The silence of his room was now absolute. It was not just the absence of sound, but the absence of scrutiny. The Aegis network, a cage of pure logic enveloping the entire campus, had a single, perfect blind spot, and he was sitting in the center of it. For the first time since he had arrived at the academy, Ren felt a measure of true safety.
The respite lasted for approximately five seconds.
"The distractions are dealt with. The parlor tricks are complete," Zephyrion's voice echoed in his mind, sharp with an ancient impatience. The spirit's translucent form materialized before him, his arms crossed, his lightning eyes crackling with grim purpose. "You have secured your kennel. Now, we continue the work of turning a whelp into a dragon. The Second Tempering awaits."
Ren felt a knot of cold apprehension tighten in his stomach. The memory of the first tempering, the feeling of being burned alive from the inside out, was still fresh.
"You said this would be more painful," Ren stated, his voice calm, betraying none of his inner turmoil.
"Pain is the great purifier," the Sky-Lord retorted dismissively. "The first tempering reforged your flesh into a worthy vessel. A simple, if agonizing, task. Now, we address the true weakness: your pathetic Aetheric Channels. They are a legacy of your weak mortal blood, unsuitable for the power of a Raijin. We will turn those trickling streams into roaring riverbeds."
He pointed a commanding finger at Ren. "You will draw upon your Spirit Soul. Not the tamed spark you use for your party tricks, but a steady, continuous stream of its true power. You will then force this stream into your primary spiritual channel. It will resist. The channel will feel as though it is tearing apart. Do not stop. You will use the flow of Aether as a battering ram, a scouring flood, to forcibly widen the passage. This is the only way."
Ren took a deep breath and centered himself on his cot. He knew the risks. A mistake could leave him crippled, his channels permanently shattered, his life as a cultivator over. But Zephyrion was right. His current state was a paradox; he possessed an ocean of power but could only wield it through a pinhole. This was the only way forward.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, carefully opening the dam of his will. He drew forth a thin, steady stream of the Primordial Heavenly Lightning, not as a spark, but as a flowing current. The energy felt wild and alive in his core.
Then, following the spirit's command, he guided it to the entrance of his main spiritual channel. The moment the volatile Aether touched the narrow passage, a new kind of agony, completely different from the first tempering, exploded through his body.
It was not a burn. It was a grinding, tearing pressure. It felt like trying to force a boulder through a glass tube. His spiritual channel, accustomed only to the gentle flow of passively absorbed Aether, buckled under the strain. The pain was sharp, visceral, a feeling of being ripped apart from the inside.
A choked gasp escaped his lips, his body arching in a violent spasm.
"Hold!" Zephyrion's command was a thunderclap of will that cut through the pain. "Do not release the flow! Your will is the only thing keeping the channel from shattering completely! You must use it to reinforce the walls, even as the Aether you are pushing through tries to tear them apart! Endure it! This is the price of wielding a storm!"
Ren grit his teeth, his jaw aching from the pressure. Sweat poured down his face. He focused his will into two distinct tasks: one, to keep the stream of Aether flowing forward, a relentless, grinding pressure; the other, to wrap the channel itself in a sheath of mental force, holding it together as it threatened to rupture.
It was a battle fought on a microscopic, internal battlefield, and the stakes were his own future. He could feel the tiny, agonizing tears forming in his channels, the microscopic damage being done by the sheer force of his own soul. But then he would force the Aether over the damaged areas, its raw, vibrant energy cauterizing and rebuilding the tissue, making it infinitesimally stronger, infinitesimally wider. It was a cycle of destruction and reconstruction happening thousands of times a second.
This was the Raijin's Forge. Not just a tempering of the flesh, but a violent re-carving of the very pathways of his soul. He was the stone, and his own power was the relentless, agonizing chisel. And the work had only just begun.