Lightning struck in a place where there were no clouds.
Kurogane jerked awake, gasping.
His heart pounded violently as blue-white light faded from his vision. The academy room was dark and still, untouched by storm or wind. No scorch marks. No cracked stone.
Only silence.
And the faint smell of ozone.
He sat up slowly, hands trembling. The dream—or whatever it had been—still clung to him. Endless darkness. A vast, empty sky. And a single line of light tearing reality apart.
Not earth.Not fire.Not wind.Not water.
Something else.
A soft tap echoed from the wall behind him.
Kurogane froze.
Another tap. Deliberate.
He turned.
The stone wall… rippled.
Light traced thin lines across its surface, forming a symbol he had never seen before—jagged, angular, wrong in a way the academy's smooth elemental sigils never were.
Then the wall simply wasn't there anymore.
Beyond it stood a narrow corridor of shadow and pale blue light.
And within it… a man.
Or perhaps someone who used to be a man.
He was tall and lean, wrapped in dark robes threaded with silver filaments that crackled faintly as if charged. His hair was long and black, streaked with white—not from age, but from something burned into it. One of his eyes glowed faintly blue. The other was normal. Calculating. Sharp.
"You felt it," he said.
His voice sounded like thunder held under control.
Kurogane swallowed. "Felt… what?"
"The imbalance," the man replied. "The reason your power keeps tearing itself apart."
"You shouldn't be here," Kurogane whispered. "The academy wards—"
"Don't react to lightning," the man said calmly. "They react because of it."
He stepped closer.
Up close, the air around him buzzed. Not violently. Precisely.
"My name doesn't matter anymore," the man continued. "Here, I am called Raishin."
Lightning God.
Kurogane's breath caught.
"I don't understand," he said. "I have all four elements. Everyone says that's why I'm unstable."
Raishin's mouth curved into a thin, humorless smile.
"They're wrong."
He raised a hand.
A spark jumped between his fingers—not fire. It didn't burn. It split the air, sharp and instantaneous.
"Lightning," he said, "is not an element."
The corridor around them seemed to tighten, listening.
"It is a reaction."
Kurogane stared, transfixed.
"Fire moves energy outward.Water carries energy.Wind accelerates it.Earth contains it."
Raishin closed his fist.
"Lightning is what happens when all four meet… and none of them can agree."
The spark exploded into a thin bolt that vanished instantly.
"That's why it was erased from doctrine," Raishin continued. "Why the academies pretend it doesn't exist. Because lightning cannot be controlled the way elements can. It obeys balance… or it destroys its host."
Kurogane's chest tightened.
"Then why do I—"
"Because you are not a four-element wielder," Raishin cut in.
Silence fell like a blade.
"You are a conductor."
The word rang in Kurogane's mind.
"Your spiritual core has space for four elements," Raishin said, his glowing eye narrowing. "But what they don't see—what even the Elemental Council missed—is the void between them."
He tapped the center of Kurogane's chest.
"That's where lightning wants to exist."
Kurogane stumbled back a step.
"That's why I fail," he whispered. "They're fighting each other."
Raishin nodded. "Because you're forcing them to act separately."
"And if I don't?"
Raishin's expression darkened.
"Then eventually… your core fractures. And when that happens, the explosion will not be contained by stone walls or ancient wards."
Kurogane felt cold.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Raishin turned toward the shadows.
"Because once, I was like you."
He glanced back once more.
"And because the academy plans to break you apart trying to 'fix' you."
The wall behind Raishin began to reform.
"Tomorrow night," his voice echoed softly, "come to the eastern observatory. Alone."
"Will you train me?" Kurogane asked desperately.
Raishin paused.
"No," he said.
"I will teach you how not to die."
The wall sealed.
The room was whole again.
Kurogane stood alone, heart racing, one hand pressed to his chest.
Deep inside him, something answered.
Not fire.
Not water.
Not wind.
Not earth.
But a silent tension—waiting to be released.
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