The doctrine was not introduced as cruelty.
It was taught as fact.
Children learned it alongside elemental identification and basic cultivation theory. It was recited the same way one recited breathing techniques or resonance alignment—without malice, without doubt.
Humans possessed one element.
Other races possessed affinity.
That was the rule.
Vale had spoken those words countless times without thinking. Only now did he read where they came from.
The earliest doctrine scroll was thinner than he expected. The paper was coarse, the ink uneven, the handwriting hurried. This was not wisdom refined by generations.
It was justification.
The opening lines spoke of harmony and order. Of balance among races. Of preventing instability in the world's elemental ecology. The language was careful, almost apologetic.
Vale read on.
It described humans as adaptable, flexible, capable of learning quickly—but lacking the natural anchors that bound other races to stable elements. That adaptability, the author claimed, created risk.
Unrestricted potential was dangerous.
"So they restricted it," Vale said quietly.
Elder Rin stood near the wall, arms folded inside his sleeves. "They redirected it," he corrected. "Restriction sounds cruel. Redirection sounds responsible."
Vale continued reading.
The doctrine did not call humans weak. It framed them as unfinished. In need of structure. In need of limitation for their own good and for the good of the world.
Cultivation education was standardized. Exploration was discouraged. Elemental deviation was labeled instability. Any attempt to pursue secondary affinities was quietly suppressed under the guise of inefficiency.
Vale felt a tightening behind his eyes.
"This wasn't about capability," he said. "It was about preventing recurrence."
Rin nodded. "Doctrine rarely follows reality. It follows trauma."
Vale closed the scroll and leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
He understood now.
Humans were never declared inferior because they failed to reach the heights of other races. They were declared inferior because one of them had surpassed the system entirely.
Rather than confront that truth, the world chose to redefine normalcy.
"How many were affected?" Vale asked.
Rin did not answer immediately.
"Enough," he said at last, "that the absence became ordinary."
Vale thought of the nameless events in the archive. Of miracles without attribution. Of phenomena stripped of agency until they resembled accidents.
"And those who didn't conform?" Vale asked.
"They became anomalies," Rin replied. "And anomalies invite correction."
Vale's chest tightened faintly. His Aether Ring responded—not with vibration, but with contraction.
The doctrine had not been written to oppress.
It had been written to survive.
A world that had once been proven wrong had decided it would never allow itself to be proven wrong again.
Vale opened his eyes.
The Sound Clan courtyard lay beyond the window, calm and disciplined. Disciples practiced resonance alignment, their movements precise, controlled, predictable.
He wondered how many of them knew that predictability itself was the inheritance.
"How do you undo a doctrine?" Vale asked quietly.
Rin's gaze sharpened. "You don't," he said. "You outlive it."
Vale nodded.
For the first time, he did not feel anger.
He felt responsibility.
If the world had chosen stability over truth once before, then the return of wind would not be greeted as salvation.
It would be treated as a threat.
And Vale understood that when the wind finally moved again, it would not be enough to prove that the doctrine was false.
He would have to survive long enough for the world to remember why it had been written in the first place.