The announcement went public within hours.
Carefully timed. Carefully worded.
"Following recent evaluations, the Academy reports measurable improvement in elemental responsiveness and behavioral stability in its most unique student. Controlled exposure and structured guidance continue to yield positive results."
The crowd applauded exactly when expected.
Kurogane stood on the upper platform of the demonstration hall, sunlight washing over polished stone and crystal rails. Below him sat representatives—delegates, envoys, observers whose eyes reflected interest disguised as reassurance.
"Minimal output," Valen murmured at his side. "Symmetry first."
Raishin stood far back, deliberately placed outside the primary viewing arc.
Kurogane felt the internal brace adjust as he raised his hand.
The lightning arrived instantly.
Not violently.Not reluctantly.
Perfect arcs formed between sanctioned nodes, light measured and quiet applause rippling through the hall.
Polite admiration.
Contained awe.
"It's beautiful," someone whispered.
The word landed strangely.
Kurogane released the current and lowered his hand.
The brace did not loosen.
It settled.
"Excellent," Valen said softly. "Again."
Kurogane hesitated.
For a fraction of a second, he felt something underneath the compliance—a subtle delay. Not refusal.
Evaluation.
He released again.
The audience smiled.
Metrics glowed green across the side panels.
Stability up.Deviation negligible.Approval unanimous.
Only Masako did not clap.
"That wasn't lightning," she said quietly to Mizuki beside her.
Mizuki didn't look away from the stage. "It was."
"No," Masako replied. "That was memory behaving."
Down on the platform, Valen inclined his head toward the audience. "As you can see, unpredictability has been significantly reduced."
A delegate stood. "And the risks associated with prior incidents?"
"Mitigated," Valen replied smoothly. "Through doctrine refinement."
Raishin's hands tightened.
"Which doctrine?" Masako asked, her voice carrying farther than expected.
A pause.
Valen smiled professionally. "An evolved one."
Kurogane stepped back as the demonstration concluded.
The applause lingered longer than necessary.
As he turned away, he felt it.
Not pain.
Not pressure.
A quiet withdrawal.
Like something stepping behind a curtain because its presence was no longer required.
"Raishin," Kurogane whispered as they passed in the corridor afterward. "It didn't follow me off the stage."
Raishin stopped walking.
"…What didn't?"
"The waiting," Kurogane said. "It doesn't need to anymore."
Raishin looked at him, alarm flashing across his face before control returned.
"That means it learned where it's allowed to exist," he said quietly.
Behind them, Valen spoke to Akihiko in low tones.
"Public confidence restored," Valen said. "The pattern is sustainable."
Akihiko nodded. "Then we accelerate."
Elsewhere in the hall, Mizuki intercepted the official report as it finalized.
She scanned the addendum.
Her breath slowed.
"What?" Masako asked.
"They approved expansion," Mizuki said. "More exposure. Broader audience."
Masako's grip tightened on her cane. "They think repetition equals safety."
Mizuki looked at Kurogane across the hall—at the boy standing too calmly after applause meant to define him.
"They're wrong," she said. "Repetition creates belief."
That night, alone in his room, Kurogane opened his palm.
No lightning answered.
No hum.
Just silence—organized, intentional silence.
Then, gently, the absence returned.
You performed well,the voice said.They believe you are improving.
Kurogane swallowed. "I am."
Yes, the presence replied.That is the danger.
Kurogane clenched his fist.
"What are you?" he asked.
The answer did not come immediately.
A reminder,it said at last.That lightning was never meant to settle.
The silence deepened.
Outside the academy, the approved narrative spread quickly, calming fears and sharpening expectations.
And beneath the calm, the internal brace aligned one final increment—quietly categorizing approval as a condition worth preserving.