Yorimitsu stood on the cold stone of the platform, his gaze drifting across the sea of faces. The diversity was staggering, haughty nobles in silk, desperate commoners in patched cotton, and ronin seeking a second chance at honour.
"There sure are a lot of people who want to get into the Academy," he mused. A bitter memory surfaced. "Now that I think about it, in my previous life, I didn't even think about coming here. I was just doing my best to survive the next hour, the next blow from Minikaze."
To his side stood a young man who was a physical anomaly. He was nearly twice the size of Yorimitsu, with shoulders like a mountain ox and arms thick with corded muscle. However, contrary to his intimidating size, the man was a wreck of nerves.
He swayed back and forth, his massive hands fidgeting and shaking as he murmured frantic prayers beneath his breath.
The atmosphere shifted as several Masters ascended the stage. Behind them, servants walked with measured, rhythmic steps, carrying ritual tools resting on plush red cushions.
Leading them was Fujiwara no Yasumasa. He was a man who looked exactly as the Imperial records described: a master of both the literary and martial arts. He wore the high-collared, wide-sleeved kariginu of the high nobility, dyed in a deep, authoritative purple. His face was sharp, his movements possessing a refined, lethal grace. He carried himself with the poise of a man who could compose a poem while cleaving a demon in half.
Yasumasa stepped forward and offered a deep, formal Heian greeting, a slow, sweeping movement of his sleeves that acknowledged the crowd without losing his inherent superiority.
"Candidates of the Realm," Yasumasa's voice boomed, carrying across the quadrangle without effort. "You stand at the gates of the Onmyōryō. Many seek the path, but few possess the soul to walk it."
People in the stands nodded their heads.
Yorimitsu glanced toward the spectator stands. There, tucked away in the shadows of the secondary balcony, were Gengo, Toma, and Souta. They didn't wave or shout; they simply watched, their indigo cloaks a silent anchor for Yorimitsu in this sea of strangers.
Yasumasa paced the length of the stage, his eyes scanning the candidates.
"The entry is divided into three tests of the self," Yasumasa explained. "First is the Trial of Purity. You shall step before Kagami, the Copper Mirror of Truth. It will resonate with your Reiryoku, revealing not only your rank but the clarity of your spirit. A muddy soul cannot hold a sharp blade."
He signalled to the servants. A team of men struggled to roll a massive boulder onto the centre of the stage. The stone was wrapped in a thick, sacred Shimenawa (white rope) and covered in hundreds of flickering purification seals.
"Second is the Trial of Potency," Yasumasa continued. "Spirit is nothing without the will to exert it. You must strike this stone. The seals will measure the force of your blow. Only those who meet the minimum threshold of both Purity and Potency will be admitted to the Academy."
He paused, a cold smile touching his lips as his gaze drifted toward the balcony where Mifune sat.
"Finally, for those who remain... we shall have the Trial of the Circle. One-on-one combat to determine your final standing among your peers. The victor earns the right to lead their class; the loser learns the value of humility."
As Master Yasumasa finished his proclamation, a line of silent servants moved through the crowd. They carried wooden plaques, number plates etched with bold black ink.
The social hierarchy of the Capital was immediately apparent. The servants moved with practised bias, handing the lowest numbers one through ten to the sons of the Fujiwara, Taira, and Minakaze families. These low numbers were a privilege; they meant entering the trials first, while the air was fresh and the judges' attention was sharp.
Yorimitsu looked down at his own plate: Number twelve.
"Just outside the inner circle," he thought. "A subtle snub by the Academy proctors. They acknowledge the Minamoto name, but they place me behind the Capital's favourites."
Commoners and lower-ranked ronin were handed plates in the high hundreds, their faces falling as they realised they would be waiting for hours in the heat, watching their betters set the bar impossibly high.
"Number One! Minakaze no Mai!" the herald's voice rang out.
The crowd fell into a hushed, expectant silence. Mai, a young man with silver-white hair and eyes that seemed to catch the light like polished coins, stepped forward. He didn't walk; he glided. His white robes billowed as if caught in a permanent, private breeze.
He reached the Copper Mirror. As he placed his hand upon the cool, polished surface, the bronze sang. A vibrant, swirling aura of emerald green and silver erupted from the mirror's depths, illuminating the stage.
"Rank Two!" the Proctor shouted, his voice tinged with genuine shock. "Reiryoku Rank: High-Second! Spiritual Purity: Exquisite!"
A roar of approval went up from the stands. Noblewomen fluttered their fans, and even the stern Fujiwara masters leaned forward, whispering among themselves.
"A magnificent seed," Yasumasa noted, stroking his moustache. "To achieve a High-Second rank before even entering the Academy... the Minakaze have truly bred a monster."
Mai didn't linger on his success. He moved directly to the massive boulder wrapped in the Shimenawa rope. The seals on the stone hummed, sensing his approach.
Without a word, Mai's hand blurred. He drew a slender, curved katana, the steel shimmering with a ghostly, flickering orange light.
"Minakaze Secret Art: Soul Seeking Fox Fire!"
He moved like a dancer, the blade tracing a path of heat through the air. A streak of orange flame followed the steel, and with a sound like a hot needle through silk, a clean, diagonal slice appeared on the face of the boulder. A massive slab of stone, weighing at least fifty catties, slid off the main body and crashed into the dirt, the cut surface as smooth as glass.
The crowd went wild. Even Gengo, watching from the stands, narrowed his eye in respect.
"Superb!" Yasumasa proclaimed, clapping his hands once. " The potency confirmed. Precision: first class. You are a first-class trainee, Mai no Minakaze. Step down and prepare for the Circle."
As Mai descended the stone steps, the crowd parted for him like the Red Sea. He sheathed his blade with a rhythmic click, his silver hair settling against his back. He didn't look at the cheering nobles or the swooning students.
His eyes locked onto Yorimitsu.
Yorimitsu stood his ground. The air between them suddenly felt pressurised, as if a vacuum had been created. Mai's gaze was cold, filled with the arrogance of a predator who had just marked his territory. He looked at Yorimitsu's small frame and the heavy Dōjigiri on his back, his lip curling into a microscopic sneer of disdain.
"He is fast," Yorimitsu analysed, his internal energy remaining perfectly still beneath the surface. "The Fox Fire. Ha, what a strange technique; his Reiryoku finds the weakest point in the molecular bond and severs it. A clever trick."
As Mai passed, the scent of ozone and burnt incense trailed after him. Yorimitsu didn't move an inch, his eyes reflecting the silver of the Minakaze's robes like a mirror.
"Number Two!" the herald called.
Yorimitsu adjusted the strap of his sword. "Your skills are better than what I remember them to have been."