Kurogane waited outside medical for three hours.
Not because they told him to.
Because leaving felt wrong.
Healers moved in controlled urgency—assessing, stabilizing, prioritizing.
More wounded arrived in waves.
Not just Brann.
A full transport of casualties from Western Front.
Kurogane watched them carried past.
Burned. Broken. Exhausted beyond comprehension.
One soldier—fire-aligned, bandages covering half her face—stopped when she saw him.
The medics tried to move her along.
She shook them off.
Stared at Kurogane.
"You," she said. Voice rough. Damaged.
Kurogane met her gaze.
"I know you," she continued. "The lightning kid. Strategic Reserve."
He nodded.
Her expression twisted.
"We asked for you," she said. "Three days ago. Western approach was collapsing."
Kurogane's breath stopped.
"They said you were unavailable." She laughed—harsh, broken. "Not deployed. Not restricted. Just… unavailable."
Lightning coiled tight.
Don't—
"My unit held without you," she continued. "Fourteen of us went in. Four came out."
Silence pressed down.
Medical staff tried again to move her.
She pulled away.
"I'm not angry," she said. Quieter now. "I just need to know."
"Know what?" Kurogane asked.
"If we died for a good reason."
Her eyes held his—not accusing, not pleading.
Just asking.
Honest question that had no good answer.
"I don't know," Kurogane said finally.
The words felt like failure.
The woman nodded slowly.
"At least you're honest," she said.
Then to the medics: "I'm done."
They carried her away.
Kurogane stood motionless.
Lightning was silent.
Not because it had nothing to say.
Because words wouldn't help.
The weight increased.
Another increment.
Another face.
Another name he'd never know attached to a choice he'd made.
Medical Bay – Restricted Ward
Brann woke three hours after surgery.
Kurogane was sitting in the observation room when the monitors changed.
A healer noticed him.
"You've been here a while," she said.
"Yes."
"He's stable," she continued. "Critical, but stable. The earth reinforcement prevented worse damage."
"Can I see him?"
The healer hesitated.
"Briefly. He needs rest."
She led Kurogane to the recovery unit.
Brann lay connected to monitoring equipment—vitals steady, breathing assisted, but conscious.
His eyes tracked Kurogane's approach.
Neither spoke immediately.
Finally, Brann gestured weakly at the chair beside his bed.
Kurogane sat.
"You look like hell," Brann said. Voice weak but clear.
"You look worse."
"Fair."
Silence stretched.
Not uncomfortable.
Just heavy.
"Northern Line held," Brann said finally. "After you left. We consolidated. Reinforced. Lost people, but… held."
"I heard."
"Western Front requested you," Brann continued. "I told them not to bother."
Kurogane looked up.
"Why?"
"Because I understood," Brann replied. "What you were trying to prevent."
He shifted slightly—winced.
"But understanding doesn't make it easier," he added. "For anyone."
"No."
Brann studied him carefully.
"You're breaking," he said.
Not a question.
"Maybe."
"Good."
Kurogane frowned.
"Good?"
"It means you're human," Brann replied. "Means the weight matters. That's important."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Raiketsu broke differently," he continued. "He stopped feeling it. Became pure logic. That's when they had to remove him."
"You knew him?"
"My grandfather did," Brann said. "Served under him during the Second Consolidation War. Said Raiketsu was brilliant. Effective. Terrifying."
A pause.
"And empty."
Lightning stirred.
Is that what we become? If we deploy?
I don't know.
Brann opened his eyes again.
"I can't tell you what's right," he said. "Whether refusing helps or hurts. Whether precedent matters more than presence."
"Then why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Brann replied, "whatever you choose—make sure it's still you choosing. Not the weight. Not the guilt. Not the system."
He coughed—sharp, painful.
"You."
A healer appeared immediately.
"That's enough," she said firmly. "He needs rest."
Kurogane stood.
"Thank you," he said.
Brann nodded once.
"Survive," he said. "However you can."
Kurogane left before emotion could complicate speech.
Outside the recovery ward, he leaned against the wall.
Breathing carefully.
Lightning pulsed.
He's right. We're breaking.
I know.
Can we survive it?
Kurogane looked at his scarred wrists.
At the medical bay full of consequences.
