Thump-da-thump!
Yorimistu felt his heart slow down, a throbbing pain stabbing through it.
Preeeeee!
The first note of the flute travelled through the air, and as it moved, it rewrote the world.
For Yorimitsu, the amber dome and the white sand of the arena vanished instantly. The sky turned a dark, crushing indigo, and the light grew dim. His lungs seized as a sudden, frigid weight pressed against his chest.
"Is a backing band required in this fight? What is going on? Something feels odd?" Yorimitsu's thoughts were sluggish, moving as if he were moving through thick silt.
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't standing on sand anymore. He was submerged. A giant, unseen wave of spiritual ocean washed over him, crushing the air from his lungs. Above him, the surface seemed miles away.
Then, he saw them, massive, shark-like beasts with eyes the colour of old coins, their fins cutting through the spectral water as they circled him, teeth bared for the kill; they buzzed with lightning that crackled through the water.
"Whoa, what a strange technique... is it an illusion made from sound? How interesting. It feels like everything is real."
To the spectators in the stands, the fight looked broken. The Yasumasa had shouted "Begin," the music had started, and then... nothing.
"Why isn't the fight beginning?" a young noble asked, leaning over the rail. "The Minamoto boy is just standing there like a statue. Is he frozen in fear? How cowardly!"
An elderly man, a retired High Priest of the Kamo clan, narrowed his eyes.
"He isn't frozen; hehehe, what a wicked technique to use against someone who uses the blade. If you are not used to spiritual techniques, you will be swept away without even getting the chance to fight back," he whispered.
"What is it, elder?" the young lord spoke, his eyes gleaming with wonder.
"The Fujiwara's Song of the Nine Hells. The first hell is a sensory-lock technique. Once the first note enters the ear, the mind is pulled into a separate reality. It controls all five senses: sight, sound, touch, and even smell." He paused and thought.
"To the boy, he might be falling from the sky, in the middle of an ocean, or even in hell for all we know. If he dies in there, his heart will stop out here. Once the sound is heard, it's over."
"What, there really is a technique like that? The world truly is full of wonders, ha," the young lord mussed.
"Exactly, true young master, so you see, even if the boy from the Minamoto has better spiritual purity than Fujiwara, being rank two, certain techniques can overpower him. It's better you see all of their skills now, as in future you will have to choose your allies and enemies amongst these men." The elder spoke in a low voice.
All members of the Seiwa Genji looked down from the platform without saying anything.
Inside the vision, the lead beast lunged, its maw wide enough to swallow Yorimitsu whole. But even in the trance, Yorimitsu's hand moved. His fingers twitched, tracing a sharp arc in the water.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the visual terror. He focused on the centre of his chest, coiling his Reiryoku like a spring. He covered his spiritual ears with a layer of high-frequency energy, dampening the flute's vibration.
He raised a single finger in front of his face, his lips moving in a silent, jagged chant.
"Release."
BOOM.
A massive gust of wind erupted from Yorimitsu's body, shattering the illusion like glass. The shockwave was so powerful it tore across the sand, slamming into Michinaga and forcing the Fujiwara boy to stumble back three steps, his flute momentarily leaving his lips.
Yorimitsu gasped, his consciousness snapping back into the arena. The entire ordeal had lasted less than a single heartbeat.
"What a neat trick you have there," Yorimitsu's voice boomed, resonant and cold. He began to walk forward, his boots crunching on the sand.
Thud!
The shamisen in the gallery struck a sharp, discordant note.
Tannnng!
Yorimitsu's instincts screamed. He ducked, a split second before a violent, invisible gash appeared in the air where his head had been. The sand behind him exploded as if struck by a giant cleaver.
"That sound again... where the hell is it coming from?"
He looked at Michinaga. The Golden Son's shore, even brighter, was covered with a radiant golden energy.
"Tch, it is as if I am looking at the sun itself. What is wrong with these people? How vain of them, to think they would dub themselves deities." Before he could do anything else.
Michinaga played a frantic, rising verse; the ground beneath Yorimitsu began to tremble. The white sand groaned and split open, jagged fissures tearing toward Yorimitsu's feet as the very earth began to scream in harmony with the flute.
"Divine general Flute," he murmured.
As Michinaga's flute reached a frantic, screeching crescendo, the fissures in the white sand bled. A thick, necrotic fog seeped from the cracks, and three skeletal hands, clad in rusted yet magnificent iron gauntlets, gripped the edge of the arena floor.
The ground groaned as three figures hauled themselves out of the abyss. They weren't mere mindless corpses; they were Shiki-Gaki revenants of high-tier warriors bound by Fujiwara blood.
Red Oni: To the left stood a giant in crimson-lacquered armour. He gripped a Great Spear O-Yari that hummed with a violent, vibrating heat. His ghostly face was a mask of eternal rage.
Blue Phantom: To the right, a slender archer in deep indigo silk. He held a Yumi bow made of blackened bone, an arrow of pure spiritual frost already notched.
Green Wraith: In the centre stood the leader, his armour the colour of moss and jade. He drew a Tachi that moved with the weight of a mountain.
The arena fell into a terrified, suffocating silence. Even some of the nobles in the balconies stopped breathing.
"Impossible..." the elderly priest from the Kamo clan gasped, his cane clattering to the floor. "Those armours... those weapons... Michinaga, what has that child done? He has called upon the Three Stars of the Nara Era!"
"Look at the Red Spear!" a veteran officer shouted, pointing a trembling finger. "That is Haruto, the Spear of the South! And the Archer... that is Ryu, whose arrows never missed the tide! And the Green Swordsman... that is Takeshi, the One-Eyed Dragon of the North!"
The crowd surged back in terror. These were legends who had died centuries ago, their souls now enslaved by the Fujiwara's "Song of the Nine Hells." They stood in a semi-circle around Yorimitsu, their empty eye sockets glowing with the same radiant arua now covering Michinaga.
Yorimitsu stood at the centre of the kill zone. The archer's frost-arrow was aimed at his throat; the spearman was coiling for a thrust; the swordsman was inching forward. Behind them, Michinaga's flute continued to play, a conductor leading an orchestra of death.
Yorimitsu sighed. It was a soft, tired sound that somehow cut through the screeching flute and the roaring crowd.
"So, you've dug up the dead to do your chores," Yorimitsu murmured. His voice was calm, but the air around him began to distort, not with sound, but with a terrifying, absolute silence.
He reached back. With a slow, deliberate click, he unfastened the heavy iron buckles that held the Dōjigiri to his back. The massive weapon flung over, and Yorimistu held it tightly.
Yorimitsu gripped the scabbard with his left hand and the hilt with his right. He didn't take a stance. He stood there, looking at the three ghosts and the flute-player behind them.
"This is getting a little bothersome," Yorimitsu said, his silver eyes flashing with a predatory light.
"Let me end it."