A priest in white robes stepped forward, holding a Kagami (spirit-sensing mirror). He directed the polished bronze surface toward the carriage, intending to reveal any hidden demons or tainted Reiryoku.
"The people from the capital sure are shrewd; they are trying to get a reaction out of me by doing this inspection so brazenly."
The mirror remained clear. With a grunt of reluctant approval, the officer signalled for the gates to open.
As the carriage rolled onto Suzaku Avenue, the scale of the city became overwhelming. The "City of Grids" was alive. They passed the Market of the East, where traders from as far as the Tang Dynasty sold silks and spices. They passed the mansions of the Fujiwara, their gardens hidden behind high walls, the tops of weeping cherry trees visible over the masonry.
Souta leaned his head against the wood of the carriage, his eyes actually open for once. "The air here... It's disgusting, isn't it, Young Master? Makes me want to go back to the mountains."
"It is a field of weeds, Souta," Yorimitsu replied quietly. "And we are here to provide the scythe." This made Gomo chuckle a little.
As they left the grandeur of Suzaku Avenue and ventured deeper, Yorimitsu saw the Capital's true face. The gleaming vermillion of the great thoroughfare quickly faded into narrower, dustier lanes. Here, the meticulously ordered grid of the city broke down. Homes became smaller, ramshackle affairs, their paper screens patched and peeling.
They lived in nagaya, long, cramped wooden shacks with dirt floors and roofs made of rotting straw. Because of the city's poor drainage, the gutters were stagnant pools of black filth.
Families huddled together on thin mats, their skin sallow and ribs protruding. The "white paint" Yorimitsu had seen earlier wasn't just for show; among the lower classes, it was often a desperate attempt to hide the sores of disease or the pallor of the dying, mimicking the nobles in a macabre dance of survival.
"They are ghosts while they still breathe," Yorimitsu thought, his heart hardening.
Children, no older than Hikaru, roamed the streets with gaunt faces and distended bellies, their eyes dull with hunger. Their clothes were rags, and many clutched at bowls, their pleas for food a constant, mournful chorus.
"Tch… so this is the capital," he folded his fists, his stomach churning. "An engineered decay. The rich grow richer on the suffering of those they claim to protect."
Among the famished, Yorimitsu noticed something even more unsettling. Groups of young boys, their faces painted stark white with thick, almost theatrical makeup, moved with an eerie silence.
They were not beggars. They were the Shirabyōshi performers, often associated with temples or noble houses, but these boys carried a different aura. Their eyes, though painted, held a hollow, almost desperate glint. Yorimitsu sensed a faint, familiar corruption about them, one he had experienced in the Minakaze house.
Gengo rode closer to the carriage window, his lone eye scanning the desolation with a deep, weary sadness.
"Look, Young Master," Gengo said, his voice a low rumble. "This is the true sickness of the world. Once, we fought against the Yokai, against the vengeful spirits, the hungry demons that devoured the weak. Now, the demons wear human skin, and they build their nests in the hearts of cities."
He gestured to the starving children, then to the opulent walls of a distant Fujiwara mansion. "The Great Houses squabble over rice paddies and political favours, while their own people starve.
The spiritual masters debate arcane theories in their academies, yet they ignore the rot that festers beneath their very feet. The true enemy isn't the demon in the forest; it's the darkness in man's heart that allows such suffering to exist."
"Instead of fighting demons, they fight each other," Yorimitsu finished, his gaze fixed on a young Shirabyōshi boy who met his eyes with an unsettling, blank stare before quickly looking away. "And the demons, like the Ōmukade, are simply taking advantage of the chaos."
The Minamoto carriage finally reached the sprawling grounds of the Royal Academy of Onmyōdō. The contrast with the squalor of the outer districts was stark.
Here, the gardens were meticulously manicured, the pavilions gleaming with polished wood and fresh paint. Students in pristine robes, mostly Taira and Fujiwara, walked with an air of intellectual superiority, their discussions punctuated by the gentle rustle of scrolls.
Royal Academy of Onmyōdō loomed like a fortress of light. It was a sprawling complex designed with strict Taoist geomancy, intended to act as a spiritual anchor for the entire nation.
The walls were made of white plaster and dark, seasoned cedar, topped with heavy grey tiles that shimmered like dragon scales. The entrance was a massive Two-Story Gate (Nandaimon), flanked by two towering statues of Gozu and Mezu, the ox-headed and horse-headed guardians of the underworld.
"This is it," Yorimitsu thought. "The belly of the beast."
The grounds were divided into four distinct quadrangles, each representing a season and a cardinal direction:
The Hall of Stars: To the North, where the masters calculated the movements of the celestial bodies and the calendar.
The Pavilion of Whispers: To the East, where the secret arts of Shikigami and spirit-binding were taught.
The Training Grounds: To the West, where the physical application of Reiryoku and ritual combat took place.
The Library of the Void: To the South, a massive, windowless structure containing thousands of scrolls on demonology and ancient witchcraft.
The air around the Academy was unnaturally still. As the Minamoto carriage pulled into the main courtyard, the silence was absolute.
Dozens of students in white and pale-blue robes lined the walkways. These were the scions of the Taira, the Fujiwara, and the Minikaze. They watched with narrowed eyes as the door to the carriage opened.
Yorimitsu stepped out, his indigo robes a dark, defiant bruise against the pristine white of the Academy. He felt the weight of a hundred stares, some curious, many hateful.
The gaze from the assembled students, subtle and condescending, washed over him. He felt the cold, analytical gaze of a few, likely powerful, masters hidden among them. And in the distance, a familiar, chaotic aura flared around Mifune.
"Welcome, Minamoto no Yorimitsu," one of the senior monks said, his voice bright and warm. "We have been... expecting you."