The transport arrived before sunrise.
No escort.
No announcement.
Just a reinforced carrier that settled onto the academy's lower platform with hydraulic precision—military gray, unmarked, built for function over form.
Kurogane stood at the designated departure point, single pack over his shoulder.
Light.
Practical.
Expendable.
The suppression bands were in his pocket, unworn.
He'd made that choice deliberately.
The Supervisor
A figure emerged from the transport's rear hatch.
Not Valen.
Someone younger. Thirties. Sharp eyes. Controlled posture.
"Kurogane Vaelrion," the man said. Not a question.
"Yes."
The man inclined his head once. "Instructor Garrett Thorne. I'll be overseeing your deployment."
No warmth.
No hostility.
Pure professionalism.
"Overseeing," Kurogane repeated.
Thorne met his gaze without flinching. "Ensuring compliance with engagement protocols."
"Watching me."
"Yes."
At least he was honest.
Thorne gestured toward the transport. "We depart in five minutes. Medical check and briefing en route."
Kurogane nodded.
He turned back once.
Raishin stood at the upper terrace—too far for words, close enough for acknowledgment.
He raised one hand.
Not a wave.
A signal.
Remember.
Kurogane returned it.
Then boarded.
Inside the Transport
The interior was utilitarian.
Reinforced seating. Emergency equipment. No windows.
Two other passengers already secured—support staff, silent and pale.
Thorne took the seat opposite Kurogane.
"Suppression bands," he said. "You're required to wear them during transit."
Kurogane pulled them from his pocket.
Thorne's expression tightened. "They should already be—"
"I know what they should be," Kurogane interrupted calmly. "I'm putting them on now."
He secured the bands around his wrists—triple-layer dampening, cold against skin.
Lightning recoiled slightly.
Not suppressed.
Muffled.
The transport lifted.
Smooth acceleration. No turbulence.
Thorne activated a projection slate between them.
"Northern Defensive Line, Sector Seven," he said. "Current status: contested. Casualties moderate but escalating."
A tactical map materialized.
Red zones. Defensive positions. Enemy pressure vectors.
Kurogane studied it without comment.
"Your role," Thorne continued, "is limited intervention. Defensive support only. No offensive strikes without direct authorization."
"From whom?"
"Me."
Kurogane looked up. "And if the situation deteriorates?"
Thorne's jaw tightened. "Then you disengage and withdraw."
"Even if others can't?"
Silence stretched.
"Those," Thorne said carefully, "are the parameters."
Kurogane leaned back.
Lightning stirred against the suppression—testing boundaries, cataloging limitations.
"Understood," he said.
Thorne didn't look convinced.
He deactivated the projection. "Medical scan. Standard procedure."
A technician approached with a handheld scanner.
Kurogane remained still as it passed over him—biosigns, elemental resonance, core stability.
The readings appeared on Thorne's slate.
He frowned.
"Your internal signature is… unusual."
"I've been told."
"No," Thorne said. "I mean structurally. There are compression points that shouldn't exist."
Kurogane said nothing.
Thorne studied the data longer than necessary.
Finally closed it.
"You've been altered," he said quietly. "Not trained. Altered."
"Does it matter?"
Thorne met his gaze.
"It will," he replied. "When things go wrong."
The transport shuddered slightly—atmospheric shift, descent beginning.
"ETA fifteen minutes," the pilot announced over internal comm.
Thorne secured his harness. "Final brief. You do not engage independently. You do not exceed authorization. You do not—under any circumstance—discharge at full capacity."
"And if full capacity is necessary?"
Thorne's expression hardened.
"Then you've already failed," he said.
The transport descended through cloud cover.
Below, the Northern Line waited—smoke, fire, defensive barriers holding against pressure that wouldn't stop.
Kurogane felt it before he saw it.
Not through windows.
Through resonance.
Lightning recognized conflict.
It always did.
Landing Zone
The transport touched down hard—military landing, no grace.
Hatches opened.
Sound crashed in.
Distant explosions. Shouted orders. The grinding roar of elemental combat sustained over hours.
Kurogane stepped out onto scorched earth.
The sky was wrong—gray with ash, orange with reflected fire.
Thorne landed beside him. "Stay close. Move when I move."
They advanced through the staging area.
Wounded were everywhere—healers overwhelmed, supplies running thin.
A makeshift command post sat beneath reinforced barriers.
An earth-user—officer, exhausted—looked up as they approached.
"You the Council reinforcement?" he asked Thorne.
"Observational support," Thorne replied carefully.
The officer's eyes shifted to Kurogane.
Narrowed.
"You're the lightning kid."
Not a question. Not friendly.
"Yes," Kurogane said.
The officer exhaled harshly. "Great. We get a test subject."
Thorne stiffened. "He's here under—"
"I know why he's here," the officer cut in. "Everyone knows."
He turned back to tactical displays.
"Sector collapsed an hour ago," he continued. "We're holding the fallback line—barely. Next push, we break."
"Reinforcements?" Thorne asked.
"Three days out. Minimum."
Thorne's face went pale.
The officer looked at Kurogane again.
"You any good?" he asked bluntly.
Kurogane met his gaze. "I don't know yet."
The honesty surprised the officer.
He almost smiled.
"At least you're not arrogant," he muttered. "Position's two klicks north. Move fast. Move smart."
An explosion rocked the ground nearby.
Closer than before.
"And move now," the officer added.
Thorne grabbed Kurogane's shoulder. "Let's go."
They moved through defensive lines—soldiers exhausted, positions failing, desperation replacing discipline.
Kurogane felt the suppression bands dig into his wrists.
Lightning pushed back—not violently.
Insistently.
Let me out.
Not yet.
A runner intercepted them halfway.
"Officer Thorne?"
"Yes."
"Forward position requests immediate support. They're about to be overrun."
Thorne hesitated.
Just for a second.
Long enough for Kurogane to understand.
This was the moment.
The one they'd been waiting for.
The precedent.
Thorne looked at Kurogane.
"Defensive discharge only," he said. "Suppression stays active."
"That won't be enough," Kurogane replied calmly.
"It has to be."
Another explosion—much closer.
Screams followed.
Thorne's jaw clenched.
"Move," he said.
They ran toward the forward line.
Toward smoke and fire and the sound of people dying.
And inside Kurogane, beneath suppression and observation and every restriction designed to control him—
Lightning waited.
Patient.
Certain.
Because it knew something the Council didn't.
Suppression only worked when you believed it should.
And Kurogane had stopped believing three days ago.