EARTH WARRIORChapter 72: Investigation Begins
The restricted archive opened at midnight.
Not officially.
Not publicly.
But Mizuki had clearance that predated current Council authority.
And she intended to use it.
Kurogane watched as she bypassed three security layers—codes that shouldn't exist, access paths that had been "sealed" decades ago.
"Where did you learn this?" he asked quietly.
"From people who knew what the Council would eventually try to hide," Mizuki replied.
She gestured him forward.
They entered.
The Sealed Records
The archive section was different from the public areas.
No organization.
No catalog system.
Just boxes.
Crates.
Files stacked in controlled chaos—the kind that came from rapid concealment rather than deliberate preservation.
"What are we looking for?" Kurogane asked.
"Patterns," Mizuki replied. "Someone inside has access to deployment schedules, strategic planning, and your specific restrictions."
"That's half the Council."
"Exactly."
She pulled a crate down.
Opened it.
Personnel files.
Current Council members.
Historical appointments.
"We start with motivation," Mizuki said. "Who benefits from forcing your deployment?"
Kurogane considered.
"Anyone who wants precedent," he said. "Anyone who believes lightning should be used as a weapon."
"Too broad."
Mizuki spread files across a dusty table.
Five Council members.
Valen. Akihiko. Masako. Herself. One empty position—High Arbiter.
"Valen wants stability," she said. "Deployable assets that follow doctrine. Your refusal disrupts that."
"Motivation?"
"Control. Order. Predictability."
She moved to the next file.
"Akihiko believes in hierarchy," she continued. "Power structures. Chain of command. Your autonomy undermines that."
"Strong motivation."
"Yes."
Masako's file next.
"Masako values balance," Mizuki said. "She's defended your refusal repeatedly. But she's also pragmatic. If casualties exceed thresholds…"
"She'd change position."
"Possibly."
Mizuki paused at her own file.
"And you?" Kurogane asked.
She met his gaze.
"I believe in choice," she said. "Even when I disagree with it. That's why I'm here—helping you investigate rather than pressuring you to comply."
Kurogane nodded.
Lightning stirred.
Can we trust her?
I think so.
But?
But trust isn't certainty.
Mizuki moved to the final position.
"High Arbiter," she said. "Vacant for three weeks. Officially on diplomatic mission."
"Unofficially?"
"No one knows." Her expression darkened. "Communications ceased twelve days ago. No updates. No location confirmation."
"That's not normal."
"No."
She pulled another file.
Not Council.
Civilian oversight committee.
Representatives with access to strategic information but no direct authority.
Kurogane scanned the names.
Stopped at one.
Korrin, Representative - Resource Allocation Council
The man from the observation chamber.
The one who'd called him arrogant.
Who'd demanded deployment.
"Him," Kurogane said.
Mizuki looked.
"Korrin has motive," she agreed. "He's advocated for aggressive elemental deployment for years. Your refusal contradicts his entire policy position."
"Access?"
"Limited," Mizuki replied. "Civilian oversight gets sanitized briefings. But…"
She pulled additional documents.
Financial records.
Connections.
"His family has deep ties to military contracting," she continued. "Elemental augmentation systems. Suppression technology. Deployment logistics."
"He profits from war."
"He profits from active war," Mizuki corrected. "Stalemate costs him."
Lightning coiled.
That's motive.
And opportunity if he has inside contact.
Kurogane studied the connections.
Korrin's network extended into multiple agencies.
Including one notation that made him pause.
Historical Advisory: Raiketsu Doctrine Rehabilitation Committee
"He knew Raiketsu's work," Kurogane said.
Mizuki leaned closer.
"More than knew," she replied. "He advocated for it. Tried to reverse the ban on lightning deployment doctrine."
"When?"
"Eight years ago. Motion failed. Barely."
She pulled more files.
"Korrin has spent a decade trying to prove concentrated elemental force wins wars," she said. "Your refusal undermines that thesis. If you never deploy—"
"His entire career loses credibility."
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"So he feeds information to the enemy," Kurogane said slowly. "Orchestrates attacks designed to force my deployment. When I finally agree—"
"He's vindicated," Mizuki finished. "Lightning doctrine is restored. His policies are validated. His contracts are lucrative."
"And if I continue refusing?"
"Then casualties mount until public pressure forces Council action," Mizuki replied. "Either way, he wins."
Lightning stirred angrily.
He's using the war. Using deaths. To prove a point.
Welcome to politics.
Kurogane looked at Korrin's file.
At connections stretching across agencies.
At financial incentives aligned with deployment.
"This isn't proof," he said.
"No," Mizuki agreed. "It's direction. Proof requires investigation."
"How long?"
"Weeks. Maybe longer if he's careful."
