The last few days had been filled with quiet preparation.
Raizen's mother had promised to train him in Lightning Release—but only after he'd mastered his electives: genjutsu, healing, and sealing.
She wanted control before power.
He understood her reasoning, but it left him unarmed.
Genjutsu could misdirect and confuse, but it didn't wound.
Healing taught restoration, not destruction; offensive arts like the Chakra Scalpel or toxin crafting were reserved for later years.
Even fūinjutsu offered little more than restraint. Clever tools, yes—but none that could finish a fight.
Raizen tapped his desk, thinking. The upcoming exam wouldn't forgive hesitation. If he wanted to stand out, he needed an edge.
He would have to ignore his mother's wishes and start early.
Lightning was in his blood—why keep it sleeping?
His control was already sharp from months of training: genjutsu precision, medical focus, the brushwork of sealing. All of it formed a perfect base.
On instinct, he drew out a few thin chakra threads from his fingertips, letting them waver in the lamplight.
I could take a look at Father's book… maybe there's something simple in there. Even a basic application could work.
He crossed the room, every textbook arranged in neat symmetry on the shelf. His eyes found the one bound in storm-blue leather:
The Aether Lightning Codex.
He lifted it carefully, as if it might hum to life, and laid it open on his desk.
⸻
Volume I — The Foundations of Motion and Control
Authored by Getsurai Tsukihana, Second Raikage and Sage of Thunder
⸻
Chapter I — The Birth of Lightning Chakra
"To summon lightning is not to command the heavens.
It is to quicken one's own spirit until it hums like thunder." —Getsurai Tsukihana
Lightning Chakra—Raiton—is the vibration of chakra pushed to such speed that it becomes current.
Fire burns. Wind cuts. Lightning pierces. Its essence is velocity and precision.
To shape it, one must increase the frequency of chakra flow until it surpasses the body's natural rhythm.
The charge is not drawn from the sky; it is born from motion.
Core Principles
1. Acceleration: Faster chakra flow creates stronger ionization.
2. Conduction: Lightning follows order—clear intent, stable paths.
3. Precision: Lightning cannot be forced; it must be guided.
⸻
Chapter II — The Flow of Current
Every shinobi draws chakra from two wells—body and spirit.
When they align at high speed, a pulse circuit forms through the network.
"Heart to lungs. Lungs to arms. Arms to fingers.
Will to motion. Motion to edge. Edge to strike."
When that circuit completes, chakra becomes discharge. Without control, it burns the user.
Thus, true mastery begins with containment.
Basic Exercises
• Static Palm: maintain a silent current between the hands.
• Conduction Ring: send chakra through metal without arcing.
• Pulse Balance: keep rhythm with the heartbeat.
⸻
Chapter III — The Shape of Thunder
Lightning manifests in three natural forms:
1. Edge Lightning: concentrated, piercing, ideal for weapons.
2. Field Lightning: diffused static for defense and paralysis.
3. Thread Lightning: linear conduction for precision and reach.
The Tsukihana favored the third—balance over brute force.
⸻
Chapter IV — The Discipline of Control
"A rash heart burns itself before it strikes its foe."
Lightning amplifies emotion; instability turns it wild.
The Veil Body doctrine teaches Silent Breath—to slow thought until even fear dissolves.
When pulse, breath, and chakra align, lightning flows without recoil.
⸻
Chapter V — Application
Before shaping techniques, a student must master:
1. Static Retention: hold a steady field for one minute.
2. Charge Transfer: move current between hands without spark.
3. Control in Motion: sustain charge through combat movement.
"True mastery begins when lightning feels no different from breath."
⸻
Chapter VI — The Hidden Law of the Current
"All lightning seeks ground. But a true wielder is the ground itself.
To strike without noise is to reach the gate of Aether."
The ink trailed off there, the page scarred by faint burn marks.
⸻
Raizen leaned back, reading the final words again.
He knew he couldn't learn it all before the exam—years of knowledge condensed into a single book.
But he didn't need mastery.
He only needed one spark—a foundation strong enough to build something of his own.
He packed his gear, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and left for the training grounds.
