Morning came without warmth.
A deep chime echoed through Hikari Academy, vibrating through stone and crystal alike. Kurogane stirred on the thin futon, disoriented for a moment before memory crashed back into him all at once.
The village.His parents.The test.His failure.
His chest tightened.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. The room was exactly as it had been the night before—bare walls, cold stone floor, a single narrow window. No family voices. No familiar smells. Just silence, broken only by distant footsteps and the hum of wards woven into the academy itself.
A knock came at the door.
"Kurogane of Ashihara," a voice called. "Orientation begins in five minutes."
He stood, smoothed his clothes, and slipped the small garden stone back into his pocket before opening the door.
Outside, the corridors were already alive. Students moved in orderly streams, robes flowing, voices low and controlled. Some laughed quietly. Others reviewed notes or practiced small, harmless elemental tricks—sparks snapping between fingers, air swirling in cupped palms.
No one looked at him.
And yet… everyone did.
He could feel it. Curious glances. Measuring gazes. Whispers quickly cut short.
That's him.
The child.
The one with all four.
He followed the flow into a wide hall filled with rows of stone benches. Dozens of students filled the room—most older than him, some twice his age. Instructors stood at the front, their presence heavy and undeniable.
Kurogane took an empty seat near the back.
"You're sitting in my spot."
The voice was cool, confident.
Kurogane looked up.
The boy standing before him was tall for his age—perhaps twelve or thirteen—with ash-blond hair and sharp gray eyes. A faint heat shimmered around him, like air above a flame. His robe bore a crimson crest.
Fire division.
"I… I didn't know," Kurogane said, standing quickly. "I can move."
The boy studied him for a moment, eyes narrowing.
"…You're smaller than I expected."
Kurogane stiffened.
"My name is Raien," the boy continued. "Second-year. And you are?"
"Kurogane."
Recognition flickered instantly.
So did interest.
"You're the one who failed the assessment," Raien said, not cruelly—but not kindly either. More like stating a fact. "I heard Master Ryouzan made you kneel."
Kurogane said nothing.
Raien smirked. "Figures. Power without control is just noise."
He walked past, taking the seat behind him.
The words stayed.
The hall quieted as an instructor stepped forward, her presence bending the air slightly.
"Welcome," she said, voice calm and precise. "You are here because the world deemed you dangerous, valuable, or both. This academy exists to ensure you become neither a threat nor a burden."
Her gaze swept the room.
"Those who fail will be reassigned. Those who persist may survive."
No comfort. No illusion.
Training began immediately.
Balance drills.Meditation.Single-element restraint.
Kurogane struggled.
When told to focus on earth alone, fire stirred.When he reached for wind, water answered instead.
Everything responded—but never together, never cleanly.
By midday, his head throbbed and his vision swam.
Others progressed. Slowly. Deliberately.
Raien, especially.
Flame shaped cleanly in his palm, precise and obedient. Instructors nodded. Students watched.
Kurogane watched too.
That should be me, a small voice whispered.
But it wasn't.
During the final exercise, Kurogane's control slipped again. A pulse of mixed energy cracked the stone beneath his feet. The instructor intervened instantly, sealing the surge with a gesture.
The room went silent.
"Kurogane," she said coolly, "you are dismissed. Observe only until further notice."
Dismissed.
Not punished.
Worse.
As the class continued, Kurogane sat against the wall, hands clenched in his lap. His breath came shallow. The elements inside him churned, restless and confused, like animals trapped in too small a cage.
Raien passed him on the way out.
"Maybe," he said quietly, "you're not broken."
He paused.
"Maybe you're just not what everyone thinks."
Then he left.
That night, Kurogane returned to his empty room.
He pressed his forehead against the cool stone wall and finally let himself cry—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough to release the pressure threatening to tear him apart from the inside.
"I don't want to be special," he whispered. "I just want it to stop hurting."
The academy did not answer.
But somewhere deep inside him, the elements stirred.
Not violently.
Not yet.