The golden light of the morning sun finally pierced the heavy mist of the garden, bleeding through the intricate lattice of the shoji screens.
Yorimitsu watched the silhouettes of the servants moving behind the paper walls. They glided with practised, silent steps, their heads bowed low, murmuring the morning greetings in hushed tones as they began the "Way of the Morning."
The day began with the morning prayer in front of the house shrine, though now it had been moved to the very edge of the estate.
After the prayers, the rhythmic sounds of labour filled the manor: the soft shush of damp cloths polishing the dark wood and the crackle of charcoal braziers being prepared.
Yorimitsu stepped into the corridor. The cold wood bit at his small feet, a sharp sensation that grounded him in this impossible reality. Around the corner, a flash of bright vermilion silk appeared.
It was Hikaru, his younger sister.
In his previous life, he had spent years avoiding her gaze, convinced that by shunning her, she wouldn't be scorned by the rest of the clan for associating with him. But now, looking at her vibrant, untouched spirit, he felt a fierce, agonising surge of compulsion.
Before she could perform her formal bow, he stepped forward and wrapped his small arms around her in a stern, crushing hug.
"Brother?" she gasped, her voice bubbly but laced with deep confusion.
I will not let them touch you this time, Yorimitsu thought, his jaw tightening as he buried his face in her shoulder. I will not let you take your own life like you did last time. "Are you okay, brother?" She leaned into the embrace, a tiny, hopeful smile touching her lips despite her bewilderment.
"Usually you curse at me and tell me to get away from you... What's happening today? Have you had a change of heart?" she asked, gazing up at him with wide, innocent eyes.
Nearby, a servant dropped a polishing cloth, her eyes bulging. "Did the Young Master just... show affection?" she whispered to another. "Look at his eyes. The gloom is gone. It's as if a different soul is wearing his skin today."
Yorimitsu released her and gave a sharp, dignified nod. "I have been really bad, haven't I? Hmmm... I apologise for that. I will be a better brother to you from now on," he said. His voice carried a gravelly depth that made her blink in surprise.
He turned toward the training grounds, his mind narrowing on the task ahead. As he walked, he began experimenting, trying to command his Reiryoku. He found he could only grasp a tiny fraction of it.
He slowed his breathing, utilising a high-level Vajra Circulation technique. he commanded the escaping energy to spiral tightly around his limbs. He felt the air grow heavy around his hands, a faint, invisible shimmer of heat-distortion following his movements.
It's pathetic compared to my old strength, he grumbled internally, but it's enough to stabilise this fragile frame for now.
He reached the edge of the courtyard and stopped. His father, Minamoto no Yoshitomo, stood on the wooden dais, watching the guards train with a mechanical coldness.
Yorimitsu focused his spirit-sight, expecting to see the iron-cold authority of the patriarch he once feared. Instead, he felt a jolt of pure revulsion. His father's Saiki—his spiritual psyche—was a mess of oily, jagged frequencies. It was like looking at a beautiful tapestry that had been infested with black mould.
What is this? Yorimitsu's thoughts hissed with venom. This isn't my father. The man I remembered was cruel, but he was human. This... this is like looking at a summoned beast. Something has hollowed him out.
His mother stepped onto the dais, her movements elegant but eerily synchronised with his father's. Yorimitsu's breath hitched. Her too. The same oily veil. The same parasitic hum in her aura.
I spent my first life hating them for selling me, a cold realisation settled in his gut. But they weren't even the ones who made the choice.
"You've come, Yorimitsu," his father said. The voice sounded like two dry stones grinding together. He didn't even turn around to look at his son.
Tch. I can't probe deeply yet, Yorimitsu thought, his small fists trembling. If I try to see what's inside him, he'll feel my intent. Right now, his raw Reiryoku is stronger than this child's body. I would be caught swiftly.
"Yes, Father," Yorimitsu replied, lowering his head to hide his fiery, murderous gaze. "I am here to train."
His father finally turned, his eyes flat and devoid of any paternal warmth. "To train? Why even bother, brat? It's not like it will be any help to you. A curse cannot be trained into a blade."
Yorimitsu looked up, a small, chilling smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps. But a curse can still cut, can't it?"
"Even if it is a curse, Father," Yorimitsu said, his voice steady as a mountain stream, "a man should at least try to hold the hilt before he is cut down. Or would the great Minamoto name prefer I simply lay in the dirt and wait for the end?"
Yoshitomo's eyes narrowed, the oily shimmer in his aura flickering with a sudden, jagged spike of agitation. For a heartbeat, the mask of the patriarch slipped, revealing a void of cold, inhuman indifference. "Do as you wish, then. Your efforts are merely ripples in a stagnant pond."
Yorimitsu bowed.
"Thank you, Father."
He turned on his heel and began the long walk across the wide, white-gravel courtyard toward the peripheral training area. As he approached the rows of wooden dummies and straw-wrapped posts, the rhythmic crack of bokken against wood began to falter.
One by one, the samurai and disciples of the Minamoto house slowed their movements. A heavy, suffocating blanket of contempt settled over the grounds. To these men, Yorimitsu wasn't a young lord; he was a walking plague, a defect in the lineage that they were forced to tolerate.
"Look at that," one of the senior disciples muttered, loud enough for the wind to carry the insult. "The young lord wants to play soldier. "
Yorimitsu ignored them. Their insults were the buzzing of gnats compared to the screams of the mountain demons he had slaughtered. He stopped before a battered training dummy at the very edge of the grounds, secluded from the others.
He took a deep breath, his small chest expanding as he re-initiated the Vajra Circulation.
Thub-da-dum.
His heart hammered. His small, soft hands gripped the hilt of a discarded wooden sword.
Step. Pivot. Strike.
He lunged. The movement was slow, but the geometry of the strike was flawless. The wooden blade hit the dummy with a sharp, resonant crack that echoed across the courtyard, momentarily silencing the jeers of the surrounding warriors