The new schedule arrived without signatures.
Kurogane noticed that first.
No names. No responsibility. Just times, locations, and constraints written in neutral script—as if instruction itself were interchangeable.
Raishin read it once.
Then handed it back without comment.
"They don't want conflict," he said quietly. "They want dilution."
The first session took place in Hall C—bright, open, observational by design. Crystal arrays lined the ceiling, passively recording fluctuation patterns.
Instructor Valen Thricebound waited at the center. Air affinity. Council-trained. Precise movements. Calm authority.
"Welcome, Kurogane," Valen said evenly. "Today, we normalize output."
Kurogane nodded.
Raishin stood against the far wall, arms crossed, unsmiling.
"Lightning," Valen continued, "is inherently unstable. Our goal is not suppression but channel compliance."
He gestured.
A conduit lit.
"Release at twenty percent. Maintain visual symmetry."
Kurogane hesitated.
The internal brace pulsed—confident, expectant.
He released.
Blue-white arcs traced the conduit cleanly, efficient and contained. The arrays chimed softly.
Valen smiled. "Good. Again."
They repeated the exercise. And again. Each time, lightning responded faster. Cleaner.
Too clean.
Raishin didn't intervene.
When the session ended, Valen inclined his head. "You adapt quickly. That's rare."
"It's not adaptation," Raishin said flatly. "It's alignment."
Valen met his gaze. "Call it what you like. It works."
The second session was underground.
No arrays. No conduits. Stone walls that absorbed resonance instead of celebrating it.
Raishin locked the door himself.
"No release," he said. "No visualization."
Kurogane frowned. "Then what?"
Raishin placed a simple weight at Kurogane's feet. "Walk."
Kurogane took a step.
The lightning hesitated—unused to being ignored mid-function.
Another step.
Pain lanced briefly through his calf—not damage, but protest.
"Keep moving," Raishin said.
Kurogane obeyed. Sweat formed. Breath shortened. The internal brace pushed back, irritated.
When Kurogane finally stopped, legs shaking, Raishin spoke again.
"Tell me which lesson felt easier."
Kurogane didn't answer right away.
"The first," he admitted. "It cooperated."
Raishin nodded. "And which one felt honest?"
Silence stretched.
"The second," Kurogane said quietly.
Raishin met his eyes. "That's the problem."
That night, the effects arrived.
Not pain.
Preference.
When Kurogane focused on release, lightning responded instantly—precise, eager.
When he ignored it, the internal brace resisted longer than before.
Not violently.
Judgmentally.
Kurogane sat on the edge of his bed, palms open, breathing slow.
"They're teaching it to like answers," he whispered.
The absence returned.
Not fully. Just enough.
Compliance is not balance,the presence said softly.It is rehearsal.
Kurogane stiffened. "You shouldn't be here."
Neither should the second lesson,the voice replied.Yet both persist.
Kurogane swallowed. "Which one is right?"
The presence paused.
Wrong question.
The pressure shifted—not increasing, not releasing.
Aligning.
Which one can you refuse without becoming something else?
The absence faded.
Kurogane exhaled, heart racing.
Across the academy, Raishin stared at the wall of his quarters, aware—without proof—that something had spoken again.
And somewhere within Council chambers, metrics updated quietly.
Stability up.Variation down.
Acceptable.
No one logged the final change.
Lightning no longer needed prompting to know which lessons were rewarded.