The seal came down at noon.
Not violently. Not loudly.
Just quietly enough to be mistaken for procedure.
Kurogane felt it before anyone spoke—an inward pull, subtle and cold, like a thought being folded away before it finished forming.
Mizuki was already standing when the ward-lines shimmered across the archive entrance.
"They're closing it," Raien said.
Masako didn't look surprised. "Of course they are."
A ripple of pale light stitched itself across the stone doorway, locking crystal and memory into approved silence. The mechanism did not resist.
It recognized authority.
"This isn't containment," Raishin said flatly. "It's erasure."
Mizuki shook her head. "No. Erasure would draw questions. This is… reassignment."
A familiar voice echoed down the corridor.
"Think of it as curation."
Akihiko emerged from between two pillars, robes immaculate, expression practiced. He didn't look at Kurogane at first.
"Certain materials," Akihiko continued, "are context-sensitive. They destabilize when viewed without proper framing."
Masako turned slowly. "You mean they frighten you."
Akihiko smiled thinly. "I mean they cause harm when misunderstood."
Kurogane felt the internal brace stir—curious, not hostile.
"Who misunderstood it last time?" he asked.
Akihiko finally met his eyes.
"Everyone," he said. "Including its author."
Raishin stepped forward. "You're afraid of the method."
Akihiko inclined his head. "I'm afraid of inheritance."
Silence tightened.
Mizuki broke it. "This closure exceeds protocol."
Akihiko spread his hands. "Under legacy clause. You know the language."
Masako's voice dropped. "Legacy clauses exist to hide guilt."
Akihiko's smile faded. "They exist to prevent repetition."
Kurogane took a slow breath. "Prevent me."
Akihiko didn't deny it. "Prevent conditions."
Raishin's jaw clenched. "You can't seal what's already in him."
"True," Akihiko agreed. "But we can shape what surrounds him."
With a gesture, the ward-lines brightened.
"Effective immediately," Akihiko said, "Kurogane's training parameters are reassigned. Dual oversight. Restricted methodologies. No unsanctioned instruction."
Raishin's eyes went cold. "You're removing me."
"I'm limiting you," Akihiko replied. "There is a difference."
"There isn't," Raishin said.
Masako leaned on her cane. "If you fracture his guidance now, you destabilize the very balance you claim to protect."
Akihiko looked at her sadly. "Balance is not preserved by loyalty to individuals."
He turned to Kurogane.
"Understand this," Akihiko said. "The world is watching you. That alone makes you dangerous. We will not allow philosophy to outpace safety."
Kurogane felt the hum respond—not rising, not resisting.
Listening.
"Safety for whom?" Kurogane asked.
Akihiko didn't answer.
The ward finished locking.
The archive fell silent.
Akihiko bowed once. "This is not punishment. It is stewardship."
He departed without another word.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Raishin exhaled slowly.
"They've chosen."
"Yes," Mizuki said. "They always do."
Masako looked at Kurogane. "And now the important question becomes unavoidable."
Kurogane met her gaze. "Which teacher they trust."
Masako nodded. "And which one you refuse."
As they turned away from the sealed archive, Kurogane felt something settle—quiet, deliberate.
Lightning did not protest the restriction.
It adjusted around it.
Far below the academy, a non-sanctioned relay flickered once before going dark.
Not a breach.
A confirmation.
And in the margin of a system that believed itself stable, a simple notation appeared—unnoticed, unapproved:
Seal accepted.Pattern preserved elsewhere.