"It is Minamoto's victory!"
Yasumasa's voice boomed, cutting through the heavy, heat-shimmered air. He stepped directly between the flaming bow and the trembling Michinaga, his massive brush held like a staff.
He leaned slightly toward Yorimitsu, his lips barely moving. "Young Minamoto, I would recommend that you calm your flames before you draw too much attention upon yourself. You understand, don't you?" The words were a whisper that only Yorimitsu could hear.
"How did he do that? My veil is still up; I shouldn't be hearing any sound." Yorimitsu didn't lower the bow immediately. His silver eyes remained locked on the cowering Fujiwara.
"What? Are you defending him because he is part of your clan?" Yorimitsu's voice drifted back, a ghostly resonance that only Yasumasa could catch. "I heard you had given up all worldly affairs, but I guess that's false considering your heartfelt care on the face of the Fujiwara. You saw it as well, didn't you? He was cheating."
Yasumasa let out a dry, rattling chuckle. "Hehehehe... how bold of you to ask me that directly." He paused, his gaze turning sardonic. "Nou aru taka wa tsume wo kakusu—A skilled hawk hides its talons. You have shown your talons."
Hearing those words, Yorimitsu's hands finally relaxed. The bow heat fizzled, the white-hot light turning into harmless orange embers that vanished into the sand.
The silence of the arena broke into a chaotic roar. The spectators were on their feet, the air thick with the name "Minamoto."
In the high balcony, Mai no Minakaze stood frozen. His knuckles were white as he gripped the railing, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
"This... this is impossible," Mai's thoughts were a bitter swarm.
"That wretch from the North? My father never mentioned he was this good. His family was supposed to be a relic, a fading shadow of a dying house. But the way he fought, I couldn't even follow his movements. Facing the three generals, would I have had a chance to even fight back?" The arrogance that had defined Mai's own victory earlier now felt like wasabi in his mouth.
As Yorimitsu stepped down from the ring, the members of the Seiwa Genji smiled from their balconies. Their usual stern expressions replaced by a fierce, hungry pride.
"Young Master! A splendid representation of the Flames of Kita!" Gengo roared, slamming a fist against his breastplate.
"The Patriarch will be overjoyed," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "To humble a Fujiwara in the centre of the Capital... they will sing songs of this for years."
Across the arena, the Fujiwara section was a tomb of bitterness. Michinaga walked off the stage, his head bowed, his hands shaking so violently he dropped his shattered bamboo flute.
Yorimitsu did not return to his pillar. Inspired by Mai's earlier display of arrogance, he turned back to the crowd. He began to sing, his voice rising in a traditional Northern war-chant, announcing his lineage with a raw, guttural power.
"Warera wa Genji, Montoku Tennō no gemyaku yori umare shi bushi no ie nari. Sosen no Yoshiie kō, Hachiman no Kami ni mamorare, Tōgoku o mamori, Heike o uchi, Kamakura no bakufu o tachiage, chūgi to yūmō o motte yo ni na o hasetari."
English Translation:
"We are the Minamoto clan, born of the bloodline of Emperor Montoku, a house of warriors. Our ancestor Yoshiie, protected by the god Hachiman, guarded the eastern provinces, defeated the Taira, established the Kamakura shogunate, and through loyalty and valour made our name renowned throughout the land."
As he reached the climax of his chant, he swept his hand through the air. Residual Reiryoku caught fire, and with a series of violent, beautiful strokes, he wrote 源 (The Kanji for Minamoto) on the empty air. The flames hung there, burning a fierce, stubborn orange against the amber dome.
Yasumasa watched the burning declaration, a faint smile playing on his lips. "You don't like to be outshined, do you?"
Yorimitsu did answer he slipped away from the main courtyard, finding a secluded corner behind a row of ancient stone lanterns.
He sat in a rigid lotus position, his hands forming a grounding seal. Closing his eyes, he reached out to Inoue.
While Yorimitsu sought the hollow silence of the stone lanterns, the arena became a theatre of desperate, clashing wills. The amber dome groaned under the weight of the remaining "Two Hundred."
