EARTH WARRIORChapter 60: Three Days Until Deployment
The academy felt different after dawn.
Not quieter.
Emptier.
Most combat-ready students had already departed. What remained were support staff, junior instructors, and those classified as non-deployable.
And Kurogane.
He walked the corridors that had once been crowded, now echoing with his own footsteps. Lightning moved with him—subdued, attentive.
Waiting for the shoe to drop.
It took until midday.
The Announcement
No fanfare.
No gathering.
Just a projection that materialized in every occupied space simultaneously—Valen's face, composed and authoritative.
"Effective in seventy-two hours," he said, "emergency reinforcement protocols will be enacted."
A pause.
"Tier Gamma personnel previously withheld will be re-evaluated for conditional deployment."
Kurogane stopped walking.
Around the academy, the few remaining students exchanged glances.
"Conditional deployment to Northern Stabilization Zones will proceed under the following parameters—"
Raishin appeared beside Kurogane, jaw tight.
"They're not even pretending anymore," he muttered.
The projection continued.
"—direct oversight by Council-appointed supervisors. Limited engagement authorization. Immediate recall upon protocol deviation."
Valen's expression didn't change.
"Compliance is expected."
The projection faded.
Silence returned.
"Seventy-two hours," Kurogane said quietly.
Raishin didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was flat. "They already wrote the deployment order. This announcement is theater."
"To make it look voluntary."
"Yes."
Kurogane exhaled slowly. "And if I refuse?"
Raishin looked at him carefully.
"Then they classify you as non-compliant," he said. "And non-compliance during wartime has only one outcome."
Lightning stirred—not aggressively.
Calculatingly.
Day One: Preparation That Wasn't
The academy issued standard deployment materials.
Reinforced travel gear. Suppression bands. Medical kits designed for elemental trauma.
Kurogane received his allocation in a sealed container delivered to his quarters.
He opened it once.
Stared at the contents.
Closed it again.
The suppression bands were heavier than standard issue.
Raishin examined them later without touching.
"Triple-layer resonance dampening," he said. "These aren't safety equipment."
"What are they?"
"Insurance," Raishin replied. "For everyone except you."
Kurogane set them aside.
That evening, Mizuki appeared at his door.
No pleasantries.
"You understand what they're doing," she said.
Not a question.
"Yes."
Mizuki stepped inside, closing the door with deliberate care.
"The Northern Line is not collapsing," she said quietly. "It's being bled."
Kurogane turned sharply. "Intentionally?"
"Strategically." Mizuki's expression was unreadable. "Brann's forces are holding—barely. But they're sustaining losses at a rate that justifies intervention."
"Convenient."
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"They want footage," Kurogane said.
Mizuki nodded. "Combat documentation. Lightning in action against real threats. Success or failure—both outcomes serve someone's agenda."
"Whose?"
Mizuki didn't answer.
Instead, she placed a small crystalline marker on the table between them.
"This will record what actually happens," she said. "Not what they choose to show."
Kurogane looked at it. "Why give this to me?"
"Because I don't trust the official version," Mizuki replied. "And neither should you."
She turned to leave.
Paused at the threshold.
"Survive," she said. "However you must."
The door closed.
Kurogane picked up the marker.
It felt cold.
Honest.
Day Two: The Others Noticed
Word spread despite restrictions.
By morning, three figures waited outside Kurogane's quarters.
Not instructors.
Students who hadn't left yet.
The first was a fire-aligned girl—young, maybe thirteen. Burn scars along her forearms told a story she didn't need to speak.
"You're going to the Northern Line," she said.
Kurogane nodded.
She thrust a small wrapped bundle at him. "My brother's unit is there. If you see Kael Pyris…"
She trailed off.
Kurogane took the bundle carefully. "I'll look for him."
The girl nodded once and left quickly—before emotion could fracture composure.
The second was an earth-user. Older. Serious.
"They're going to watch you," he said bluntly. "Every move. Every choice."
"I know."
"Good." The boy met his gaze. "Don't give them what they expect."
He walked away without waiting for acknowledgment.
The third was unexpected.
Seris Zephra.
She leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're still here," Kurogane said.
"Delayed deployment," she replied. "Reconnaissance units move last."
A pause.
"I heard," she continued. "Northern Line. Conditional. Supervised."
"Yes."
Seris pushed off the wall.
"Wind doesn't work well in static defense," she said. "But if you need an exit…"
She pressed something into his palm—a small, etched token.
"Break it," she said. "I'll know."
Kurogane looked at the token, then at her.
"Why?"
Seris smiled—sharp, humorless.
"Because fuck precedent," she said.
She walked away before he could respond.
Kurogane returned to his quarters.
Three objects on the table now.
Mizuki's recorder.
The fire girl's bundle.
Seris's token.
None of them official.
All of them real.
Day Three: The Night Before
Kurogane didn't sleep.
He sat near the window, watching the academy grounds in darkness.
Lightning hummed faintly—not anxious, not eager.
Present.
Footsteps approached.
Raishin entered without knocking.
He said nothing.
Just sat beside Kurogane in silence.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Raishin spoke.
"I can't stop this," he said quietly. "I tried. They overruled me."
"I know."
"But I can tell you what to watch for."
Kurogane turned slightly.
Raishin's expression was grim. "The supervisor they're sending with you—Valen's direct appointee. That's not coincidence."
"They want someone who'll report accurately."
"No," Raishin said. "They want someone who'll report correctly."
The distinction landed.
"If things go wrong," Raishin continued, "the official record will frame it one way. Mizuki's device might record truth—but truth doesn't always survive politics."
He placed a hand on Kurogane's shoulder.
"So here's what matters," Raishin said. "Whatever happens out there—whatever you're forced to do or not do—remember this:"
His grip tightened slightly.
"You are not the weapon they want you to be."
Kurogane met his gaze.
"And you're not the threat they fear you are."
"Then what am I?"
Raishin's expression softened—just slightly.
"Variable," he said. "And variables break patterns."
He stood.
"Sleep if you can," he added. "Tomorrow starts early."
He left.
Kurogane remained at the window.
Lightning settled deeper—not resting.
Preparing.
Across the academy, systems finalized deployment logistics.
Transport scheduled.
Supervisors assigned.
Contingencies documented.
Everything official.
Everything recorded.
Everything designed to control a single outcome:
Proof that lightning could be aimed.
Or contained.
But in a small room overlooking empty grounds, Kurogane held three unsanctioned objects and one crystalline truth:
The Council wanted predictability.
He would give them anything but.
Dawn approached.
The countdown ended.
Deployment began.