The air changed the moment the iron-studded gate groaned shut behind them. The air felt like it was strangling them as intense incense drifted through the air, the smoke moved like a living fog, heavy and damp.
They walked along a narrow, winding path where the ground was overgrown with Kuro-gusa—black, razor-sharp grass that hissed against their ankles like nesting vipers.
The only light came from weathered stone lanterns tōrō placed at irregular intervals. These were not the warm, welcoming lights of a shrine. The wicks flickered with a sickly, pale-green flame that threw long, distorted shadows against the moss-covered walls of the ravine.
The monks leading them remained silent, their wooden sandals clacking rhythmically on the wet stones. To reach their destination, the losers were forced through a series of three towering Torii gates, each older and more decayed than the last.
The Gate of Salt: As they passed under the first, a fine mist of purified salt fell from the crossbeams, stinging the open wounds of the injured.
The Gate of Iron: The second gate was wrapped in heavy, rusted chains that rattled in the wind.
The Gate of Names: The third was blank; all kanji had been chiselled away as if someone had intentionally done it. Passing through it, they felt like a cold blade had slid through their neck. After reaching the other side, they felt their bodies had become unnaturally lighter.
Emerging from the final gate, the boys found themselves standing before a massive, black-walled Heian castle, which had been carved directly out of the mountain's heart.
"This is Kage-shiro." One of the monks declared.
Standing at the colossal timber doors were the Sentinels. They did not wear the standard armour of the Academy. Instead, they were draped in floor-length black robes that swallowed the light. Each carried a Shakujō, a Buddhist monk's staff topped with six iron rings that chimed with a funereal tone.
The most terrifying feature, however, was their masks:
They wore Hannya-Men and Oni masks carved from dark, water-soaked cypress. The horns were long and jagged, painted the colour of dried blood. The eyes were wide, bulging spheres of polished brass that seemed to track every movement, and the mouths were frozen in a permanent, fanged snarl of metallic gold.
"Tch, what is this feeling of oppression I am feeling?"
Among the losers, one was a legend in the making; he, too, would be part of the great change the world was going to go through alongside Yorimitsu.
His bruised face twisted in a scowl. Date Masamune had fought with the ferocity of a wolf, his loss coming only because his opponent promised to send money to his village.
"What the hell is this place?" Masamune spat, his one good eye darting around the dark courtyard. "We were told we were candidates for the Academy, not prisoners for a tomb."
The guards did not answer. The rings on their staffs jingled.
cling,
cling,
cling
A sound that seemed to drain the heat from the air, because the men began shivering as fog came out of their mouths.
As the doors creaked open, they were ushered into a vast hall lined with white sand. Guarding the inner sanctum were two massive Komainu Divine Lion-Dogs carved from white jade. Their eyes glowed with a faint blue Reiryoku, and their manes were sculpted in the flowing, jagged style of Jōchō.
The aesthetic was one of Shinto divinity. It was beautiful, expensive, and perfectly ordered, yet underneath the silk screens and the polished wood lay the unmistakable chill of the underworld.
"Enter," a voice echoed from the darkness of the rafters. "From now on, if you want to live, you will have to throw away your name and become a tool."
To the commoners of the surrounding provinces and the desperate ronin of the borderlands, the Academy is a beacon of divine ascension. They see only the golden spires and the stories of divine warriors who walk the streets of the Capital in silk and jade. Thousands travel for months, spending their life savings just to reach the outer gates, dreaming of the Strength that could elevate a peasant to a lord.
But they know nothing of the trials within. In the Academy, strength is the only currency, and it has two sources: you were either born with a bloodline that sings with Reiryoku, or you are brave enough to steal it from the corpses of your peers.
The iron-studded gates of Kage-shiro slammed shut, and the monks began the final rite for the Losers. One by one, their family scrolls were cast into the green-flamed lanterns.
"From this moment, you are no longer sons of the Date, the Hojo, or the Taira," the Head Monk hissed, his voice like dry leaves skittering on a tombstone. "You are the Nameless. You are 'Gaki'. Your past is a lie, and here we will mould your future."
As the last man entered, the divine dogs moved, their stone paws grinding against the floor to block the exits.
"The Academy has room only for the talented," the voice from the rafters echoed, now sounding gleeful. "There are eighty of you in this hall. By dawn, only twenty may remain standing. The rest... the rest shall become the spiritual fuel that keeps your lanterns burning."
The air in the hall turned frigid. The boys looked at one another, friends who had travelled together, rivals who had shared a bowl of rice only hours ago. The realisation hit like a physical blow: to live, they had to become monsters.
Date Masamune was the first to draw his hidden blade, his one eye reflecting the sickly green light of the lanterns.
"There is no way they are letting any of us escape now, the only way to live is to slaughter everyone here," Date thought to himself.
Thud!
The first head fell to the ground.
The Head Monk watched from the shadows, his Hannya mask glinting.
"This time around, we have good materials; they will be branded with the mark of the Kage and be bound to the will of the Fujiwara and the Emperor." A large grin stretched behind his mask.