The sun was high, light filtering through the leaves. The air smelled faintly of ozone, that clean sting that always came before a storm.
Far off, the clang of weapons echoed from the academy fields.
Raizen sat beneath a cedar, legs crossed on the grass. He inhaled slowly, listening—to the wind, to the birds, to his own pulse.
Lightning begins with rhythm, he reminded himself.
He brought his hands together, fingers interlocked but leaving space between the palms. Chakra gathered there, warm and dense.
He began to vibrate it, recalling Getsurai's notes.
At first, there was only warmth. Then his hands began to tremble.
A flicker of blue light jumped between his palms—thin as a thread, gone as quickly as it came.
A grin tugged at his mouth. That's it…
He fed in more chakra, guiding it through the pattern described in the book:
Heart → Lungs → Arms → Fingers.
The sparks returned, brighter this time, dancing like tiny fireflies trapped in glass.
His heart raced, and the lightning followed, pulsing to its rhythm—wild, eager.
He steadied his breath. "Easy," he whispered. "Guide it."
The current obeyed. The arcs stopped flailing and began to flow back and forth between his hands, smooth as breath.
The tingling grew stronger—no longer a tickle but sharp, alive.
He pushed harder. The air around him began to hum, faint threads of light weaving between his fingers.
Every spark mirrored his heartbeat. Every heartbeat echoed back through the current.
The glow brightened, the sound deepened to a low crackle. The air trembled.
He felt the needles prick his palms, but pain only sharpened his focus.
This is mine.
All his training—genjutsu precision, sealing control, medical steadiness—fed into that moment.
The lightning flared, wild but obedient, swirling in perfect rhythm between his palms.
Minutes passed before he finally released the flow.
The sparks faded; the air quieted, leaving only warmth against his skin and a lingering static taste in the air.
Raizen exhaled, smiling faintly.
"Not bad… the first step toward my own storm."
He leaned back against the cedar. The wind stirred the leaves, carrying the faintest crackle of electricity through the branches.
For a heartbeat, it almost sounded like approval—his mother's lightning whispering from somewhere far above.
Twilight settled over the training ground, staining the sky a deep violet.
Yesterday's thrill still hummed in Raizen's veins; his fingertips ached faintly where sparks had kissed them.
He set his pack down beneath the cedar again. "Alright," he murmured. "Containment first. Then movement."
The next step in Raizen's training was clear:
if he could create lightning, he needed to learn how to contain it — how to make it obey form instead of chaos.
He reached into his pouch and drew out a thin coil of chakra wire, no thicker than a strand of hair.
The metal glinted faintly in the sunlight.
"I should start with this," he murmured. "It's designed to channel chakra… perfect for learning how to hold lightning inside something solid."
He centered his breath, then ignited his chakra as he had the day before.
The energy gathered in his hands, vibrating faster and faster until it sharpened into visible arcs of light.
Sparks rippled between his palms — alive, impatient.
Raizen unraveled the wire and began feeding lightning chakra into it.
At first, it went smoothly. The current trickled down the wire's length like liquid light, faint sparks dancing in rhythm.
Encouraged, he pushed the vibration faster. The hum deepened — then roared.
A sharp hiss split the air.
The lightning snapped free, spitting wild arcs in every direction. The wire kicked from his grip, crackling like frying oil as sparks scattered through the grass.
Raizen jerked back, eyes wide, heart hammering. "Too rough," he muttered. "I have to guide it — not force it."
He picked up the wire again, the metal still warm to the touch, and closed his eyes.
Silent Breath. Focus. Balance.
He inhaled until his heartbeat slowed, exhaled through his nose, and let the lightning flow again — slower, gentler.
The sparks softened, stretching down the wire until they glowed evenly from end to end, humming like a plucked string.
Through his fingertips, he felt the current's pulse — steady, smooth, alive.
And in that rhythm, he heard his father's words echo in memory:
"Lightning follows order."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Then I'll teach it mine."
He spent the next hour practicing containment — shaping lightning through different objects.
Once the wire felt natural, he moved on to a kunai.
