Suddenly, Yasumasa stepped into the centre of the arena. He reached into his wide sleeve and drew a brush the size of a spear. The bristles were made from the hair of a white stag, and the handle was carved from blackest ebony.
"The sun sets on the uninitiated," Yasumasa sang, his voice suddenly melodic and haunting.
He began to dance a slow, rhythmic Heian Bugaku. His feet traced patterns in the sand that glowed with blue light. With every stride, he swung the massive brush through the empty air. Instead of ink, a liquid, shimmering Reiryoku flowed from the bristles.
He painted the sky. Great strokes of silver and gold ink hung in the air, forming ancient kanji for Barrier and Sanctuary. As he spun, his voice rose in a traditional Shinto chant:
"Flowing spring, stagnant river, let the brush stroke write and weaver. Within these walls, the truth is found; outside, the shadows claim the ground."
The onlookers watched, entranced. The very environment began to warp. The temperature dropped, and the greasy smell of the city and thousands of men standing before them was replaced by the scent of fresh rain and mountain pine.
As Yasumasa completed his final stroke, he thrust the brush toward the heavens. The silver kanji he had painted exploded into a million tiny droplets. A light, cooling rain began to fall; it was not water, but liquid spiritual energy that felt cold and refreshing on Yorimitsu's skin.
Simultaneously, a massive, shimmering Force Field rippled into existence, a translucent dome of amber light that sealed the Academy off from the rest of the Capital.
Yorimitsu looked up, the rain catching in his eyelashes. "This is a new kind of witchcraft I have never seen before," he thought, glancing at Mai, Kintoki, and the others. "I wonder if we will get to learn it."
As Yasumasa completed the final arc of his dance, the giant brush came to a rest, suspended in the air. A soft breeze swept through the courtyard, smelling of mountain blossoms and old parchment. The silver ink he had painted into the sky didn't fade; it solidified into a shimmering bracket of names, floating like ghosts above the sand.
The audience remained in a trance. One elder, a retired court official with a withered face, leaned toward his grandson.
"Marvel at that control," the elder whispered. "Before the Academy was even a dream, Yasumasa was the Emperor's private shield. It is said he once painted a barrier around the entire Inner Palace that no demon could pierce for three nights. To see him dance now... it is like watching the history of the Capital itself."
Yasumasa lowered the brush, his expression returning to its sharp, clinical mask. He didn't look tired; he looked hungry for the next phase.
"The rules of the Trial of the Circle are as ancient as the soil beneath you," Yasumasa's voice cut through the breeze. "This is a One-Strike Match. The moment a foot leaves the ring, or a knee touches the sand, the duel is over. However,..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the two hundred candidates.
"Do not mistake brevity for safety. In the pursuit of that single strike, limbs may be lost. Blood may be spilt. It is only natural, so is the way of the warrior; if you are fearful, drop out now; no one will hold it against you."
But no one dared to move.
Yorimitsu stood in the shadow of the amber dome, his hand resting against one of the pillars, his eyes were drifting about as he tried understanding the barrier, but then suddenly, his heart gave a violent, sickening jolt.
It was an invisible thread of cold, humming connection to Inoue; his shikigami connection faded, and for that moment, he couldn't pinpoint where Inoue was.
"Inoue?" Yorimitsu called out internally, his pulse spiking. "Damn it, why is now of all times I can't leave and go look for him,"
"Inoue."
Silence.
For the first time since his rebirth, a cold prickle of genuine panic crawled up Yorimitsu's spine.
"Whoever severed the connection must be incredibly strong."
Away from the pristine white sand, in the muddy, lightless alleys of the Seventh Ward, a small, blurred shape darted through the shadows. It was Inoue.
His fur was matted with thick, dark blood that dripped onto the cobblestones, steaming in the cool air. He was breathing in ragged, wet gasps.
"They... they don't recognise me," Inoue hissed, his voice a distorted rasp. He looked at his paws, which were glowing with a faint white aura; "Tch, their Reiryoku seemed to be burning my skin." he staggered slighting moving forward.
"The demons... they see me as a Guardian Spirit now. I am no longer one of them."
He looked back toward the shimmering amber dome of the Academy, his eyes wide with a warning Yorimitsu could not hear. "Tch, I really thought that if I went back to the lord, he could remove the restriction that brat placed on me, but instead he served my soul."
"Ma, Cat, cat." One of the children pointed as Inoue passed through; her eyes were gleaming before she could leap towards him, and a hand caught her.
"Black cats are bad omens, stay away from them," an elderly woman warned.
Back in the arena, the first pairing appeared in silver ink above the sand: Mai no Minakaze vs. Jiro the Wolf-Eye.
Mai stepped into the ring, his silver hair catching the amber light of the barrier. He looked bored, his hand resting lightly on his katana.
Jiro, the scarred vagabond, spat into the sand and drew his rusted cleaver. He was a head taller than Mai, his body a map of jagged white scars.
"Listen here, little prince," Jiro growled, his voice like grinding stones. "Your noble blood won't help you here. You're green, too clean, too soft. I've survived the wastes by gutting things twice as pretty as you. I'm going to show you how a real warrior fights, before you even realise your head's left your shoulders."
Mai didn't respond. He simply tilted his head, a faint, mocking smile touching his lips as the orange glow of his Foxfire began to lick the edges of his scabbard.