The summons came at dawn.
Not through official channels.
Not through messengers.
A single line appeared on Kurogane's slate, bypassing every security layer the academy possessed.
ROOF. ALONE. NOW.
No signature.
No seal.
Kurogane stared at it for three seconds before the message dissolved—not deleted.
Erased from existence.
Raishin was already awake when Kurogane opened his door.
"Don't go," Raishin said flatly.
"You saw it?"
"I felt it bypass every ward between here and the upper towers." His expression was grim. "That wasn't Council authority."
"Then whose?"
Raishin didn't answer.
Kurogane moved past him.
"If I don't go," he said quietly, "they'll escalate."
"And if you do?"
Kurogane paused at the threshold.
"Then I control the timing."
The Roof
The academy's highest point was restricted for a reason.
Not because of height.
Because wards ended there.
Kurogane stepped onto open stone beneath a sky still dark with pre-dawn cold. Wind moved freely here—uncontrolled, unbothered by human intention.
Lightning stirred inside him.
Not eagerly.
Warily.
A figure stood at the far edge, silhouette sharp against the faint horizon glow.
Not Mizuki.
Not Masako.
Someone older.
"You came," the voice said. Male. Weathered. Familiar in a way that made no sense.
Kurogane stopped ten paces away. "Who are you?"
The figure turned.
Gray hair. Deep lines around eyes that had seen too much. Robes that bore no insignia but carried weight nonetheless.
"I am what the Council forgot to retire," he said.
Kurogane's breath steadied. "A name."
"Irrelevant." The man gestured slightly. "Names are recorded. Faces are remembered. I am neither."
Lightning pulsed once—testing.
The man noticed.
"It recognizes me," he said with faint approval. "Good. That means the pattern survived."
"What pattern?"
The man stepped closer.
"The one Raiketsu intended," he replied. "Before they stopped him."
Kurogane's hands tightened. "You knew him."
"I was his successor," the man said. "The one they never acknowledged."
Silence pressed down.
"Why summon me?" Kurogane asked.
"Because the Council is about to make the same mistake twice." The man's voice hardened. "They will try to deploy you."
"I'm restricted."
"Restrictions," the man said, "are words on paper. Words change when bodies pile high enough."
Kurogane felt the truth in that.
"The Northern Line is collapsing faster than projected," the man continued. "Brann's forces are hemorrhaging. Within three days, they will request emergency reinforcement."
"And?"
"And you will be sent." The man met his gaze. "Whether you consent or not."
Lightning shifted—not defensively.
Attentively.
"They'll call it voluntary deployment," the man said. "They'll frame it as your choice. But the order is already written."
Kurogane exhaled slowly. "You're telling me to refuse."
"No." The man's expression was unreadable. "I'm telling you the refusal won't matter."
A pause.
"Then why tell me at all?"
The man turned back toward the horizon, where the first edge of sunlight bled orange across distant mountains.
"Because when they send you," he said, "you need to understand what you'll actually be doing there."
"Fighting."
"No." The man's voice dropped. "Performing."
Kurogane frowned.
"The Northern Line," the man continued, "is not failing because of weakness. It's failing because someone wants documentation."
The words landed cold.
"Documentation of what?"
"Of what happens when lightning is used in war." The man glanced back. "Of whether it can be controlled under real pressure."
"They're testing me."
"Worse," the man replied. "They're recording precedent."
Lightning coiled tighter—not in fear.
In recognition.
"If I succeed," Kurogane said slowly, "they justify deployment."
"And if you fail?"
Kurogane didn't answer.
"If you fail," the man finished, "they justify containment."
Silence stretched.
"You're saying I can't win."
"I'm saying the victory condition isn't what you think." The man turned fully now. "They don't need you to save the line. They need you to prove lightning belongs on a leash."
Kurogane felt the internal brace pulse—not resisting the words.
Accepting them.
"What would Raiketsu have done?" he asked.
The man's expression darkened.
"He would have refused," he said. "And they killed him for it."
The sun crested the mountains.
Light washed across the roof, harsh and unforgiving.
"I'm not telling you to refuse," the man said. "I'm telling you that if you go, do not perform."
"Then what?"
The man stepped past him toward the stairwell.
"Survive," he said. "Without proving anything."
He paused at the threshold.
"And when you return—if you return—understand this: the Council will fracture completely. Choose your side carefully."
"What if I don't choose?"
The man looked back one final time.
"Then someone will choose for you."
He descended.
Kurogane stood alone on the roof as dawn broke fully.
Lightning did not ask questions.
It waited.
Far below, systems logged an anomaly—unregistered presence detected at restricted altitude.
But by the time security arrived, the roof was empty.
And the conversation that never officially happened left no record.
Except in one place.
Kurogane's memory.
And the alignment inside him that had just learned something the Council never intended:
Refusal could be silent.