At the weight that wouldn't stop accumulating.
I don't know.
But we have to try.
Evening – Archive Chamber
Kurogane returned to the casualty reports.
Not because he wanted to.
Because not looking felt like avoidance.
Day 25 Summary:
KIA: 903 (+32)
WIA: 2,587 (+131)
MIA: 168 (+6)
Elemental Burnout: 104 (+6)
Thirty-two more dead.
He scrolled to the detailed breakdown.
Western Front: 19 KIA.
The sector that had requested him three days ago.
The unit the fire-aligned woman had belonged to.
Fourteen went in.
Four came out.
Lightning coiled.
We could've—
Don't.
But—
We don't know. We can't know. That's the point.
He closed the report.
Opened another.
Tactical analysis. Enemy patterns. Strategic projections.
Anything to avoid the numbers.
But they were everywhere.
In every report.
Every projection.
Every calculation.
All measuring the cost of his refusal in corpses.
A notification appeared.
New message.
From Masako.
Council convening tomorrow. 0900. Your presence requested.
Not required this time.
Requested.
Which somehow felt worse.
Kurogane stared at the message.
Lightning spoke quietly.
They're not done trying.
No.
What will you say?
Same thing I've been saying.
Even if it's killing you?
Especially then.
He closed the slate.
Sat in darkness.
The archive chamber was designed for research.
For documentation.
For preserving history.
Not for measuring how many people died while you maintained principle.
But that's what it had become.
A monument to restraint.
Built one casualty report at a time.
Lightning waited.
Not pressing.
Not arguing.
Just… present.
Sharing the weight.
Because that's what they'd become.
Not weapon and wielder.
But two parts of one impossible choice.
Learning slowly—
That sometimes the right decision didn't feel right at all.
It just felt like surviving.
One report.
One refusal.
One death at a time.
Until either the weight broke them—
Or they learned to carry it.
Neither option felt like winning.
Both felt like cost.
And cost—
Kurogane was learning—
Didn't care about justification.
It just accumulated.
Until something gave.
Midnight – Rooftop
Kurogane returned to the place where it had started.
The roof.
Where the mysterious man had warned him.
Where wards ended.
Where choice had first felt like burden.
The night was cold.
Clear.
Stars sharp and distant.
He sat at the edge, legs dangling over nothing.
Lightning stirred.
Why here?
Because this is where someone told me I couldn't win.
Were they right?
Kurogane looked at the empty academy grounds below.
At the medical wing with its occupied beds.
At the archive with its growing casualty counts.
At the world that kept asking him to discharge.
And discharge.
And discharge.
Until proving capability became proving obedience.
I don't know.
That's your answer to everything now.
Because it's true.
A long silence.
I'm tired, lightning admitted.
Of what?
Of waiting. Of restraint. Of being ready but never released.
Of watching numbers grow and knowing we could change them.
I know.
Then why don't we?
Because—
Kurogane stopped.
The answer he'd been using felt hollow now.
Precedent.
Strategic consequence.
Long-term cost.
All true.
All rational.
All insufficient when facing someone who'd lost ten friends because he wasn't there.
Lightning waited.
You don't have the answer anymore, do you?
No.
Good.
Kurogane frowned.
Good?
Yes. Because answers feel certain. And certainty is what got Raiketsu killed.
Uncertainty keeps you human.
Kurogane exhaled slowly.
Maybe.
But humanity didn't make the weight lighter.
It just made it feel more real.
He sat on the roof until dawn.
Watching stars fade.
Watching the academy wake.
Watching another day begin where choices would be impossible.
And consequences unavoidable.
Tomorrow Council would convene.
Tomorrow they'd show him more numbers.
Tomorrow the pressure would increase.
And tomorrow—
Like every day before—
He'd have to decide.
Not if his refusal was right.
But if he could survive one more day of it.
The first crack had widened.
Not breaking yet.
But no longer theoretical.
Real.
Present.
Waiting.
For the moment when weight exceeded capacity.
When principle met pragmatism.
When Strategic Reserve became just another word for broken.
Lightning settled beside him.
Silent.
Patient.
Together.
Because whatever came next—
They'd face it as they'd faced everything.
Uncertain.
Scarred.
Surviving.
One impossible choice at a time.