The carriage groaned to a halt, the heavy wooden wheels sinking into the fine silt of the city's upper district. For miles, the only rhythm had been the monotonous thud-thud of oxen's hooves and the hollow clinking of Yorimitsu's iron chains. Now, a new sound replaced them: a low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate within his very marrow.
Yorimitsu lifted his head, his neck stiff from hours of being slumped in the dark. Through the rusted iron bars, the Lord's manor didn't just loom, it breathed. It was a sprawling labyrinth of dark, polished cedar and bone-white plaster, standing tall against the blue sky.
But it was the protection that caught his eye. Thick, braided ropes of sacred rice straw (Shimenawa) were draped across the massive gates and wound around the perimeter like the coils of a sleeping dragon. Hundreds of Shide, the zigzagging white paper streamers, hung from the hemp, flickering frantically in a wind Yorimitsu couldn't feel.
These were the Shinto wards of a Great House.
They hummed with a spiritual frequency that pressed against Yorimitsu's chest, a barrier designed to sift the "pure" from the "defiled." The wards felt like a physical hand trying to crush his lungs. He was the "filth" they were meant to keep out.
The massive vermillion gates creaked open with a sound like a dying giant. The carriage lurched forward, transitioning from the mud of the streets to the meticulously raked white gravel of the inner courtyard.
Life here moved with a deceptive, glacial grace. Noblemen in high-backed eboshi hats and voluminous silk robes glided across the raised wooden walkways, their movements governed by a thousand years of rigid etiquette. The air was a thick mixture of expensive sandalwood incense, damp earth, and the sharp, metallic tang of the guards' naginatas.
The carriage door was ripped off its hinges. A guard, his face a mask of indifference, grabbed Yorimitsu by the collar and dragged him out. Yorimitsu hit the ground hard. The sharp, decorative stones bit into his raw knees and palms, reopening the wounds from his struggle at home. He didn't cry out. He simply watched as a single drop of his blood hit a white pebble, turning it into a dark, rusted ruby.
At the top of the grand stairs, framed by the shadows of the audience hall, sat the Lord of Settsu: Minakaze.
He was a man of immense presence, lounging on a raised dais. Around him sat his harem, a flock of women with faces painted white as bone and teeth blackened with iron gall, their layered silk jūnihitoe spilling across the floor like frozen waterfalls. Beside him stood Minakaze no Mai, a boy who looked like a doll carved from ice. His lips were stained a deep, bruised red, and his eyes remained fixed on Yorimitsu with a terrifying, unblinking intensity.
Lord Minakaze leaned forward, exhaling a thin, elegant stream of smoke from a long silver pipe. His eyes were sharp, carrying the polished, tactful arrogance of a man who believed even the stars moved by his command.
"I knew your father, boy," Minakaze began. His voice was calm, but it held a condescending weight that made the air feel heavy. "Minamoto was a giant. A titan who stood as the shield of the northern marches. I once saw him cleave through a Rank-4 Yōkai with a blade shattered to the hilt. He was a man of peerless martial grace, a warrior who would have rivalled any general in this land."
The Lord tapped his pipe against the lacquered railing, the ash falling like snow toward Yorimitsu.
"It is a matter of profound regret to see his bloodline thinned to... this. Had you inherited his constitution, I would have welcomed you as a nephew. But you are a weak vessel. You fought my guards with the desperate teeth of a common cur because you lack the soul of a warrior. It is a tragedy of nature that such a man produced such a failure."
Mai stepped down the stairs, his silk robes whispering against the wood. He stopped just inches from Yorimitsu, the scent of sweet plum blossoms cloying and thick. He lifted Yorimitsu's chin with a sandalwood fan, the bone-ribs of the fan cold against his skin. Mai's thumb brushed the boy's jaw a touch that was disturbingly intimate, like a predator inspecting a wound.
"Father, do not throw him to the mountains," Mai whispered, his voice high and melodic. "The Tsuchigumo would find no sport in him. I have grown so bored with the others; they break before the sun sets. I want him here. He shall help with my training."
Minakaze looked at his son, then back at the kneeling boy. He spoke with the cold tact of a merchant discussing spoiled silk. "To be a soldier is a mercy your body cannot sustain. To be a servant... that is a role you might actually manage."
The Lord leaned down, his eyes locking onto Yorimitsu's hollow gaze. "Do you understand, Minamoto? You are no longer a son of a noble house. You are now a servant. A tool for my son to sharpen his skills upon. Do you accept this?"
Yorimitsu looked at the white gravel. He felt the phantom weight of the gold his father had traded him for. He felt the silence of his mother. Hope hadn't just died; it had been executed.
"I accept," Yorimitsu said. The words felt like ash in his mouth.
The guards stepped forward, striking the pins from his heavy iron shackles. The chains fell away with a deafening clatter against the stones. Yorimitsu didn't run. He didn't even flinch. He stood up voluntarily, his movements mechanical and slow. He followed the guards through the labyrinth of the estate, his spirit trailing behind him like a discarded shroud.
They led him away from the gold-leafed screens and into the damp, dark underbelly of the eastern wing. They threw open a door to a run-down room at the edge of the servants' block. The wood was black with rot, the tatami mats were infested with mould, and the only light came from a single, high slit in the stone wall.
"Strip," the guard commanded, tossing a bundle of coarse, undyed fabric onto the floor.
Yorimitsu moved without thought. He let his ruined, blood-stained travelling silks—the last remnants of his life as a Minamoto—fall to the rotting floor. He stood naked in the cold, damp air, his ribs prominent and his skin mapped with the bruises of his capture.
He reached for the servant's clothing: a simple Kariginu-style tunic and wide Hakama trousers made of rough, scratchy hemp. Unlike the soft silk he was used to, this fabric was stiff and bit into his skin. He pulled the dark, indigo-dyed tunic over his head and tied the coarse rope around his waist.
As he pulled the sleeves down, the transformation was complete.
The guard sneered, satisfied, and slammed the heavy oak door shut.
Yorimitsu sat on the damp mats, staring at the sliver of moonlight.