The pain did not fade with morning.
Kurogane realized that the moment he tried to sit up.
His body refused.
Every nerve screamed as if lightning were still crawling beneath his skin, tracing invisible paths through muscle and bone. His fingers twitched uncontrollably, spasming as if they no longer quite belonged to him.
He bit down on his lip and forced himself upright anyway.
Bad idea.
His vision blurred instantly, and a sharp pressure stabbed into his chest—right where Raishin had pressed his fingers the night before. It felt bruised from the inside, as if something fragile had been cracked but not yet broken.
Breathing hurt.
Not because his lungs burned—but because every inhale sent a ripple through the tightly wound pressure inside him.
Lightning residue.
Unseen.Unstable.
He pressed a shaking hand to his sternum and waited for the dizziness to pass.
It didn't.
A soft chime echoed through the academy. Morning assembly.
Kurogane dragged himself to his feet. He moved slowly, carefully, terrified that any sudden motion would set something off inside him. The small room felt colder than before, the stone beneath his feet biting sharply through thin fabric.
When he looked down at his hands, he froze.
Faint blue lines traced his skin.
Not scars.Not burns.
Veins—lit faintly from within—fading in and out like distant lightning trapped beneath flesh.
He pulled his sleeves down immediately, heart pounding.
No one can see this.
Outside, the corridors buzzed with low conversation. Students passed him as usual—some ignoring him, others watching with cautious curiosity. To them, he probably looked the same: small, quiet, withdrawn.
But inside, everything felt wrong.
During meditation class, he couldn't focus.
Closing his eyes only made things worse.
The elements stirred at once—earth pressing, wind pulling, fire twitching, water flowing—none of them violent, but all of them present. The delicate balance Raishin had warned him about wavered like a blade edge.
A surge rippled through his chest.
Kurogane gasped.
The stone beneath him cracked.
The instructor moved instantly, palm slamming down as stabilizing runes flared across the floor. The crack sealed itself, smooth and seamless.
Dozens of eyes turned toward him.
"Kurogane," the instructor said coolly. "Control."
"I—I wasn't—" His voice caught.
Raien was watching from across the room, brows knit together—not mocking this time. Studying.
Kurogane lowered his head, fists clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. The blue lines beneath his sleeves pulsed once… then faded.
Barely.
By midday, things got worse.
His balance slipped without warning. Walking felt like standing on a tilted surface, his body reacting half a second too slow. When someone brushed past him in the corridor, static snapped painfully across his skin.
He choked back a cry, backing away quickly.
Lightning doesn't like contact.
Raishin's words echoed in his mind.
During elemental theory, the pain peaked.
As the lecturer spoke about harmonic circulation—how each element flowed through defined spiritual channels—Kurogane felt a sudden, violent misalignment inside himself.
Four flows converged.
And something in the middle resisted.
His breath caught.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall.
Not thunder.
Not stone.
Everyone froze.
A hairline fracture appeared in the crystal lectern at the front of the room, crawling upward before stopping abruptly.
Silence stretched.
The instructor slowly turned.
"Kurogane."
This time, it wasn't cool.It was wary.
"You will report to the infirmary. Now."
The infirmary smelled of herbs and cold water.
A healer with gentle eyes examined him in silence, her hands hovering just above his chest, never quite touching. Her expression tightened almost immediately.
"This is not elemental exhaustion," she said quietly. "Your internal channels are… under tension."
"Tension?" Kurogane whispered.
"Yes," she replied. "As if something is forcing multiple flows through a space too narrow to support them."
She looked at him carefully.
"What kind of training have you been doing?"
Kurogane hesitated.
Images of Raishin.The observatory.The lightning.
"I… don't know," he said finally.
The healer didn't look convinced—but she didn't push.
"This kind of strain leaves marks," she warned. "Some fade. Others don't."
She wrapped his chest in a cooling sigil and handed him a suppressive talisman.
"If the pain spikes," she said, "get help immediately. Do not push through it."
Kurogane nodded.
He didn't say what they both knew.
If he didn't push through it…the lightning would.
That night, alone in his room, Kurogane lay staring at the ceiling, every muscle aching.
Fear crept in—cold and suffocating.
What if Raishin was wrong?What if this path didn't lead to balance—but to collapse?
His fingers twitched again, faint blue light flaring briefly before fading.
Tears slipped silently into his hair.
"I don't want to become him," he whispered. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
Outside, thunder rolled—distant and real this time.
But no rain fell.
And deep within Kurogane's chest, the lightning waited.