raise stone pillars and summon walls from nothing. He was special, everyone kept saying. Special people didn't cry like babies.
Except he did. Silently, into his pillow, where nobody could hear.
The evaluator arrived on the fourth morning, earlier than expected.
Kurogane was still half-asleep when he heard the commotion outside. Voices raised in surprise and—was that fear? He stumbled to the window and peeked through the screen.
A woman stood in the center of the village, and just looking at her made Kurogane's breath catch.
She was tall—taller than any woman Kurogane had ever seen, easily six feet—with silver hair that fell in a straight waterfall past her waist. But it wasn't naturally silver from age. It was the silver of moonlight, of frost, of starlight captured and woven into physical form. Her eyes were the pale blue of glacial ice, and they seemed to see everything at once without moving. She wore robes of deep blue embroidered with silver patterns that shifted and flowed as if alive—water patterns, Kurogane realized. Waves and rivers and rain all dancing across the fabric.
Around her, the air itself felt different. Cooler. Moisture condensed in tiny droplets that hung suspended before evaporating. Puddles that had no business existing formed at her feet and followed her when she walked.
This was a master. A true sorcerer. Kurogane had never seen anyone like her.
"I am Mizuki Yukihana," her voice rang out, clear and cold as a mountain stream. "Seventh Seat of the Elemental Council, Master of Water, and designated evaluator. I have been informed that there is a child in this village who requires assessment. Bring him to me."
Chief Takumi approached, bowing deeply. "Honored Master Yukihana, we are grateful for your swift arrival. The child is—"
"I know where he is," Mizuki interrupted. Her pale eyes turned unerringly toward Kurogane's house. Toward the window where he stood watching. "I can feel his presence from here. The elements sing around him like a choir. Fascinating."
She began walking toward the house.
Inside, Yui grabbed Kurogane and pulled him away from the window. "Get dressed. Quickly. Formal clothes."
"Mama—"
"Now, Kurogane."
He obeyed, fumbling into the simple but clean clothes his mother laid out. His hands were shaking again. Daichi appeared, his face grim but determined. He placed a hand on Kurogane's shoulder.
"Whatever happens," he said quietly, "remember that we love you. Remember where you come from. Remember who you are."
There was a knock at the door. Three sharp raps that seemed to echo through the entire house.
Daichi opened it.
Mizuki Yukihana stood on their threshold, and up close, she was even more imposing. She looked down at Daichi with eyes that held the coldness of deep ocean trenches, evaluating him in a glance and apparently finding him wanting.
"You are the father?"
"I am. Daichi of Ashihara village."
"And the child is inside?"
"He is. But before you see him, I need to know—"
"You need nothing," Mizuki cut him off. "I am here by order of the Elemental Council. Your cooperation is expected. Refusal will be... poorly received."
The implied threat was clear. Daichi's jaw clenched, but he stepped aside.
Mizuki entered the house, her presence seeming to fill the small space. Her eyes immediately found Kurogane, who stood beside his mother, trying very hard not to look as terrified as he felt.
For a long moment, she simply stared at him. Then her eyes widened—just fractionally, but enough that Kurogane noticed.
"By the four sacred streams," she whispered. "The reports were accurate. Child, come here."
Kurogane looked at his mother, who nodded encouragingly despite the fear in her eyes. He walked forward slowly, stopping a few feet away from the tall woman.
Mizuki knelt, bringing herself closer to his eye level, though she still towered over him. She studied his face with clinical interest, the way a scholar might examine a particularly interesting specimen.
"Do you know what you are, child?" she asked.
"I'm Kurogane," he replied, his voice smaller than he'd like.
"Yes. But do you know what makes you different from other children?"
"I can..." he hesitated, "I can do things. With the earth. And fire. And..."
"And water. And wind." Mizuki finished for him. She reached out and placed a hand over his heart. Her palm was cool against his chest. She closed her eyes, concentrating.
Then she gasped.
Her hand jerked back as if burned. She stared at Kurogane with an expression he couldn't quite identify—shock, yes, but also something else. Awe? Terror?
"Impossible," she breathed. "Your spiritual core... it's not supposed to exist. You have chambers for all four elements. All four. And they're in perfect balance."
She stood abruptly, turning to Daichi and Yui. "How long has he been able to manipulate multiple elements?"
"Since he was an infant," Daichi admitted. "Six months for earth. Then the others came."
"And you didn't report this immediately?" Mizuki's voice was sharp now, cutting. "Do you have any idea how dangerous—how catastrophically dangerous—this child is?"
"He's not dangerous!" Yui protested, pulling Kurogane against her protectively. "He's just a little boy!"
"He is a weapon waiting to discharge," Mizuki countered. "Do you know the last person to have natural affinity for all four elements? Kurogane the Eternal. The Darkness Emperor. The man who nearly destroyed civilization twelve thousand years ago."
"My son is nothing like him!"
"You don't know that. None of us do." Mizuki's expression softened slightly. "Look, I understand this is difficult. But this child cannot stay here. He needs training immediately. Not just for his own safety, but for everyone around him. The academy—"
"We've been through this with the village council," Daichi interrupted. "We won't just hand him over to be turned into a tool for your wars."
