Sleep stopped coming naturally.
Kurogane would lie on his bed, eyes closed, body still—but his mind refused to quiet.
Numbers scrolled behind his eyelids.
847,
2,341.
156.
157.
Dead. Wounded. Missing. Burned out.
Each digit had a face he'd never seen.
A name he'd never know.
Lightning stirred in the darkness.
Not restless.
Watchful.
You haven't slept in three days.
I know.
That's not sustainable.
Neither is this.
A long pause.
What are we doing?
Kurogane opened his eyes.
Stared at the ceiling of his quarters—stone, unchanging, indifferent.
I don't know anymore.
0300 Hours
He gave up trying to sleep.
Dressed. Moved through empty corridors.
The academy at night was different—sounds carried farther, shadows stretched longer.
Everything felt exposed.
He found himself at the medical wing.
Not consciously choosing it.
Just… arriving.
The wounded had been arriving in waves.
Not the critical cases—those went to field hospitals.
These were the ones stable enough to transport. The ones who'd survive.
Most of them.
Kurogane stood outside the recovery ward.
Through reinforced glass, he saw rows of beds.
Twenty. Maybe thirty occupied.
Bandages. IV lines. Exhausted sleep.
And one pair of eyes.
Open.
Staring at him.
A soldier—young, maybe Kurogane's age. Earth affinity, judging by the crest on his uniform.
Left arm missing below the elbow.
They locked gazes.
Neither looked away.
The soldier's expression was… complicated.
Not hostile.
Not grateful.
Just… aware.
Of what Kurogane was.
What he'd chosen not to do.
Kurogane broke first.
Turned away.
Lightning pulsed—not in judgment.
In recognition.
He knows.
Everyone knows.
He walked faster.
Away from the medical wing.
Away from eyes that asked questions he couldn't answer.
Dawn – Training Grounds
Kurogane stood in the center of the empty arena.
The same place he'd first been tested.
The same place lightning had first been documented.
He raised his hand.
Released.
Blue-white arcs traced the air—clean, controlled, exactly measured.
The kind of discharge that proved mastery.
The kind that looked nothing like what he'd done at the Northern Line.
Because at the Northern Line, he'd done nothing.
He released again.
Stronger this time.
Lightning carved through space, ionizing air, leaving ozone traces.
Beautiful.
Precise.
Useless.
Why are we doing this?
Kurogane didn't stop.
Third discharge. Fourth.
Each one perfect.
Each one documentation of capability.
Proof that he could.
Evidence that he chose not to.
You're punishing us, lightning said quietly.
No.
Then what is this?
Kurogane released again—harder, pushing boundaries.
The suppression scars on his wrists ached.
Reminding me what restraint costs.
He collapsed to one knee, breathing hard.
Lightning settled—not dormant, not exhausted.
Just… present.
Waiting.
For what, neither of them knew anymore.
Footsteps approached.
Raishin.
He said nothing.
Just stood at the arena edge, watching.
"I can't sleep," Kurogane said finally.
"I know."
"The numbers—"
"I know."
Silence stretched.
"Am I wrong?" Kurogane asked. "About precedent. About refusing."
Raishin didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was careful.
"I don't know," he said. "And I think that's what's breaking you."
Kurogane looked up.
"Not the refusal itself," Raishin continued. "But the uncertainty. Not knowing if you're saving lives or just… postponing."
"Yes."
Raishin entered the arena.
Sat on the stone floor beside Kurogane.
"Raiketsu faced this," he said quietly. "The same question. The same weight."
"What did he choose?"
"He tried both," Raishin replied. "First he refused. Then he deployed. Then he refused again."
"And?"
"And it broke him." Raishin's voice was heavy. "Because he discovered there's no right answer. Just consequences you have to live with."
Lightning stirred.
That's not helpful.
Kurogane almost laughed.
"What do I do?" he asked.
"Survive," Raishin said. "One choice at a time. And accept that some consequences you can't predict."
"Even if people die because I didn't act?"
"Even then."
Raishin stood.
"But understand," he added, "that surviving this doesn't mean sleeping well. It means living with the weight."
He walked away.
Kurogane remained on the arena floor.
Alone again.
Lightning pulsed once.
We're cracking.
I know.
Can we hold?
Kurogane looked at his scarred wrists.
At the arena that had documented his capability.
At the empty grounds that reminded him of every person who wasn't here because they'd been deployed instead.
I don't know.
And for the first time since Northern Line—
That uncertainty felt like truth.
Not weakness.
Not failure.
Just the honest acknowledgment that he was making choices in darkness.
Hoping they led somewhere other than more graves.
Midday – Archive Chamber
The casualty reports updated.
Day 24 Summary:
KIA: 871 (+24)
WIA: 2,456 (+115)
MIA: 162 (+6)
Elemental Burnout: 98 (+5)
The numbers grew.
Slowly.
Steadily.
Inevitably.
Kurogane stared at the delta values.
Twenty-four more dead since yesterday.
Could he have prevented them?
Maybe.
Would deploying have saved them?
Possibly.
What would it have cost?
Unknown.
That was the calculation.
The impossible math.
Lightning stirred.
We can't keep doing this.
What?
Reading reports. Counting bodies. Measuring our refusal in corpses.
Then what do we do?
Silence.
Because neither of them knew.
Kurogane closed the report.
Stood.
Walked to the window overlooking empty training grounds.
Somewhere beyond the academy walls, four fronts fought without him.
People died without him.
Wars continued without him.
And he lived with Strategic Reserve—
The designation that meant freedom.
The cage that looked like choice.
The weight that accumulated one report at a time.
Until it didn't feel like restraint anymore.
Just gravity.
Pulling him toward decisions he'd promised himself he'd never make.
Lightning waited.
Patient.
Certain.
Because it knew something Kurogane was just beginning to understand:
Refusal had costs.
But so did acceptance.
And eventually—
The weight would force a choice.
Not between right and wrong.
But between which consequences he could survive.
And which would break him first.
Evening – Unexpected Arrival
The alarm didn't sound.
No emergency.
Just notification—
Transport incoming. Medical priority.
Kurogane felt it before the announcement.
Something wrong.
Different.
He moved toward the landing platform.
Arrived as the transport touched down.
Hatches opened.
Medical teams rushed forward.
And through the controlled chaos—
A stretcher.
Someone he recognized.
Brann.
Earth-user. Northern Line.
The one who'd held when Kurogane refused.
Alive.
Barely.
Their eyes met for half a second as medics carried him past.
Brann's expression was complicated.
Not accusation.
Not forgiveness.
Just… exhausted recognition.
You're still here, his eyes said.
And I'm barely alive.
The stretcher disappeared into medical.
Kurogane stood frozen.
Lightning coiled tight.
He held the line, it said quietly.
Yes.
Without us.
Yes.
At what cost?
Kurogane looked at his hands.
The ones that could discharge.
The ones that stayed still.
The ones that were clean because others bled.
The first crack widened.
Not breaking yet.
But no longer sealed.
And somewhere in the space between restraint and guilt—
Precedent and survival—
Principle and pragmatism—
Kurogane felt certainty slip.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
To know that Strategic Reserve wasn't sustainable forever.
And the weight would eventually choose.
Even if he didn't.