Kurogane felt the weight increase.
Weeks of casualties.
Weeks of manipulation.
Weeks of carrying refusal while someone profited from the pressure.
"What do we do?" he asked.
Mizuki began repacking files.
"We investigate quietly," she said. "Monitor his communications. Track financial movements. Build a case."
"And in the meantime?"
She looked at him.
"You survive," she said. "And refuse. Because the moment you deploy under this pressure—"
"He wins."
"Yes."
0300 Hours – Kurogane's Quarters
He couldn't sleep.
Again.
The investigation had direction now.
Target identified.
Motivation clear.
But proof took time.
And time cost lives.
Lightning stirred restlessly.
We know who's doing this.
Knowing isn't proving.
But while we investigate, people die.
Yes.
How many more before we act?
Kurogane didn't answer.
Because the honest response was—
He didn't know how many more he could carry.
The count had been abstract at first.
Numbers.
Statistics.
But faces were appearing now.
The fire-aligned woman with bandages.
Brann barely surviving.
Seris losing her partner.
Each one real.
Each one weight.
Lightning spoke quietly.
What if Mizuki's wrong? What if it's not Korrin?
Then we keep investigating.
And if we never find proof?
Then we live with uncertainty.
While people die.
Yes.
A long silence.
I hate this, lightning admitted.
I know.
We could end it. Deploy once. Prove effectiveness. Force the manipulator's hand.
And establish precedent that makes everything worse.
Maybe. Maybe not. We don't know.
Kurogane closed his eyes.
That's the problem.
We never know.
We just choose.
And live with consequences.
Or don't.
He lay in darkness.
Not sleeping.
Not resting.
Just existing in the space between decisions.
Where weight accumulated.
Where certainty dissolved.
Where principle met pragmatism and neither won cleanly.
Tomorrow would bring new casualty reports.
New requests for deployment.
New pressure disguised as information.
And somewhere—
Korrin would continue his manipulation.
Confident that eventually—
The weight would break Strategic Reserve.
Force deployment.
Validate doctrine.
Prove that lightning could be controlled.
Should be controlled.
Must be controlled.
That was the game.
And Kurogane was losing.
Not because he was weak.
But because winning required surviving indefinitely.
And survival—
He was learning—
Had limits.
Even when principle didn't.
Dawn – Medical Wing
Kurogane found himself at the recovery ward again.
Not consciously choosing it.
Just… arriving.
Brann was awake.
Sitting up.
Looking stronger.
Their eyes met through the observation glass.
Brann gestured him in.
Kurogane entered.
"You look worse than yesterday," Brann said.
"Not sleeping."
"I noticed."
Silence.
"We identified a suspect," Kurogane said finally. "Someone who might be manipulating the war. To force my deployment."
Brann's expression didn't change.
"Korrin," he said.
Kurogane stiffened.
"How did you—"
"Because I saw the pattern on the front," Brann interrupted. "Attacks too coordinated. Timing too convenient. Someone feeding information."
He shifted carefully.
"Half the officers suspected," he continued. "We just didn't know who."
"Did you report it?"
"To whom?" Brann replied. "If there's a leak, reporting through channels is suicide."
"So you just… held."
"Yes."
Kurogane sat.
"Mizuki's investigating," he said. "Building a case. But it takes time."
"How much time?"
"Weeks."
Brann exhaled slowly.
"People will die while you wait," he said.
"I know."
"Can you live with that?"
Kurogane met his gaze.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But deploying now—under this pressure—"
"Gives Korrin what he wants," Brann finished. "Yes. I understand the calculation."
He leaned back.
"But understanding doesn't make the weight lighter," he added. "For anyone."
"No."
They sat in silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Just honest.
Two people carrying impossible choices.
Different contexts.
Same burden.
Finally, Brann spoke.
"When I held Northern Line," he said quietly, "I knew you could've helped. That lightning might've saved people."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Brann interrupted. "Because I also knew—if you deployed then, you'd deploy forever. Every conflict. Every crisis. Every time someone needed overwhelming force."
He looked at Kurogane directly.
"And eventually," he continued, "you'd become what Raiketsu became. Empty. Mechanical. A weapon that forgot it was human."
"Is that better than this?"
"I don't know," Brann replied. "But at least this way, you're still asking the question."
Lightning pulsed once.
He's trying to help.
I know.
Kurogane stood.
"Survive," he said.
Brann smiled faintly.
"You too."
Kurogane left.
The medical wing.
The conversation.
The temporary relief of shared burden.
Back into corridors where weight was solitary.
Where investigation proceeded slowly.
Where casualties mounted steadily.
And where Strategic Reserve meant freedom.
Or prison.
Depending on how you measured.