They stopped sending the boy.
They stopped sending anyone.
Days passed in silence, measured only by the opening of the door and the presence that followed. Each time, the man watched. Each time, he said less.
Observation had replaced instruction.
Ethan sat on the metal bed, his hands resting loosely at his sides. He activated Ten without thinking, his aura settling naturally against his body.
Stable.
Contained.
Alive.
He extended Ren slowly.
Not outward.
Not toward anything.
Just enough to feel it.
Aura was no longer foreign to him. It responded without hesitation now, like a limb he had always possessed but never used.
He could feel its edges.
Its limits.
Its obedience.
But something remained incomplete.
Control alone was not enough.
He remembered the man's words.
Conditions give power shape.
Structure gives power purpose.
Without purpose—
Aura was nothing.
The door opened.
The man entered, his expression unchanged.
"You have learned control," he said.
Not praise.
Fact.
He stepped closer.
"You have learned conditions."
Another fact.
He stopped in front of Ethan.
"But you have not yet learned intent."
Intent.
The word lingered.
Ethan said nothing.
Intent was not force.
Not control.
Intent was direction.
Meaning.
The man extended his hand toward the desk.
The glass was still there.
The same glass.
The same leaf.
Unchanged.
"Move it," the man said.
Ethan activated Ren.
His aura extended toward the leaf.
He commanded it.
The leaf moved immediately, sliding across the surface of the water without resistance.
The man did not react.
"Stop," he said.
Ethan ended Ren.
The leaf stopped.
Silence returned.
The man looked at him.
"That is control," he said.
He paused.
Then—
"Now move it without command."
Ethan remained still.
Without command—
There was nothing.
Control required action.
The man waited.
Ethan activated Ren again.
But this time—
He did not command the leaf.
He focused on something else.
Not the leaf.
Not the water.
Himself.
His intent.
Why move it?
Not because he was told.
Not because he could.
Because he chose to.
His aura shifted.
Not stronger.
Clearer.
Directed.
The leaf moved.
Slower than before.
But different.
Not forced.
Aligned.
The man's eyes sharpened slightly.
He had seen the difference.
"Intent defines Hatsu," he said quietly.
Not control.
Not conditions.
Intent.
He stepped closer.
"When your intent becomes absolute…"
He paused.
"…your ability becomes real."
Not practice.
Not imitation.
Real.
The man turned toward the door.
"You are close."
He stopped briefly.
"But close is not enough."
Then he left.
The door closed.
Ethan remained seated.
His eyes rested on the glass.
On the leaf.
On the invisible space between himself and the world.
Intent.
Not command.
Not force.
Intent.
He activated Ren once more.
The leaf moved.
Not because he commanded it.
Because he meant it to.
And for the first time—
His Nen felt like it belonged entirely to him.