Zephyrion's spectral form solidified with disdain, his lightning-bright eyes scanning Ren's body as if it were a flawed piece of pottery.
"Your current 'cultivation', if one can call it that, is a joke," the Sky-Lord's voice echoed in Ren's mind. "You have an Aetheric Capacity barely befitting a Rank 3 Aether Initiate, yet you house a Spirit Soul with the potential of a nascent god. This ludicrous imbalance is why you are forced into your parlor tricks. We will correct this first. The cup must be widened before it can be filled."
He was using the exact terminology from the academy's textbooks—Aetheric Capacity, Aether Initiate. This ghost, for all his ancient power, understood the modern framework. Or perhaps, the framework had been built from the legacy he had left behind.
"Your GAMA fools teach you to draw Aether into your soul, circulate it through your fragile channels, and slowly, over pathetic decades, increase your rank. A Raijin does not sip from the ocean. We become the storm," Zephyrion scoffed. "Your unique 'Aether Assimilation' is a crude, passive echo of the true Raijin art of 'Aetheric Dominion'. Your body already knows how to absorb power. We will teach it how to contain it."
He pointed a commanding, translucent finger at Ren. "You will sit. You will cease this foolish suppression and allow your Spirit Soul's natural Aether to saturate your body. Not circulate. Saturate. You will let the lightning seep into your bones, your muscles, your very marrow. It will feel like being burned alive from the inside out. Your weak flesh will try to reject it. Your will, the same will you used to build your pathetic cage, will be used to force acceptance. You will hold the power within you until every cell is screaming."
Ren's eyes narrowed. This sounded less like cultivation and more like a method of suicide. "And the purpose of this self-torture?" he asked aloud, his voice flat.
"Purpose?" Zephyrion's laugh was a crackle of static. "The purpose is to reforge the vessel! When metal is heated, it becomes malleable. When your body is saturated with the raw, chaotic power of your own soul, it will break down on a fundamental level. Then, using my guidance, you will use your will to rebuild it stronger. This is the Raijin's Forge. Each time you break and rebuild, your Aetheric Capacity will expand, your physical vessel will strengthen, and your tolerance for your own soul will increase. It is the only path for our bloodline. It is pain. It is agony. It is the only way you will ever advance beyond a common Aether Adept without killing yourself."
The logic was brutal, but it was sound. It was a form of body cultivation, accelerated and intensified by the unique nature of his own soul. It was a path of controlled self-destruction and reconstruction.
"This is your first lesson," Zephyrion commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Let the storm in. Now."
Ren sat on his cot, the ghost of the Sky-Lord looming over him like a thundercloud. He closed his eyes. For months, his entire existence had been defined by the act of suppression, of holding back the raging river. To willingly let it go felt like stepping off a cliff.
He took a deep breath and focused his will, not on reinforcing the dam, but on carefully, deliberately, dismantling it.
The first trickle of his true Aether—the Primordial Heavenly Lightning—leaked from his spiritual sea into his physical body. It was not like the gentle, passive absorption he was used to. This was different. This was pure, volatile, and it felt like a single drop of acid on his skin.
He released the dam further. The trickle became a stream. The acid became a fire.
A searing, white-hot agony erupted in his veins. Every cell screamed in protest. The chaotic energy of his soul was fundamentally incompatible with his physical form. It was a poison, just as the ancient texts had said. His muscles spasmed, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw threatened to crack.
"Hold it!" Zephyrion's voice roared in his mind, a steadying anchor in a sea of pain. "Do not let it circulate! Do not let it escape! Pin it in your flesh with your will! Endure the fire! This is the price of power, boy! Show me the will that built a cage strong enough to contain a god!"
Ren grit his teeth, blood trickling from his lip. He fought his body's instinct to expel the poison. He fought his cultivator's instinct to circulate the energy. He simply held it, a prisoner in his own flesh, and endured the excruciating, purifying burn. The Forge was lit. And he was the metal upon the anvil.