"Huuuu," Yorimitsu exhaled. The air around his lips condensed into a thick, supernatural fog, despite the afternoon heat. His heart rate slowed until it was a rhythmic, iron thrum.
Dum da dum.
"Minamoto secret art," he whispered, the words barely catching the wind. "Yorimitsu Reproduction: Blade of Severance."
Tap.
To the onlookers, it looked as though the world had skipped a frame. Yorimitsu didn't run; he simply ceased to be where he was and reappeared instantly beside the monolith. His hand flowed upward in a blur of indigo silk, his bare palm meeting the jagged edge where Mai had previously shaved the stone.
His Reiryoku detonated. A pillar of orange and gold light shot toward the sky, blinding the front rows of the audience. The high-frequency whine of the Severance vibration grew so loud that it shattered the ceramic wine cups of the nobles in the balconies.
Then, just as quickly as it began, the light died. Yorimitsu pulled his hand back, folded his arms into his sleeves, and began walking away from the boulder without a backward glance.
"What... what happened? Did he even hit it?" The whispers started as a ripple and grew into a roar.
"It looked just like the 'Wolf of the North' during his martial days," a veteran officer stammered, his hand shaking as he gripped the railing. "But there is something different... he wasn't using a blade, how does that work? Mmm, I do wonder, did the skills of the North evolve while we were sleeping?"
In the stands, Gengo leaned back, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his scarred face. "I knew the Young Master was a genius," he murmured to Toma, "but to think he modified the hereditary techniques of the family to such an extent... how marvellous. I haven't heard about anyone doing that since the founder and his brother; surely now the rise of Minamoto is inevitable."
When Yorimitsu reached the other contestants, the silence of the arena was broken by a thunderous CRASH.
The fifty-catty slab of stone that Mai had previously cut, the one that had remained stuck to the boulder, suddenly slid off and pulverised into dust upon hitting the ground. The cut Yorimitsu had left was so perfect it had momentarily created a vacuum seal, holding the stone together until the air pressure finally broke it.
"Shit," Yorimitsu thought, his face a mask of calm even as his mind raced. "Did I overdo it? I tried to throttle it, but at that moment, I was too focused on the technique that my body moved by itself. I wanted to show some of my skills, but this might bring more attention than necessary. Tch, what a hassle. I guess I will have to deal with the effects of them now."
He looked at the other contestants. The broad young man next to him had stopped shaking; he was now staring at Yorimitsu with a mixture of religious awe and absolute terror. Around the courtyard, the scions of the Taira and Fujiwara were murmuring, their faces pale as they mentally measured their own techniques against that single, effortless palm strike.
Fujiwara no Yasumasa stood, his purple robes snapping in the wind. He looked at the boulder, then at Yorimitsu, his expression unreadable.
"Minamoto no Yorimitsu," Yasumasa declared, his voice echoing with authority. "Spiritual purity: High-Second Rank, same as attack potency. You are a draw with Mai no Minakaze for the top result of the entry trials."
"A draw. That has never happened before; there really are geniuses this time around." People in the stands whispered to one another.
Internally, Yasumasa was reeling. "A draw? On paper, perhaps. But Mai used a masterwork blade and a legacy art. This boy used his bare hand and a modified technique I've never seen. I will have to keep a very close eye on this one. I wonder what other wonders he can show me. He didn't even draw his blade." Yasumasa reeled with the glee of a child.
In the noble stands, the atmosphere had turned frantic. The mockery of the isolated Minamoto had vanished, replaced by the sharp, desperate calculations of diplomats.
"We must send envoys to the North immediately," a Fujiwara elder whispered to his aide, his eyes never leaving Yorimitsu.
"The Minamoto have been isolated for too long. If this boy is their new standard, we must re-fire our relationship before the Taira get to them. Bring the finest silks and the ancestral scrolls we negotiate by sunset."
High above, the mysterious veiled woman let out a soft, melodic hum of amusement. Behind her fan, her lips curved into a predatory smile. The vile sword on the boy's back had finally found a master worth watching. "Though I do wonder if he will live long enough to actually use the potential that he currently has."
The herald's voice cut through the buzzing whispers of the nobility. "Number seventeen! Sakata no Kintoki!"
The broad young man beside Yorimitsu flinched as if struck by a lash. His massive frame, which seemed built from the very boulders they were testing, shuddered violently. As he stepped forward, his heavy sandals scraped awkwardly against the stone, and his large, calloused hands wouldn't stop their frantic, rhythmic twitching.
A sharp, mocking laugh erupted from the middle-tier stands, where the minor Taira vassals sat.
"Look at that!" a young nobleman jeered, pointing a fan at Kintoki's trembling knees. "A body like a temple guardian, but the heart of a field mouse! He can barely walk straight. What a disgrace to the warrior class standing there shivering like a wet dog.
The insults rippled through the crowd. "Perhaps he belongs in the kitchen hauling rice bags rather than in the Academy," another sneered. Kintoki's head bowed lower, his face turning a deep, humiliated crimson. He stumbled over a small dip in the arena floor, nearly falling face-first into the white sand.
Kintoki reached the Mirror. He hovered his hand over the bronze surface, his fingers vibrating so hard they created a blur. The proctors looked on with thinly veiled impatience, one even sighing and preparing to mark him as a failure.
"Proceed, candidate," Yasumasa commanded, though his eyes remained fixed on Yorimitsu.
Kintoki closed his eyes tightly and slammed his palm onto the mirror.
The mocking laughter stopped instantly. It was as if someone had sucked the air out of the courtyard.
The Mirror thrummed with a deep, bass frequency that vibrated in the chests of everyone present. A thick, opaque shroud of golden-brown energy dense like compressed earth swirled within the glass. It wasn't the elegant, flickering flame of Mai's fox-fire, nor the sharp, crystalline blue of Yorimitsu's severance. It was raw, primordial, and immovable.
"Rank Two!" the Proctor shouted, his voice cracking in disbelief. "Reiryoku purity: Rank Second!"
The nobleman who had been laughing just moments ago snapped his fan shut, his face pale. "He is the Third Second rank." This was rare; to see it in a commoner-born having high spiritual purity, it was unheard of.
Kintoki didn't look at the crowd. He pulled his hand back, his skin still vibrating from the mirror's resonance. As he turned to walk toward the boulder, he caught Yorimitsu's eye. The fear was still there, the social anxiety of a man who felt he didn't belong, but beneath it.
"Spiritual Purity: Deep Earth," Yorimitsu thought, watching the giant's retreat. "But it is true he doesn't seem like a warrior to me; his spirit is just too kind."