The paper bird had exceeded forty seconds. A white slip of paper traced an arc through the air of the Seimeido. Not three seconds. Not seven. Before the wall where Sanskrit characters of the five great elements were carved, drawn along threads of spiritual force, it continued its flight—slow, certain, unbroken. Itsumi Soichiro lowered the hand holding his record book. Akina pretended not to notice the change. She kept her gaze fixed on the paper bird, chasing only the sensation of spiritual force flowing through her fingertips. That feeling Gingetsu had spoken of—*thread it through*—lived still in the depths of her fingers this morning. Three nights in the Oboatei had altered the quality of her technique. Forty-three seconds. The paper bird grazed the beam of the Seimeido and descended quietly onto the rosewood floor. Silence fell. "The quality of your spiritual force has changed," Itsumi said. His words were brief, unadorned. In Akina's memory, this taciturn instructor had never