The air in the testing courtyard was thick, a suffocating mix of sweet sandalwood incense and the metallic tang of nervous sweat. Under the oppressive heat of the afternoon sun, the white sand of the arena floor glared with a blinding brilliance, forcing many in the crowd to squint as they watched the sons of the Great Houses fail to meet expectations.
One by one, names were called.
"Taira no Kanemori: A shaky Rank One.
Abe no Seimei: A stable Rank One.
Fujiwara no Michisane: Rank One."
The obsidian surface of the Mirror remained dull, offering only the faintest silver flicker for each candidate. The crowd's boredom was a palpable weight, a low drone of unimpressed whispers that only spiked when Mai had secured her Rank Two earlier.
"Next," the announcer's voice cracked like a dry reed, "Minamoto no Yorimitsu."
The silence that followed was instantaneous, then gave way to a frantic, buzzing energy.
"The Minamoto boy..." "Look at his gait. He walks like a man who has already seen the end of a war." "Did he inherit the old man's madness?"
"What war does he know?" another replied. "He is but another pampered heir just like the rest here."
High above, in the shaded balcony of the lords, the air felt colder. Lord Takeo was a cacophony of loud colours and louder boasts, his face a bloated shade of plum as he shouted over the railing.
Beside him, a woman sat as still as a frozen lake. She was draped in a veil of gossamer silk that blurred her features into an ethereal mystery. As Takeo leaned forward to bark another insult, she moved.
Her slender, pale fingers, smelling faintly of winter camellias, brushed against the coarse fabric of his sleeve and settled on his hand. The touch was light, yet it felt like a mountain's weight. Takeo's boisterous laughter died in his throat. A strange, primal blush crept up his neck, and he sank back into his silk cushions, silenced by a touch he couldn't understand.
"Hoho, love surely is something else. The Lord has become a mutt following every command of that echantress, he is no man now, not like he used to be." An elderly man whispered beneath his voice so that the lord wouldn't hear him.
As Yorimitsu stepped toward the obsidian Mirror, a sudden, jagged sensation sliced through his mind, a psychic needle pricking at his consciousness.
"What the hell was that?" he mused, his jaw tightening. "It feels like someone was probing me using spiritual sense. An invisible hand reaching into my skull." His eyes drifted about just to catch a glimpse of the veiled woman hiding her face with a paper fan.
Yorimitsu stood before the Mirror. The black glass reflected a boy who looked far older than his years. "Mmmmm, I wonder how much of my skill I should show," he thought.
"Fourth or third, perhaps." He tapped his feet ever so slightly.
His Reiryoku flared inside him, a torrential flood of orange and gold energy. But as it reached his skin, Yorimitsu mentally wrestled it back. He drove the energy into the Seal of Ryuu, the spiritual constraints groaning under the pressure as he throttled his output.
"I shouldn't draw too much attention to myself before I get any backing," he muttered internally.
From the observer's dais, Fujiwara no Yasumasa leaned so far forward that his beard brushed the table. "Oh, this is Minamoto's boy," he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he read the invisible ripples in the air. "His life waves look extremely powerful. I guess he wil—"
Yasumasa choked on his words. He had felt the crushing gravity of a Third Rank aura for a split second, but as he looked at the Mirror, it only emitted a steady, calm glow.
"How the hell did he do that?" Yasumasa wondered, his heart skipping a beat. "I could clearly feel that he is a third rank master... but the mirror is saying he is Second Rank. Did I misgauge him? There is no method of lowering your Reiryoku that I know of?!"
He stood, his voice echoing across the courtyard. "Minamoto no Yorimitsu: Second Rank!"
The crowd erupted. "A tiger's cub is still a tiger!" a veteran soldier cried out, slamming a fist against his leather armour. Yorimitsu was the only one besides Mai to break the average.
"Oh, what do we have here? That boy really is talented," a pair of sharp eyes shot behind the veil.
Yorimitsu turned toward the massive, moss-covered boulder. It was a monolith of ancient stone, etched with spirit-wards that hummed with a low, vibrating frequency.
"Look at that sword," someone whispered, the sound carrying in the sudden quiet. "That's the one Minamoto no Mitsunaka used to carry. The famed blade Dōjigiri that is the boy doing with it, it's huge, it looks like it belongs on the back of a giant, not a boy."
The mysterious lady in the stands tilted her head, her veiled gaze fixed on the heavy hilt protruding over Yorimitsu's shoulder. "Is he going to use the blade?" her voice drifted, soft as a falling leaf. "It's still as vile as the last time I saw it. Minamoto really is betting everything he has on this little brat," She let out a soft, melodic hum. "What an interesting child."
Yorimitsu reached for the sword, but at the last second, his hand stopped. He didn't draw it.
He stepped within an inch of the boulder and raised his bare palm.
"Training with Father has given me so much insight when it comes to the blade," he thought.
His Reiryoku began to pulse, not in a wave, but in a grinding spin. The air around his hand began to whine, the sound of invisible steel meeting a whetstone at high speed. He wasn't just hitting the stone; he was focusing the intent of the blade into his very flesh.
"Is he trying to use the formless blade…? No, that's not it, it uses similar principles, but by the flow of his Reiryoku, this is similar to a palm technique, not a blade technique." Yasumasa mused. "Show me something wonderful, Minamoto."