The match between Kintoki and the giant from Enryaku-ji was less a duel and more an earthquake. The Monk was a man whose skin had been tempered by decades of Iron Body weathered bronze, met Kintoki's raw, mountain-bred strength head-on. There was no finesse, only the sickening thud of fist meeting meat.
With a roar that shook the very railings of the noble balconies, Kintoki caught the Monk's descending staff in his bare teeth, snapped the cured wood, and delivered a palm strike so powerful that the white sand beneath them detonated.
When the dust settled, the Iron Monk lay embedded in a crater of vitrified earth, his invincible skin cracked like a discarded shell. Kintoki stood over him, heaving, his eyes still burning with the wild, untamed light of the high peaks.
Following the roar of the giants came the suffocating silence of the ghosts. Sada, a youth whose lineage was whispered to be half-spirit, faced off against Hina, the pride of the Capital's weaving guilds. The match was a blur of shifting geometries. Hina spun silk ribbons infused with lightning, trying to cage her opponent, but Sada did not move like a man; he dissolved like flowing water.
The arena became a thick, cloying fog that smelled of damp moss and old graves. The crowd leaned forward, squinting, only to see a dozen Sadas walking through the silk traps as if they were nothing but cobwebs.
Hina screamed, lashing out at shadows, until the real Sada appeared behind her, his hand resting gently on her throat. There was no wound, but Hina collapsed instantly, her mind trapped in a dream-loop of the mist.
The final bout was the shortest. Ren of the Silk Thread faced Takuya, a ronin who had survived three wars. Takuya moved with the heavy, reliable efficiency of a veteran, his blade creating a flurry of steel around him.
Ren did not engage the sword. He moved like a leaf caught in the wake of the steel, dancing on the edge of the ronin's reach.
In the heartbeat between Takuya's lunges, Ren's hand flickered a movement so fast it was invisible to everyone but the Masters. A single, needle-thin puncture appeared on Takuya's shoulder. Within seconds, the veteran's sword arm turned grey, his Reiryoku seizing up as if frozen by ice. Takuya fell to one knee, his blade clattering to the sand, defeated.
One by one, they were whittled down. Some left the ring on their own feet; others were carried away on the white silk rags of the servants, their names fading from the sky as their blood soaked into the earth.
As the final match concluded and the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the amber dome in shades of bruised purple, Yasumasa stepped into the centre of the arena. He smoothed his silk sleeves, his posture radiating the stiff, flawless etiquette of the Imperial Court.
"Gracious Patrons, Pillars of the Capital," Yasumasa began, his voice melodic and perfectly pitched. "Your presence has lent a divine weight to these proceedings. To witness the budding of such talent is a gift from the Heavens themselves."
He bowed deeply, precisely at the angle required for his rank. "The final rankings and the distribution of the Academy's graces shall be conducted in the sanctity of the Inner Halls. We would not presume to bore our esteemed guests with the clinical details of administration."
On his cue, a line of young servants emerged. They moved with ghost-like silence, carrying trays of gifts wrapped in exquisite, heavy silk. Each Master and Lord was presented with a token, a small, neatly wrapped treasure that signalled the end of the public spectacle.
The crowd began to disperse, the carriages of the nobles rattling away into the evening mist of the city.
Yasumasa turned his back on the exit, his expression returning to its sharp, controlled poise he gestured to the cluster of monks standing at the edge of the courtyard.
"The winnowing is complete," Yasumasa said, his voice now devoid of courtly warmth.
The monks divided the remaining candidates into two distinct groups.
"Those whose names still glow in the sky, the Victors follow me," Yasumasa commanded, heading toward the towering, shadowed spires of the Academy's main pagoda.
Simultaneously, the other monks began to lead the Losers, bloodied and shamed, toward a smaller, iron-studded gate that led deep into the subterranean levels of the Academy. The two paths diverged sharply, one leading toward the light of the inner sanctum, and the other into a darkness that smelled of damp stone and moss.
Yorimitsu stood up, "Make sure you hide yourself. I will come find you later."