The following week was a tightrope walk over a pit of conflicting philosophies. By day, the young initiate would stand on the polished floor of the Elder's training chamber, practicing the GAMA-sanctioned technique. By night, in the solitude of his room, he would endure the scorn of his ghostly ancestor.
The "Aetheric Compression Burst" was, on its surface, a simple technique. The Elder instructed him to draw out his tamed spark, then use his will to fold it in on itself, compressing the energy into a dense, volatile pellet. It was an exercise in pure, brute-force containment.
"Your control is the vessel," his mentor explained, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "The stronger your will, the more pressure you can apply. The more pressure, the more potent the resulting detonation. It is a direct measure of a cultivator's mental fortitude. Simple. Direct. Measurable."
Ren's first attempts were failures. He would compress the spark, but his will, accustomed to the delicate art of resonance, struggled with this crude application of force. The pellet would destabilize, fizzling out with a disappointing puff of static.
"The old fool is teaching you to build a ship in a bottle," Zephyrion's voice dripped with contempt inside his mind as he practiced that evening. "He thinks the strength of the glass is what matters. A Raijin does not build a better bottle. He commands the storm within to be still. His method is about containment. Ours is about command."
"His method has a purpose," the boy whispered back to the empty room, tired of the ghost's ceaseless criticism. "It creates a narrative. It is a lie the Pagoda will believe."
"Then forge a better lie!" the spirit retorted. "Do not learn his pathetic technique. Simulate it. Use our methods to create an effect that looks like his, but is infinitely superior. Let your enemies study the shadow, but never let them grasp the form."
The Sky-Lord's arrogant words, as usual, held a spark of genius. Ren stopped trying to follow the Elder's instructions. He stopped trying to simply squeeze the Aether.
Instead, he summoned his spark and reached into it with his will. He remembered the feeling of harmonizing with its chaotic internal rhythm. He didn't try to crush it. He began to subtly alter its frequency, guiding its internal storm into a spiraling, self-contained vortex. The chaotic energy, instead of fighting his will, began to fold in on itself, drawn towards a central, calm point of his own creation.
The result was astonishing. The spark of lightning collapsed into a tiny, silent, impossibly dense bead of pure azure light that hovered over his palm. It looked identical to the "Compression Burst" the Elder had described, but its method of creation was entirely different. The Elder's technique was a cage. This was a miniature, sleeping hurricane.
"Acceptable," Zephyrion conceded, a rare note of approval in his tone. "You have contained a supernova not by building thicker walls, but by whispering to its heart. The result is stable, potent, and utterly deceptive. Now, the final step. A true Raijin's attack always carries an echo."
Under the ghost's guidance, Ren learned to weave a secondary, almost undetectable resonant frequency into the pellet. It was a signature, a hidden command.
The day of his second-round match arrived. He walked onto the arena platform, his mind calm. His opponent, Sylas Drogan, was already there, his feet planted firmly. A translucent, near-invisible shield of onyx-colored Aether shimmered around him—the famed Immovable Aegis. He was a walking fortress.
The gong sounded. Sylas grinned, stomping his foot to anchor himself further. "Your little needle won't scratch my shield, freak!"
The victor of the first round didn't respond. He simply raised his hand. The tiny, azure pellet of the Compression Burst materialized over his palm, looking deceptively simple. The crowd saw a GAMA-sanctioned technique. The Elder, watching from the stands, saw the successful result of his training. Anya Volkov saw a new data point to be analyzed.
No one saw the truth.
Ren launched the pellet. It flew through the air, not with the speed of his previous attack, but with a steady, almost lazy pace. It struck the center of the Immovable Aegis.
The detonation was exactly as the technique described: a contained, concussive boom that sent a wave of force washing over the shield. The shield shimmered, but held firm, just as Sylas had expected. He laughed, preparing to mock Ren's feeble attempt.
But the visible explosion was not the true attack. The hidden, secondary frequency that Ren had woven into the blast, the Raijin's echo, passed through the shield like a ghost. It wasn't designed to break the shield; it was designed to resonate with the Aether within Sylas Drogan's own body.
Sylas's triumphant laugh died in his throat, replaced by a choked gasp. The Aether in his spiritual channels, struck by that resonant echo, suddenly seized up, turning sluggish and inert. His connection to his own Spirit Soul was momentarily severed. His impenetrable shield, its power source cut off, vanished like a phantom.
He stood there, wide-eyed and powerless, his defense completely gone.
The young initiate on the other side of the platform simply raised a second finger. Another identical pellet formed above his hand, humming with a quiet, deadly power. He did not need to launch it. The threat was enough.
Sylas Drogan, the walking fortress, looked at the glowing pellet, then at his own useless hands, and his face turned pale. "I… I forfeit," he stammered, his voice filled with a new and profound terror.