Raien didn't stop Kurogane in the training halls.
He waited until night.
The corridors near the eastern wing were quieter then—less ward traffic, fewer instructors. Kurogane had just turned a corner when heat brushed past his shoulder.
"Don't flinch."
Raien stood against the wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're not subtle," Kurogane said carefully.
Raien snorted. "Neither is lightning."
Silence settled between them.
"You know," Raien continued, pushing off the wall, "the academy has records for everything. Elemental spikes. Mana fluctuations. Resonance faults." His gaze sharpened. "There was no record that fit what happened in the arena."
Kurogane's fingers curled slightly.
"That wasn't fire," Raien said. "It wasn't wind. And it definitely wasn't water."
"You shouldn't be saying this," Kurogane replied.
"But I am." Raien stepped closer. "Because I felt it."
That surprised him.
"You were standing ten meters away," Kurogane said quietly.
"And every flame I summoned for the rest of the day kept bending," Raien answered. "Like something was pulling energy sideways."
Raien stopped an arm's length away.
"You're not broken," he said. "You're miswired."
Kurogane let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"If you tell anyone—"
"I won't." Raien interrupted. "Not yet."
Not yet.
"But understand this," he added. "If the council decides you're a threat, I won't pretend I didn't know."
That wasn't a threat.
That was honesty.
Raien turned to leave, then paused.
"Next time lightning flares," he said, glancing back, "warn me. Fire doesn't like being blindsided."
He disappeared down the corridor, leaving heat slowly fading behind him.
Far below the academy, the council chamber glowed with controlled light.
Voices echoed off the white stone walls—tight, restrained, but sharp.
"This experiment is unacceptable," Akihiko snapped. "Lightning doctrine was erased for a reason."
"And yet it has returned," Mizuki replied calmly. "Whether we approve or not."
"You're gambling with catastrophe."
"No," Mizuki said. "We're containing inevitability."
Kenji leaned forward slightly. "The boy chose this path."
"That doesn't mean he understands its cost," Masako said quietly. "None of them ever do."
Mizuki's gaze hardened. "Which is precisely why suppression will fail."
Silence followed.
Akihiko exhaled sharply. "If this becomes public—"
"It won't," Mizuki interrupted. "Not unless one of you leaks it."
The accusation lingered.
Kenji shifted uncomfortably. "What about Raishin?"
Mizuki's lips thinned. "He remains a complication."
"A dangerous one," Akihiko added.
"A necessary one," Mizuki countered.
She stood, robes whispering softly.
"If we cage the boy, he will explode later," she said. "If we guide him, he may never do so at all."
"And if he becomes another Darkness Emperor?" Akihiko demanded.
Mizuki turned slowly.
"Then history will judge us," she said. "For acting—or for being afraid."
No one spoke after that.
That night, Kurogane lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Raien knew.The council argued.And somewhere between pain and balance, lightning waited.
He pressed his hand to his chest.
For the first time, it didn't hurt.
It listened.