Raishin waited until the wards changed shift.
Not because he feared them—but because routine was predictable, and predictability could be stepped between without breaking it.
"Put this on," he said, handing Kurogane a plain cloak. Unmarked. Unenchanted.
Kurogane hesitated. "We're not scheduled."
Raishin nodded. "Exactly."
They didn't use sanctioned corridors.
Raishin led him through older passageways—maintenance tunnels, forgotten staircases, spaces built before the academy learned to announce itself. The stone here was rougher, the air colder.
The internal brace stirred.
Uncomfortable.
"Good," Raishin muttered. "It doesn't like this."
"Where are we going?" Kurogane asked.
"Somewhere lightning doesn't get applause," Raishin replied.
They emerged beyond the academy's outer wards into a stretch of land officially classified as inactive terrain. No structures. No observers. Just wind, broken stone, and the low hum of earth that had never learned to perform.
Raishin stopped.
"From here on," he said, "nothing responds unless you move it."
Kurogane nodded.
Raishin placed a small marker stone on the ground. "Lift it."
Kurogane reached.
The lightning hesitated.
Then refused.
Not violently. Just… didn't engage.
Kurogane frowned and tried again—stripped of intent, stripped of audience.
The stone lifted slowly, trembling from effort alone.
Raishin exhaled. "There."
Kurogane's hand shook. Sweat dampened his collar. "It feels heavier."
"Yes," Raishin said. "That's reality."
The ground shifted subtly beneath Kurogane's feet—not hostile, just present. The internal brace pressed back, uncertain.
"Why here?" Kurogane asked.
Raishin's voice was quiet. "Because this is where my teacher lost control."
The words settled hard.
"This valley doesn't resonate," Raishin continued. "No amplification. No pattern reinforcement. The lightning couldn't hear itself here."
Kurogane swallowed. "And that mattered?"
"Yes," Raishin said. "It had nothing to answer but the body."
Kurogane stood still, feeling the brace strain against the absence.
"I thought you ended his work," Kurogane said.
Raishin looked at the sky, pale and empty. "I ended the mistake. Not the idea."
They trained without spectacle.
Steps. Weights. Breathing under resistance. Hours passed without lightning shaping a single outcome.
By dusk, Kurogane collapsed onto the stone, chest heaving.
"This hurts," he admitted.
Raishin nodded. "It's supposed to."
"Then why does it feel… quieter?"
Raishin didn't answer right away.
"Because lightning learns silence slowly," he said at last.
The wind shifted.
Kurogane felt it—something different this time. Not attention. Not expectation.
Absence.
The presence surfaced cautiously.
You left the marked space.
Kurogane tensed. "You shouldn't be able to follow us."
I am not following,it replied.I am observing where the pattern fails.
Raishin's head snapped up. "Did it speak?"
Kurogane nodded. "It said this place… doesn't support it."
Raishin closed his eyes.
"That's why he came here," Raishin whispered. "And why he broke."
The presence spoke again—not louder.
Silence does not erase inheritance,it said.It delays it.
Kurogane forced himself to breathe.
"I don't want to inherit," he said.
Then you must choose where lightning has nothing to answer.
The presence faded.
Raishin knelt beside Kurogane. "This wasn't permission," he said. "It was defiance."
Kurogane looked at him. "Will they know?"
Raishin stood.
"Yes," he said. "Soon."
Above them, unseen sensors adjusted—delayed, but adapting.
Far away, Council systems flagged an absence they could not categorize.
Not a surge.
Not a drop.
A gap.
And gaps, once noticed, invite correction.