That proved far more difficult. Ordinary steel wasn't built for chakra conduction, and every attempt strained his control.
He forced chakra into the weapon, sweat slicking his palms as the current fought to stabilize.
The first kunai overheated and burst apart in a flash of sparks.
The second melted through the hilt.
By the third, Raizen had learned to anticipate the resistance — feeding chakra in layers, breathing between each surge.
At last, the kunai thrummed quietly in his hand, a low blue glow crawling along its edge.
It didn't roar or snap; it whispered, alive with restrained power.
He tested a swing. The blade sliced the air cleanly, leaving a trail of ozone behind.
Raizen exhaled, grinning. "A Lightning Kunai… not new, but mine."
It wasn't a jutsu yet, but it was something — a weapon forged by his own understanding.
And that small victory lit a spark of curiosity deep in his chest.
The thought came unbidden.
Raizen extended a single chakra thread from his index finger, pale and nearly invisible.
He brushed it with the faintest trace of lightning chakra.
Instantly, the thread brightened — thin and vibrant, like silk spun from starlight.
It hummed softly, the same resonance he'd felt from the wire earlier.
He flicked it toward a leaf nearby.
The leaf blackened and curled in an instant, smoke rising from its surface.
Raizen's eyes widened. It carried the charge perfectly.
Excitement flared. He wove three more threads, stretching them between rocks and branches. Each sang at a slightly different pitch.
Together, their resonance formed a faint, harmonic vibration that filled the clearing like the echo of a hidden melody.
He crouched low, fingertips brushing the threads.
Through them, he could feel everything: the tremor of a bird landing on a branch, the gentle patter of a drop of water hitting stone, even the subtle quiver of wind against the web.
"It resonates," he whispered. "It's… sensing."
The realization struck like thunder in his mind.
This was more than lightning. It wasn't just energy — it was feedback.
A living network that responded, listened, and reflected.
He let the threads dissolve, the glow fading, but the hum remained inside him — a pulse that matched his own heartbeat.
Something new was taking shape — half instinct, half inheritance.
⸻
The moon rose high, silver light spilling over the cedar branches.
Raizen sat back against the trunk, sweat cooling on his skin. Faint arcs still danced between his fingers, ghostly and alive.
"So that's the trick," he murmured. "Make the lightning listen."
The words felt right — a promise between himself and the storm.
He looked down at his hands, small sparks weaving lazily between them.
Tonight, he hadn't just learned to control lightning.
He had heard it — its rhythm, its patience, its voice.
And tomorrow, he'd weave that voice into something new — something the examiners would never forget.
The night before the exam, Raizen's training ground was quiet — moonlight spilling through the trees, fireflies drifting like slow sparks in the humid air.
Every muscle in his body ached, but his mind refused to rest.
He'd spent days mastering control, learning how to guide lightning instead of forcing it.
Now it was time to weaponize it.
"Containment, flow, feedback," he murmured, recalling Getsurai's lessons.
"If it listens, then I can teach it to strike."
He laid his satchel open before him. Inside: a handful of dull academy kunai, a small pouch of shuriken, and a coil of chakra wire.
⸻
Lightning Style: Sparking Kunai (雷遁・閃刃苦無 Raidon: Senjin Kunai)
He picked up a kunai, pressing his thumb along its flat edge.
"Start simple," he said softly.
Lightning chakra gathered in his palm, vibrating at a controlled pace.
He guided it into the metal, breathing slowly as the blade began to hum.
A faint blue sheen crawled across the kunai's surface — the same quiet rhythm he'd used to stabilize the wire days before.
He spun the weapon once in his grip, testing the charge.
The edge hissed when it cut the air, leaving a trail of glowing static.
He threw it.
The kunai struck a nearby log and detonated in a small burst of electricity, splintering bark and scattering sparks like fireflies.
Raizen grinned. "Lightning Style: Sparking Kunai."
He tried again — this time channeling more current, until the arcs danced along the blade before he even released it.
Each throw left a flash of pale blue light and the crisp scent of ozone.
Compact, efficient, and deadly.
A beginner's jutsu, maybe — but one of his own.
