"Greetings, Masters," Yorimitsu said, his voice level and resonant as he offered a formal martial salute, fist pressed to palm, a gesture of respect that bridged the gap between the warrior clans and the spiritual elite.
"You must have gone through quite the journey," one of the masters spoke.
He was a tall man, bald with a long, sweeping moustache that reached his chest, his eyes shimmering with practised wisdom. "I hear the North is quite far from the Capital. A harsh place for one of... delicate health."
"No... not at all," Yorimitsu replied, his gaze unwavering. "The journey was quite enlightening for me. It revealed much about the world; it is a bigger place than I had initially thought."
"Mmmmm, indeed it is." The master responded, stroking his beard.
Just then, a heavy voice boomed behind him.
"Master, I am afraid this is where we will be parting with you," Gengo said. The veteran warrior stood tall, his presence a stark contrast to the monks' ethereal stillness.
Yorimitsu turned and gave the Seiwa Genji a deep, formal bow. "Thank you for coming all this way. I will be seeing you soon." His gaze stretched through all of them.
"This journey was great. I would have liked to have them around longer. I learned a lot about warfare from Gengo; it's a shame they don't allow warriors to stay in the academy, they would have been great teachers." He thought to himself.
In a display of absolute discipline that silenced the whispering students nearby, Gengo, Toma, and Souta fell to their knees in a synchronised salute. Without another word, they rose and departed, their indigo cloaks vanishing into the shadows of the gate like fading smoke.
"Right this way, Young Master," a junior attendant said, scurrying forward to take Yorimitsu's belongings and lead him toward the residential wing.
"Wow, so this is a young master from an esteemed house," the young attendant thought, walking ahead. "Those warriors all seem to respect him so much; he doesn't look much older than me, yet the air around him is just so refined." He stared at Yorimitsu's back for a few seconds, almost like he'd been caught in a trance.
As they walked through the sprawling courtyards, the bald master walked alongside Yorimitsu, his hands tucked into his wide sleeves.
"The Academy is built upon the Three Pillars of Progression," the monk explained, gesturing to the students they passed. "Every initiate begins as a Shitashiki (Under-student). They wear Black robes, symbolising the uncarved stone, the void of knowledge. Once they master the fundamentals of ritual and Reiryoku manipulation, they become Suke (Intermediate), wearing Blue. Finally, the elite are the Hakase (Masters). They wear White, representing purity and the completion of the cycle."
The monk looked at Yorimitsu's sword dangling on his back, "Dōjigiri," with a nostalgic glint. "How is Minamoto-sama? Is he getting better? He was a great warrior, you know. I taught him long ago; he was a talent that comes once in a century." His eyes drifted back to the blade. "Oh... so you really are the successor, ha."
"Jōbu de gozar(u)", he said.
(Translation: Healthy and steady)
"Ohh… that is wonderful news." The monk spoke with a soft smile pasted on his face.
They passed the Western Training Grounds, where the air was thick with the sound of wooden swords clashing and rhythmic shouting. In the centre of the ring, a young man was being systematically beaten down. He took a heavy blow to the ribs and tumbled into the dirt, his black Shitashiki robes stained with mud.
"That is Watanabe no Tsuna," the monk sighed. "He is a dismal case. He has been a Shitashiki for more than five years now. His skills are not improving one bit; he lacks the 'wind' required for our arts."
Yorimitsu stopped. His eyes narrowed as he watched Tsuna struggle to stand. "What? That can't be," Yorimitsu thought. He watched the way the air shimmered around the older boy. "The way his Reiryoku moves... it reminds me of the old fables the old hag used to tell me about ancient spirits. Why the hell is he using such a large, heavy blade with a frame that small?"
Curiosity piqued, Yorimitsu walked toward the ring. Tsuna was five years older, his face etched with a grim, silent frustration.
"Why are you pretending to be weak?" Yorimitsu asked.
He reached out a hand to help the older boy up. Tsuna looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a fierce, wounded pride.
"Tch, get away from me."
Slap.
Tsuna struck Yorimitsu's hand away with a sharp crack, standing up on his own trembling legs. He gave Yorimitsu a lingering, hateful glare before limping away to retrieve his oversized practice sword.
"Mmm," Yorimitsu mused, watching him go. "Is he being suppressed. Bound by his own mind or someone else's, perhaps. I will need him on my side."
He watched him walk away.
They finally reached the dormitories; they were simple cedar structures built with the elegant minimalism of the Heian era. The rooms were partitioned by shoji screens, the floors covered in fresh tatami that smelled of dried grass. It was humble, designed to remind the students that warriors required physical detachment.
"Rest briefly, Young Master," the monk said. "For tonight, we have the Entrance Competition. It is the ritual trial to determine the starting ranks among all the new Shitashiki. You will not be alone."
Minutes later, Yorimitsu was led to a massive stone platform in the Central Quadrangle. The area was surrounded by a sea of people. It wasn't just nobles; there were commoners who had travelled from the furthest provinces, desperate for a chance to change their lives through the Academy's prestige.
The air was electric with ambition, fear, and hidden malice. High above, on the Master's balcony, Mifune sat with his arms crossed, watching the "Sickly Dragon" step onto the stage.
Yorimitsu stood in the centre of the platform, the weight of a thousand eyes pressing down on him. He didn't look at the crowd.
"They want to test us as soon as we get here… I wonder how much skill I should show to get a decent rank?"