"He won't be a tool," Mizuki said with surprising gentleness. "The academies have changed since the dark days. We don't break spirits anymore. We nurture them, guide them. Your son would be trained by the finest instructors in the world. He would learn control, discipline, understanding. He would learn what it means to be a sorcerer, what responsibility comes with power."
"And what if we refuse?" Daichi asked.
Mizuki's eyes hardened. "Then I will take him anyway, by authority of the Elemental Council. And you will be charged with endangering public safety by concealing an uncontrolled sorcerer. You'll lose your son either way, but at least if you cooperate, you can maintain contact. You can visit. You can still be his parents."
The words hit like physical blows. Yui's knees nearly buckled. Daichi caught her, holding her upright.
"How long?" he asked hoarsely. "How long would he be gone?"
"Training typically takes ten years minimum for a normal student. For someone like your son..." Mizuki glanced at Kurogane, "it's impossible to say. It could be longer. But he would be allowed to visit home once a year, during the summer break."
Ten years. A decade. Kurogane would be fifteen by the time his training was complete. He'd be nearly an adult. He'd have spent most of his life away from his family, growing up among strangers.
"Can I..." Kurogane's voice was barely a whisper. "Can I say goodbye to Uncle Takeshi?"
The question broke something in the room. Yui buried her face in Daichi's shoulder and sobbed. Daichi's face crumpled, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. Even Mizuki's icy expression fractured slightly.
"Of course," she said quietly. "We won't leave until tomorrow morning. You have until then."
That last day was the longest and shortest of Kurogane's young life.
Uncle Takeshi came immediately when summoned. He swept Kurogane into a bear hug, holding him tight enough that the boy could barely breathe.
"You're going to do amazing things," Takeshi whispered fiercely. "You're going to make us all so proud. But more importantly, you're going to stay true to yourself. Don't let them change who you are in here." He tapped Kurogane's chest over his heart. "Promise me."
"I promise," Kurogane managed through tears.
They had one final family dinner that evening. Yui cooked all of Kurogane's favorite foods—rice with grilled fish, miso soup, pickled vegetables, and sweet mochi for dessert. They ate slowly, savoring every bite, trying to memorize the taste, the smell, the feeling of being together.
Daichi told stories about Kurogane as a baby, making them all laugh through their tears. "Do you remember when you were two and you decided to rearrange the garden? You moved every single stone three feet to the left for no reason we could figure out. Your mother was furious until she realized you'd actually improved the drainage."
Yui shared her own memories. "When you were three, you asked me where rain came from. I told you the clouds. So you went outside and yelled at the clouds for an hour, demanding they explain themselves. You were so indignant."
Takeshi added his own. "Your first words were 'more up!' because you wanted your father to toss you higher. Your parents were terrified you'd figure out how to launch yourself with earth pillars. Turns out they were right to worry."
They laughed and cried and held each other as the sun set and darkness fell. And when it was finally time for bed, Yui tucked Kurogane in one last time, singing the lullaby she'd sung since he was born.
Sleep, little one, under moon and star
Dream of tomorrow, no matter how far
The earth will hold you, the wind will guide
Fire warms you, water's by your side
Sleep, little one, you're never alone
The elements love you, they'll bring you home
Kurogane pretended to fall asleep, but his mind was racing. Tomorrow he would leave the only home he'd ever known. Tomorrow his life would change forever.
He didn't know then that his mother's lullaby would be prophecy.
He didn't know that one day, the elements would bring him home.
But that day was many years and many trials away.
Dawn came too quickly.
Mizuki arrived at first light, her expression neutral but not unkind. "It's time," she said simply.
Kurogane had one small bag packed with clothes and a few personal items. Yui had tucked in a small stone from their garden—"So you remember where you come from," she'd said.
The whole village gathered to watch them leave. Some faces held pity. Others held relief. A few held fear. Jiro was there with his father, both looking ashamed and unable to meet Kurogane's eyes.
Chief Takumi approached and bowed formally to Kurogane. "You carry our hopes with you, young one. Make us proud."
Kurogane wanted to say something profound, something that would make this easier for everyone. Instead, he just nodded.
His parents walked him to the village edge. Yui couldn't stop touching him—smoothing his hair, adjusting his clothes, as if by keeping her hands on him she could prevent him from leaving. Daichi stood silent, his hand heavy on Kurogane's shoulder, his eyes red and swollen.
"I'll come back," Kurogane promised. "When I'm trained, when I can control my power, I'll come back and we'll be a family again."
"We'll always be a family," Daichi said fiercely. "Distance doesn't change that. Time doesn't change that. Nothing changes that."
One last hug. One last "I love you." One last moment of being just a family.
Then Mizuki placed a hand on Kurogane's shoulder. "Hold on," she instructed.
The world twisted.
Water erupted around them, forming a spinning vortex that lifted them off the ground. Kurogane felt a pulling sensation, as if he were being stretched across vast distances. The village blurred, dissolved, disappeared.
And when the world solidified again, they were standing before massive gates of white stone, carved with symbols that pulsed with elemental energy.
"Welcome," Mizuki said, her voice echoing with finality, "to Hikari Academy."
Kurogane looked up at the towering structure and felt very, very small.
His new life had begun.