⸻
Lightning Style: Sparking Shuriken (雷遁・閃輪手裏剣 Raidon: Senrin Shuriken)
Next came the shuriken.
He formed a small ring of them on the ground, their steel catching the moonlight.
These would be harder. Shuriken were thinner — too light to hold stable current for long.
But Raizen had learned something from his earlier failures: control the entry point.
He focused his chakra through two fingers and flicked the first shuriken upward.
Lightning arced around it, buzzing softly.
"Smaller surface," he muttered. "Faster rotation… that should stabilize it."
He spun the shuriken with chakra and pushed the current through its rotation. The result was immediate — the charge wrapped itself around the spinning motion like a shell.
He hurled it at a training post. The impact flashed with sharp light and left the wood scorched.
Raizen's grin widened. "Sparking Shuriken."
He threw three more in quick succession; each struck true, leaving crackling afterimages that danced briefly before fading.
They weren't explosive — not yet — but they stunned, burned, and pierced deeper than ordinary steel.
And best of all, they could be charged mid-flight with chakra threads.
That thought sparked another idea.
⸻
Lightning Style: Conduction Thread (雷遁・導線糸 Raidon: Dōsen Ito)
Raizen extended a thread of chakra from his fingertip, letting it shimmer faintly in the night air.
Then, with the same precision he used for his weapons, he layered lightning chakra through the thread.
The strand lit up instantly — slender, radiant, alive.
He flicked it toward a tree branch. The thread coiled around the wood and hissed faintly, releasing small arcs that carved black scars into the bark.
He pulled his hand back; the thread snapped free, but the charge remained along its surface.
Lightning that obeyed the shape of silk.
He tested again, weaving three threads and lashing them in sequence. Each strike left faint smoking lines across the grass.
He realized with a thrill that he could conduct lightning through his threads to extend reach, to bind, or to strike indirectly.
"Lightning Style: Conduction Thread," he breathed.
"Perfect."
He experimented for nearly an hour, refining the balance — too much voltage burned the thread; too little, and it lost cohesion.
But when he found the rhythm, the current flowed like a living nerve.
Every flick of his fingers produced a whisper of thunder.
He'd made lightning dance.
⸻
Lightning Style: Lightning Web (雷遁・雷網 Raidon: Raimō)
By the time midnight settled, Raizen stood in the clearing surrounded by fragments of scorched bark and spent wire.
He wasn't satisfied yet. Something deeper pulled at him — the rhythm he'd felt during the resonance training.
Lightning that could listen. Lightning that could feel.
He extended both hands, summoning multiple chakra threads.
They fanned out across the ground, weaving between trees and stones, connecting like the veins of a web.
He fed lightning chakra into them slowly, remembering the Silent Breath technique.
The threads shimmered faintly — each one vibrating at a slightly different pitch.
As the current linked them together, the air filled with a low, harmonic hum.
A web of light pulsed across the clearing, glowing faintly against the darkness.
Raizen's senses expanded; every tremor through the network fed back into him — footsteps, wind pressure, chakra movement.
He closed his eyes, standing in the center of the web.
He could feel everything — the hum of the earth, the whisper of leaves, even his own heartbeat reverberating through the lattice.
Then he snapped his fingers.
The web discharged. Lightning erupted outward in a flash, arcing from thread to thread like living veins of thunder. The air cracked, trees flared white for an instant, and then silence fell again — the scent of ozone thick in the air.
Raizen exhaled slowly, awe spreading across his face.
"Lightning Style: Lightning Web," he whispered.
It wasn't perfect. The feedback stung his hands, and the range was short. But it worked — and it was his.
⸻
The night was quiet once more, smoke curling through the moonlight.
Raizen crouched, pressing his palms to the ground where faint arcs still crawled through the grass.
He smiled faintly, exhausted but content.
"Three techniques… three steps closer to the storm."
The words hung in the night like a vow.
As the last sparks faded, Raizen looked toward the distant mountains of Kumo — lightning flickering faintly across their peaks — and felt something stir deep in his chest.
Tomorrow would bring the exam.
And when the storm came, he wouldn't be running from it anymore.
He'd be guiding it.