The great hall of Tenshukaku was wrapped in a silence so complete, even the wind seemed to pause at its threshold. Dozens of candles flickered in the corners, casting shadows that danced like ghosts across the lacquered floor. At the center, a single sheet of rice paper lay stretched across the ceremonial table—untouched, blank, and unbearably heavy.
The scent of ink hung in the air, sharp and grounding, yet tainted by something electric—an anticipation, like the moments before lightning splits the sky.
Ji Bai stood before it, motionless.
Behind him was the dark breath of night.
Before him, a god.
The Raiden Shogun sat upon the dais above, silent. Her violet robes hung motionless, but her presence was a tide, pressing down on every stone, every breath.
"This is not painting," she said at last, voice like ice unsheathed. "This is interrogation."
Ji Bai gave no reply. He reached slowly for his brush.
When he dipped it into ink, a strange stillness settled in his fingers—not hesitation, but resistance. Not from within him, but from around him. The air itself pushed back, unseen threads of divine power testing his will.
The first stroke met not just paper, but pressure.
She rose.
Each step she took down from the dais was soundless, yet echoed deep in his chest. Her voice cut the silence again.
"Do you hesitate, Ji Bai? Or do you fear that your painting might reveal something even you cannot control?"
His brush continued. "I fear nothing that is true."
He painted a sky, torn in two—one half roiled with thunderclouds, the other softened by the gold of a distant dawn. Between them stood a solitary figure, firm and silent, brush in hand. He did not kneel. He did not run. He stood.
Stormlight shimmered faintly through the hall.
The Raiden Shogun's eyes narrowed.
The ink beneath his brush began to ripple—unnaturally. Threads of lightning slithered across the page, divine energy creeping in, trying to alter the flow of his strokes, to bend them. But he held firm, each motion precise, each line resolute.
He remembered the alleys of Inazuma, the rain-slick streets, the market stalls where children gathered to watch him paint. His art was not rebellion—it was memory. It was clarity in a world clouded by control.
"A painting is a window," he whispered. "Not a sword."
And with that, he laid the final stroke.
Ink settled.
Stillness.
No lightning. No roar.
The Shogun stepped forward and looked down upon the painting.
Her divine power, quiet but present, traced over every line—not just what was drawn, but what was left unsaid. The balance, the restraint. The refusal to flatter. The refusal to bend.
"This painting," she said after a long silence, "does not honor me."
"No," Ji Bai replied, meeting her gaze. "It doesn't. It also doesn't dishonor you. It simply reflects what I see."
Her gaze did not waver. "You've not lied."
"I never have."
"But neither have you submitted."
"I don't trade truth for safety."
She was quiet again. A storm rolled in the distance outside—soft, distant thunder echoing beyond the eaves.
"You know," she said, "others have died for far less."
"I know," Ji Bai answered. Calm. Steady.
She turned.
The movement was slight, but it was enough. Something—barely perceptible—shifted in her posture, in her voice.
"Take your painting," she said, "and leave. For now."
Ji Bai bowed—not deeply, but with unwavering respect.
As he turned, the great doors of the Tenshukaku opened with a groan. A breeze swept through the hall, stirring the candle flames and rustling the corners of the still-damp scroll.
The lightning had not struck.
But it had watched him.