The Council did not react immediately.
That, more than anything else, unsettled Mizuki.
No alarms.No interrogations.No sudden restrictions.
Just a single, quiet update appended to the academy's internal ledger at dawn.
Anomaly registered. Source pending.
Mizuki stared at the line for a long moment before closing the archive.
"They felt it," she said.
Raishin didn't ask how she knew. "How deep?"
"Deep enough to trigger legacy protocols," Mizuki replied. "Not deep enough to name it."
Masako leaned on her cane, eyes narrowed. "They sensed absence."
Raien frowned. "Absence of what?"
Masako looked at him. "That's the problem. They don't know."
Kurogane stood near the back of the chamber, quiet. Since the night before, something inside him had shifted again—not tightening this time.
Listening.
"They didn't ask me anything," he said.
"Not yet," Mizuki replied. "They won't. Observation precedes accusation."
Raishin's jaw clenched. "That ledger line means review access."
"Yes," Mizuki said. "From people who remember why certain methods were erased."
Silence pressed in.
Then Masako spoke.
"There is a sealed record," she said slowly. "One the Council pretends was destroyed."
Raishin's head snapped up. "No."
Mizuki turned sharply. "What record?"
Masako met Raishin's gaze. "A methodology audit. Filed after the containment incident."
Raishin's hands trembled once before stilling.
"That file was buried," he said.
"Yes," Masako replied. "But anomalies have a way of loosening soil."
She looked at Kurogane. "Last night—did the presence speak in absolutes or questions?"
Kurogane hesitated. "Statements."
Masako exhaled. "Then it wasn't curiosity."
Raien shifted uneasily. "You're saying something recognized him."
Masako nodded. "And something else recognized the recognition."
Mizuki's expression hardened. "If the Council connects this anomaly to an older pattern—"
"They'll come for you," Raien said to Raishin.
Raishin didn't deny it.
"They won't accuse," Mizuki continued. "They'll evaluate. Reassign. Remove you quietly."
"And Kurogane?" Raien asked.
Mizuki looked at him.
"They'll isolate him."
Kurogane felt the internal brace pulse faintly—not defensively.
Attentively.
Raishin placed himself slightly in front of Kurogane without thinking.
"That will not happen," he said flatly.
Masako sighed. "You don't get to refuse history twice, Raishin."
Before he could respond, a soft chime echoed through the chamber.
An incoming council directive.
Mizuki opened it.
Her expression changed—just enough.
"A request?" Raien asked.
"A review," Mizuki said. "Joint oversight. Effective immediately."
Raishin closed his eyes.
"They're early," he muttered. "They're afraid."
"Of what?" Kurogane asked.
Masako answered quietly. "Of teachers returning before their mistakes are forgotten."
The chamber fell silent again.
Far below the academy, sealed archive locks shifted—ancient mechanisms responding to a flag they had not recognized in decades.
A file surfaced halfway.
Not opened.
Not yet.
But no longer buried.
And in its margins, written in faded script beside a name officially struck from history, a single note waited to be read again:
Lightning does not obey command.It remembers who taught it to endure.