The Head of the Onmyōji opened up a door that led us deeper, beneath, where steps carved from stone spiraled down into the dark. At the bottom, a cavern opened like a second world. Lanterns floated, hovering like patient eyes. Graves—hundreds of them—were stacked into the walls like shelves.
Arata stretched his arms above his head, yawning like he'd just dragged us into a gym instead of a mass grave.
"Welcome to the dojo," he muttered.
Miu adjusted her glasses. "You mean ossuary."
"I mean dojo," Arata said, smirking. "Changes if you're in the mood to learn or die."
I swallowed hard. Spoiler: I wasn't in the mood to die.
"You wonder why the graves are down here." He spread his arms, as if welcoming us into the abyss. "The Benikaen isn't just a sanctuary—it is the heart. Graves are taken from cemeteries, uprooted from shallow soil and forgotten towns, brought here to rest. Why?"
His eyes flicked across us, one by one.
"To protect them from raiders. And to feed you."
The air shifted.
"When a grave is laid here, it threads itself into the Benikaen's spiritual lattice. A gravebinder may call upon its weight from nearly anywhere, through this connection. It is a well. A fortress. And a forge."
—
Arata, leaning lazily against a stone pillar, told us. "You three are up for a little exercise." He pointed at us, grin stretched thin. "Fight the dead."
The air got colder.
From between the rows of stone, shapes began to peel themselves out of nothing. Spirits—not wild, not free, but tamed. They staggered, hissed, their forms twisted like half-remembered sketches. Eyes glowed like dull coals.
"Random graves," Arata said cheerfully, as if announcing a festival game. "Not yours. Not special. But hungry enough to kill you. Consider this practice."
Three spirits broke off, each lurching toward us.
Genkei moved first. His hand touched his katana like the blade had been waiting, aching to exist. He didn't draw it—he let it appear. A black blade, a stillness, and then—silence.
The spirit in front of him convulsed. A thin red line carved across its body. It collapsed into light, already gone.
Genkei exhaled slowly, returning the blade to its sheath with a click.
I shivered. He hadn't moved fast. He hadn't needed to.
Beside him, Saiko was laughing. "You show-off."
Ash poured from her palms, spreading across the cavern floor like wildfire. She snapped her fingers, and the ash erupted into an explosion that swallowed the spirit whole. The smell of burning cloth and flesh filled the air—even though there was nothing real left to burn.
The ashes folded back into her hand, coalescing into a smoldering halo. She tossed her coin through it and caught it, grinning wide.
"My grave, Takigawa Katsurō—General of Ashes. He burned everything, including himself. Sounds romantic right?"
"Romantic isn't the word," I muttered.
"Then pick a better one," she shot back, grin widening.
Everything I touch turns to ash, and ash always obeys me. I can smother, burn, explode, reshape, ignite."
She winked at me. "I'm not gonna be cool and edgy like Genkei. Might as well tell you everything."
Genkei's mouth twitched—maybe irritation, maybe amusement.
Meanwhile, my spirit lunged at me, jaws stretching wide. My body reacted before my mind—dodging, rolling, barely keeping ahead of its swipes. My blood was rushing, and all I could feel was that faint ember of the first grave. No real weight. No real edge. Just
scraps.
I lashed out, fist connecting with its jaw, but it barely flinched. The ember sparked, lighting my knuckles, but it sputtered.
Genkei watched silently, eyes like steel.
Saiko tilted her head, pouting. "You're struggling, huh?"
"I—shut up—!" I ducked under a swipe, feeling the air rip across my back.
Arata's voice cut through the chaos. "That's because you're not carrying a grave yet, Itsuki. Embers won't hold against the dead. You're punching shadows with firewood."
The spirit screeched, rushing me again.
I planted my feet, grit my teeth, and for a split second—I swore I heard something whisper. Not the ember, not The Head, not Arata. Something else.
But it was faint. Fading.
My punch cracked through the spirit's head. scattering it into light, but the effort left me gasping.
Genkei's eyes narrowed faintly.
Saiko clapped. "Not bad, rookie! Ugly, desperate, but not bad!"
The Head stepped forward, "This is the difference between carrying a grave and grasping at remnants. You will not last long like this, Ririku."
Arata grinned from the shadows. "But hey—sometimes desperate kids live the longest."
The spirits were gone, the room silent again—except for my ragged breathing.
Hinano adjusted his sheath. Kanna spun her coin. Miu adjusted her glasses, watching me with something unreadable in her eyes.
I realized this wasn't training.
It was exposure therapy.
The Benikaen wasn't just a forge.
It was a crucible.
"Okay, wait—hold on—time out. Why didn't she get tossed in like the rest of us? You threw me at an angry spirit like a chew toy, but she's just—polishing her glasses and breathing incense while I almost died!"
Arata grinning, hands behind his head.
"Because she's not like you, kid. Miu isn't a gravebinder. Different skill tree, different playstyle. You're hacking at ghosts with borrowed blades. She's rewriting the battlefield before the ghosts even swing."
Head of the Onmyōji chimes in. "Onmyōji tradition has never been about gravebinding for power. Our duty is dialogue, not domination. We speak to spirits, we release them, we keep balance. Binding them to yourself—carrying their weight—that's an exception, not a rule. Typically onmyōji cut the link as soon as the words are spoken."
"So then… what, she just gets a pass? While I'm out here getting turned into ectoplasm-bait?"
Miu smiled faintly. "I didn't get a pass. I got a different test. You fight to survive. I survive to fight. Gravebinding is a conversation you can't end. Onmyōji arts are conversations I never have to start. One is a chain, the other is a thread. One weighs you down, the other unravels before it knots."
"That sounds like—like you're saying you do more by doing less?"
Miu tilted her head. "Not less. Different. If you run into a wall, you break the wall and your nose. If I run into a wall, I convince the wall it's a door. Either way, we walk through. But only one of us walks through without a nosebleed."
Arata snickers.
"She's got you there."
The Head nods.
"Do not mistake her absence as weakness. She is being measured in ways you are not. To wield the arts she practices requires clarity without burden, will without anchor. Gravebinding asks for sacrifice. Onmyōji arts ask for restraint."
"Great. So I get stuck with back-breaking 'sacrifice,' while she gets to waltz around convincing walls they're doors. Totally fair."
Miu smiles wider, almost teasing.
"If it makes you feel better… sometimes, when the wall really wants to stay a wall, I get bruises too. I'm serious when I'm joking, and joking when I'm serious. Even walls like to laugh."