The charcoal in the hibachi glowed a soft, pulsing orange, casting long shadows against the painted screens of the inner hall. The family sat in a formal square, the scent of expensive agarwood incense hanging heavy in the air.
For the first time in years, the tension that had gripped the Minamoto household was absent, replaced by a weight of a different kind: the future.
"The darkness that took root in you, Father and mother," Yorimitsu began, his voice steady despite his young age. "It wasn't a random curse. Inoe spoke of a 'Great Shaman.' Someone in the Capital is weaving these threads. If I stay here, we are merely waiting for the next strike."
Yoshitomo narrowed his eyes, "You speak of the Imperial Court as if it were a battlefield, Yorimitsu. You do seem ahead compared to your peers, but that is just reckless.
"Which is why I must go to the Royal Academy of Onmyodo," Yorimitsu countered. "It is the heart of all spiritual knowledge in the Empire. If I can enter as a student, I can find the source of this corruption from the inside. I have the Fifth Rank now; I can protect myself."
Murasaki paled, her hand tightening around Hikaru's shoulder. "You may be becoming a man soon, Yorimitsu, but you are still my son. The Capital is a nest of wolves. To send you there alone..."
"He can handle it," Yoshitomo interrupted, his voice thick with a father's protective instinct. "But his mother is right, in the Academy, he is a target. The Taira and the Fujiwara will see your talent as a threat to be extinguished."
"They will try," Yorimitsu said, his gaze meeting his father's without flickering. "But if I do not go, the next demon won't be a rank-six Inoe. It will be something that even a Shishi cannot stop. Let me go, Father. Let me bring honour to our house."
The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the embers. Finally, Yoshitomo nodded slowly. "If this is your path, then we shall walk it with the dignity of our ancestors."
According to Heian tradition, the twelfth birthday of the Genpuku transition was the moment a boy began his journey toward manhood. But for Yorimitsu, the celebration was doubled as a farewell feast.
The Great Hall was transformed. Low zen tables were arranged in strict hierarchical order. The food served was a masterpiece of Heian culinary art: daikon carved into the shape of cranes, steamed sea bream, and mountain vegetables preserved in miso. Servants moved with ghost-like silence, pouring spiced sake for the warriors of the clan.
Yorimitsu sat at the head, dressed in formal kariginu robes of deep indigo, the colour of a midnight storm. To his left, Hikaru watched him with wide, watery eyes. Sensing her fear, Yorimitsu reached into his sleeve and pulled out a bundle of five small, intricately folded silk charms (Omamori).
"These are for you, Hikaru," he whispered, pressing them into her small palms. "I've woven a thread of my own Reiryoku into the silk. If danger ever nears the estate, these charms will flare. One will alert Father, one will shield you, and the last will tell me, no matter how far away I am, that you need me."
Hikaru gripped the charms as if they were lifelines. "You'll come back? Promise?"
"I am a Minamoto," Yorimitsu replied, "Katte kabuto no o wo shimeyo"
(Translation: "Even in victory, tighten your helmet strings.")
As the feast reached its peak, Yoshitomo stood. The room went silent. He gestured to a long, lacquer box carried by two senior samurai.
"Ten years ago, the heavens gave this house a child with the Seal of the Dragon," Yoshitomo announced, his voice booming. "Today, that child stands as a Master of the Fifth Rank. It is time he carried the weight of our legacy."
He opened the box. Resting on white silk was a blade that seemed to draw the very light out of the room.
"This is Dōjigiri—the 'Shuten-doji Sunderer,'" Yoshitomo explained. "It was forged by the legendary master Yasutsuna during a thunderstorm that lasted seven days. It is said the steel was quenched not in water, but in the essence of captured lightning. It has tasted the blood of a thousand calamities."
Yorimitsu stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The moment his skin touched the ray-skin wrap, the Seal of Ryuu on his palm flared with a blinding, sapphire brilliance.
VrrrRRRUMMM.
The blade sang. A low, harmonic frequency pulsed through the metal, matching the beat of Yorimitsu's heart. The blue spiral energy flowed from his arm into the steel, turning the edge of the blade into a shimmering, translucent azure. The Reiryoku was so immense that the nearby candles flickered and died.
"Let us see if the blade accepts its new master," Yoshitomo challenged, leading the way to the training grounds.
In the centre of the yard stood seven heavy training dummies, each constructed of ironwood wrapped in wet rice-straw, a target designed to stop even a heavy axe. The warriors of the Minamoto gathered at the edge of the sand, their breath bated.
Yorimitsu stood before the targets. He didn't take a stance. He stood relaxed, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of Dōjigiri. He closed his eyes, visualising the flow of Reiryoku not as a lake, but as a compressed needle.
"Minamoto Style, Secret Art: Heaven's Pivot."
SHING!
The movement was so fast the human eye couldn't register the draw. A crescent moon of blue light flashed across the yard, followed by a thunderous crack. Yorimitsu was already sheathing the blade, the click of the habaki hitting the scabbard the only sound in the night.
For a heartbeat, the dummies remained standing. Then, simultaneously, all seven targets slid apart. The ironwood didn't just split; it had been sheared so cleanly the surfaces were as smooth as glass. The gravel behind the targets had been gouged into a deep trench three feet wide.
A roar went up from the Minamoto warriors.
"There is no one who can beat the Young Master now!" a veteran cried.
"They have gone and sired a Dragon!" another screamed.
Yoshitomo looked at the destruction, then at his son. He saw the power, but more importantly, he saw the control. He placed a heavy hand on Yorimitsu's shoulder.
"Go to the Capital, Yorimitsu. Show them that Minamoto does not just produce warriors, it produces legends."
The next morning, the carriage was prepared. In the shadows of the rafters, a white cat with two tails and mismatched eyes watched as the Young Master climbed inside.
"Are you ready, Inoe?" Yorimitsu whispered.
"The Capital smells of rot and old silk," the cat's voice echoed in his mind. "It will be a pleasure to tear it down with you."
As the carriage rolled out of the gates, Yorimitsu looked back one last time. He saw Hikaru waving her charms and his parents standing stoically on the veranda.