The Summoning of the Clans

Mist clung to Kyoto’s eastern hills. The sound reached them first—ceremonial, rhythmic—the disciplined thunder of clan processions ascending the Akashi steps, banners held high.

Inside the great hall, incense hissed softly in bronze burners, smoke coiling toward the rafters. Rows of thick wax candles lined the perimeter of the tatami mats, their flames flickering whenever someone passed. At the far end of the chamber, eight massive banners hung from iron beams, each bearing the kamon of a Great House.

Asahi felt the pressure immediately.

This was his home—but tonight it was something else. A war hall. A den of seasoned Yokai killers. His hakama suddenly felt too stiff. His eyes too blinking. Every slide of his sandal on the mat sounded too loud. He was painfully aware that his junior rank and inexperience should not have landed him here among the elite.

They know, Asahi thought. They can all see it.

Despite that, his place was fixed—by blood alone—at his father’s side.

The seating arrangement was already set. Naruhito knelt at the center of the raised platform, swords resting across his knees, eyes closed in meditation. Reiji knelt to his right, mirroring him perfectly.

Asahi forced himself to the platform’s edge, bowed and lowered himself on the left.

Right hand on the tsuka. Straight back.

Okay. Okay. I’m ready.

STOP SWEATING, Arukuro’s voice cut in.
YOU REPRESENT US

Despite Arukuro’s encouragement, he couldn’t shake the dozens of eyes on him—mostly the sons and heirs of other clans measuring him openly, calculating odds for the coming Fūma Trial.

His gaze darted to the tokonoma —the recessed alcove where a single, austere scroll hung, its calligraphy bold: Immovable.

Lady Tomoe Mononobe entered without a sound. Her fan hid her eyes but Asahi could feel her Kishin pooling around her. 

What intense power, he thought.

Yue followed half a step behind. Heat rushed to his face as Yue’s gaze flicked toward him. 

Stop thinking about her. Reiji’s just messing with you.

A rasping voice cut through Asahi's thoughts.

“Since the other clans are clearly not coming, shall we go on?”

Naruhito opened his eyes, his gaze setting on the speaker. Lord Masamichi Saki. Despite being bound by blood through Asahi’s mother, Masamichi regarded Naruhito with a neutrality so cold it bordered on hostility—a frost that had only deepened after the funeral.

“I have written apologies by the Suo and Shimazu clans,” Lady Tomoe said, setting two scrolls at the center.

“And I am here in my father’s stead,” a soft voice interjected.

All eyes turned. Masato, heir to the Hojo Clan, knelt at the rear of the chamber. head slightly bowed.

Masamichi grunted. “Hmph. Your father is still unwell, Masato?”

“Unfortunately, Saki-sama,” Masato replied carefully.

“The Genji have sent a formal apology as well,” Naruhito added.

“Apologies are just ink on paper,” Masamichi snapped. His gaze slid back to Naruhito. “If your summons cannot even fill a room, how do we expect you to lead?”

“A bit too late to nominate yourself as Shugo, isn't it, Saki-dono?” Lady Tomoe said slightly. “Besides, I requested this summons. Either way, we should begin.”

She lifted her fan, turning it once in her fingers with a sharp, rhythmic clack.

“Words are insufficient, so…” she whispered, her voice suddenly echoing as if from a great distance.

Before anyone could object, she pressed the fan flatly against the tatami.

Asahi's sense of balance collapsed as the room changed. The tatami mats dissolved. The smell of incense was replaced by damp earth and rot. They were now in the middle of a forest.

“Kyushu, thirty-eight hours ago,” Tomoe’s voice echoed inside their heads. “This memory was extracted from a fallen Onmyoji, so pay attention, I will show it only once.”

In the center of the forest, a geyser of blackened Kishin energy tore through the earth, becoming a toxic mist.

Then came the Gaki. They moved with a twitching, insectoid speed. Their skin was dark akin to the night sky, translucent and stretched thin over distended bellies. Their eyes were wide, rolling loosely in their sockets as they ran. Asahi heard the screams of the warriors as they were devoured—the wet thud of hearts stopping. A Gaki lunged at him. Even knowing it wasn’t “real” his body reacted, hand flying to his Tsuka.

Then the memory ended.

Asahi collapsed forward, hands gripping the tatami, gasping for air. It felt like his brain had been scrubbed with sand.

One retainer retched violently. Yue and Reiji looked pale but kept their composure. Naruhito had not moved. That alone told Asahi how serious it was.

This was Kagami-ori. Tomoe had bypassed their physical senses forcing her own mental landscape into their skulls. Asahi had heard of this technique but did not think it could produce such a profound effect.

A murmur surged through the hall.

Masamichi slammed his palm down. “Enough theatrics! If this is manipulation.....”

“I assure you, Saki-dono, it is not,” Tomoe said smoothly. “That was only a minor flair. Bureau’s readings show three more are forming. One along the eastern coast. One beneath Osaka…”

Her eyes shifted toward Naruhito.

“…and the largest is beneath the Aokigahara Forest.”

That name hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Asahi felt a cold sweat break across his brow. That was the Sea of Trees – one of the rooted-sectors.

“I assume,” Naruhito said calmly, “there's a purpose behind this display?”

“Of course,” Tomoe replied adjusting her fan. “We must assume the spiritual seals have been compromised.”

Masamichi gave a dismissive hum. “The Mononobe’s seals, perhaps. Your wards have always been more aesthetic than functional.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Tomoe’s voice barely shifted, but her eyes burned with a sudden, terrifying spiritual pressure that made the candle flames flatten.

“Our seals hold as they always have. But even the strongest seal is only a door. It is the Samurai’s duty to stand before it. My question, Saki-dono, is why yours were so late to arrive.”

Masamichi’s eye twitched but he didn’t retort. Instead, he turned to Naruhito. “And what say you, son-in-law? Do you share her concerns?”

Naruhito did not answer.

Masamichi scoffed, folding his hands.

Tomoe’s fan snapped open with a crack

“Long ago, Akashi Seijuro taught us that the sword exists for one purpose: to meet calamity before it reaches the innocent. That doctrine built the very floor we sit upon.”

Naruhito met her eyes without blinking.

“…So it puzzles me,” Tomoe continued, her voice dropping into a melodic “that the Akashi—the vanguard of our history—seem so hesitant to face this one.”

A murmur rippled through the hall. Asahi felt the weight of every eye in the room. He looked at his father, desperate for a sign of strength but Naruhito’s silence felt even more oppressive.

Naruhito spoke at last, cutting through the whispers. “Our doctrine has not changed, Tomoe. But a sword used blindly is nothing more than a kitchen knife.”

A few elders nodded.

Masamichi did not.

Tomoe smiled. “Well said. But there have been concerning rumours.”

“What rumours?” Naruhito asked.

“They say Akashi swords are not as sharp as they used to be. And the next generation is…still finding its edge.”

Asahi felt the blood drain from his face. Reiji’s composure had disappeared. Yue’s unreadable gaze stabbed into him. He didn’t dare look at his father this time.

“You are mistaken,” Naruhito said.

“Relax, Naru-chan. It is only a rumor and a false one, I’m sure,” Tomoe went on. “However, if the other clans believe that the “Immovable” Akashi have gone soft….”

She closed her fan with a soft click. A smirk on her face

“But if you were to lead the vanguard into Aokigahara…those rumours will disappear.”

Naruhito exhaled.