Time seemed to freeze. The silence in the Grand Collegium shattered into a cacophony of shouts and the sharp ring of armored Church guards drawing their weapons. They moved to encircle Shuya, their polearms tipped with that same, light-drinking void metal.
Captain Lyra had her sword out in an instant, placing herself between Shuya and the nearest guard. "Hold! He submitted to your Weighing as demanded by tournament law! You have no cause!"
"The defilement of a holy relic is cause enough!" the lead officiant shrieked, his composure completely gone. "That thing is no mere competitor! It is the Heresy made flesh!"
Shuya stood calm within the storm, his hands loose at his sides. His mind worked with a cold, surgical clarity. Fighting here was suicide. But submission was death. The Church's law was a snare, and he had just triggered it.
It was Yoru who acted.
She did not move. She did not summon claws or mist. She simply… spoke, and her voice, though no louder than before, cut through the chaos like a scalpel, carrying an weight of ancient authority that stilled the very air.
"You call this stone holy?" she asked, her tone dripping with contempt. She gestured to the still-glowing, cracked Soul Stone. "It is a tool of control. A lock. And you are frightened because you have just seen the key."
All eyes turned to her. The Church guards hesitated, unnerved by her calm defiance.
"You," the officiant spat, recognizing her nature. "Yokai. You dare speak in this sanctified place?"
"I dare more than speak," Yoru said, a wicked smile playing on her lips. She took a step toward the dais, and the guards instinctively stepped back. "Your tournament rules state that any who pass the Weighing may compete. The stone registered him. 'Shuya Matsumoto. Affinity: Sun.' It did not say 'abomination.' It stated a fact. Are you now so fearful of the truth that you will break your own sacred laws in front of all your gathered faithful?"
She swept a hand around the hall, at the hundreds of competitors watching the scene with dawning uncertainty. This was a public relations disaster for the Church, and Yoru was expertly twisting the knife.
The lead officiant's face purpled. He was trapped. To seize Shuya was to admit their laws were flexible, that their "divine" justice was just political expediency. To let him go was to allow a walking heresy into their sacred tournament.
A new voice boomed from the far end of the hall. "Enough."
The crowd parted as High Inquisitor Valerius—the man from the king's court, now clad in the stark, black-and-silver robes of his Church office—strode forward. His presence commanded immediate silence and a wave of bows from the Church personnel.
"Inquisitor!" the lead officiant gasped, bowing deeply. "This… this creature has damaged the Soul Stone! Its affinity—"
"I saw," Valerius interrupted, his voice calm but iron-hard. His gaze swept over Shuya, Lyra, and Yoru, betraying nothing. "The Weighing is complete. The result, while… unorthodox… is recorded. The stone' reaction is a matter for the artificers, not the guards."
He looked directly at the lead officiant, his eyes narrow. "The law is clear. He has been Weighed. He may compete. Stand down."
The order was given with such finality that the guards immediately sheathed their weapons and retreated. The lead officiant looked as if he had been slapped, but he bowed again, muttering, "As you command, Your Grace."
Valerius then turned his impassive gaze to Shuya. "You have made an impression, Matsumoto. I suggest the impression you make in the arena is one of skill, not disruption. The eyes of the Eclipse are upon you."
It was a threat wrapped in permission. With a final, unreadable glance, the High Inquisitor turned and swept out of the hall.
The immediate crisis was over, but the atmosphere was now charged with a different kind of tension. Shuya was in, but he was now the most watched, most feared competitor in the entire tournament.
The pairings for the first round were announced by a shaken but dutiful officiant, his voice echoing in the tense silence.
Shuya's name was called third, paired against a mountain of a man from a northern guild, a B-Rank Berserker known for tearing his opponents limb from limb. A murmur went through the crowd. It was a brutal, obvious attempt to have him eliminated—or killed—in the very first match.
As they were leaving the Collegium, a figure fell into step beside them. It was Kaelen, the Vanguard captain. He didn't look at them, his scarred face forward.
"A clever trick, yokai," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Using our laws against us. But the arena has its own laws. The law of strength. The law of blood."
He finally turned his head, his gray eyes locking onto Shuya. There was no hatred in them, only the cold, absolute certainty of a executioner.
"Your sun will be eclipsed tomorrow, anomaly. I will see to it personally."
He walked ahead, disappearing into the flowing crowds of the gray city.
Back in their rented rooms, under the watchful eyes of hidden Church spies, Lyra finally let out a tense breath. "We are in the snake's den, and the snakes know it."
Yoru stood by the window, looking out at the twilight city. "The first move is over. They tried to remove you with law and failed. Now they will try to remove you with violence." She looked over her shoulder at Shuya, her red eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Your calm dominance was a useful shield today, Sun-Bearer. Tomorrow, it must become an unstoppable sword."
Shuya nodded, looking at his hands. He had contained his power for the Weighing and still broken their stone. Tomorrow, against the Berserker, there would be no need to hold back.
The Sun was ready to rise.
...Back in their rented rooms, under the watchful eyes of hidden Church spies, Lyra finally let out a tense breath. "We are in the snake's den, and the snakes know it."
She turned to Shuya, her professional composure frayed at the edges. "That was too close. Valerius didn't save you out of kindness. He saved the Church from a public scandal. But he has now given you just enough rope to hang yourself in the arena. Do you understand? If you die in combat, it becomes a lesson. Not a martyrdom."
Shuya met her concerned gaze. "I understand. They want my death to look like a natural consequence of my own weakness."
"Precisely." Lyra paced the small room, her boots silent on the thick rug. "This Berserker, Gorok, he's a brute, but he's a known variable. He will come at you with pure, overwhelming physical force. Your Mirror Fist should, in theory, be the perfect counter. But the Church is not foolish. They would not pit you against him if they thought he would simply defeat himself."
Yoru, who had been standing by the window looking out at the twilight city, spoke without turning. "They will have instructed him. Or they will have blessed his weapons. They will seek a way to bypass your reflection. Perhaps they will try to grapple you, to crush you rather than cut you. Perhaps his rage will be so great that the recoil maims him, but he will be too enraged to care until after he has pulverized you."
She finally looked over her shoulder at Shuya, her red eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Your calm dominance was a useful shield today, Sun-Bearer. It allowed you to break their toy without unleashing the full extent of your light. Tomorrow, it must become an unstoppable sword. You must be so unshakable that his own fury becomes his coffin, and you must do it in a way that does not simply make you look like a monstrous anomaly. You must win, and you must make it look like skill."
Shuya listened to both women—the soldier concerned with tactics and survival, the yokai concerned with perception and power. He walked to the center of the room, away from both of them, and sank into a cross-legged position on the floor. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing.
He was the center.
The fear of the crowd, the cold hatred of Kaelen, the strategic worries of Lyra, the ancient cunning of Yoru—it was all noise, weather outside the calm eye of his storm. He reached for the memory of the dojo, the endless repetitions, the singular focus on form and intent. His Mirror Fist was not just a ability; it was a state of being. A principle. To receive an attack is to understand it. To understand it is to command it.
He would not go into the arena merely hoping his power would work. He would go in knowing that any force brought against him was a gift, an energy to be accepted and redirected by the absolute certainty of his will. The Sun did not try to be bright. It simply was, and all things lived or died by its decree.
He opened his eyes. The faint, golden light that had once flickered unpredictably around him was now a steady, contained radiance, like a forge-fire seen through a slot in an iron door.
"They are afraid of the sun," he said, his voice quiet but resonant in the small room. "So tomorrow, I will not hide it. I will not flare it recklessly. I will simply let it shine. And we will see what melts in its light."
Lyra watched him, a complex emotion in her eyes—part apprehension, part dawning respect. Yoru's smile was a sharp, approving slash in the gloom.
The first move in the real game was over. Now, it was time for the first blow.