The air around them grew still, the garden falling silent as if nature itself dared not interrupt. The audience formed a wide circle, elders seated upright, tension rippling beneath their composed expressions.
Ayaka took her position—formal, perfect. Every part of her form exuded discipline and elegance, from her foot placement to the line of her wrist. She was Kamisato tradition personified.
Across from her, Kagome mirrored the stance—but with a difference. Her grip, though correct, carried a flow like silk unspooling. She stood in a stance not preserved—but reinterpreted.
She stood in her own Kamisato Style.
Their eyes locked.
Then—
Clack!
Their blades met in a flurry of motion.
Ayaka opened with a series of precise strikes—elegant, deliberate, as if drawn straight from a scroll. Each movement a demonstration of discipline. The wooden swords clashed with crisp cracks, neither side giving ground.
But where Ayaka's form was tight, exact, bound by tradition, Kagome's was alive.
She parried each strike not with force, but with redirection. Her sword twisted and flowed, absorbing Ayaka's power and bending it off course. It was graceful, even beautiful—but fundamentally disarming.
Ayaka pressed on, undeterred.
Step. Pivot. Sweep.
Strike. Guard. Break.
But it was like dueling a river.
Kagome moved unpredictably within the same framework, shifting tempo and footwork in subtle ways that left Ayaka one step behind. She wasn't breaking the style—she was beyond it.
Ayaka's expression tightened. Her blade moved faster, slicing the air with greater force—but Kagome still flowed around her like smoke around stone.
Ayaka gritted her teeth.
She was being outdone.
Her mind flashed.
Allen.
The countless duels in her mind. The phantom figure that always adapted. That always changed to counter her perfectly constructed patterns.
Every time she thought she had learned enough—he would transform, perfectly countering her perfection.
Every time she reached perfection—he would go further.
She had never beaten him.
But she had seen it.
Again, and again, and again.
Not just his attacks—his solutions.
She didn't understand them.
But she had memorized them.
In a moment of desperate clarity, Ayaka abandoned the textbook.
Her blade rose.
And she copied.
She executed a precise movement—one she had seen a thousand times in her mind—Allen's counter: a delayed feint, step-shift, twisting follow-up that perfectly disrupted the Kamisato rhythm. Not something she had created. Not something she truly understood.
But something she had engraved into her body through repetition.
And for the first time in the match—
Kagome staggered.
Ayaka's blade slipped past her defense, pushing Kagome's sword, breaking her flow for the first time.
The crowd gasped.
Kagome's eyes widened behind the blindfold.
She fell back a step.
A pause.
Ayaka stood firm, blade raised, breath steady—but her hands trembled.
Kagome looked at her.
"…So that's it."
She stepped forward again, her posture sinking into a new stance.
"A perfect counter to the textbook," she said, but she quickly recovered, unleashing new blows and recovering her flow. "You don't even know what you did, do you?"
Ayaka flinched, but didn't answer.
"You copied it," Kagome whispered. "How very… untalented."
Her voice lowered, shifting in tone—still calm, but colder.
"I told you I'd show you the truth. See a true genius."
Her next stance was different—heavier, lower, more condensed. It radiated pressure.
"Kamisato Kagome Style: Falling Mirror Bloom."
And then—she moved.
Kagome burst into a blur of motion—each strike tight, rebounding, echoing back with greater force. Her sword slashed once—twice—then everywhere. It was a spinning flurry of control, like a storm trapped in the shape of a flower.
Ayaka blocked the first.
Then the second.
But the third—
Clack!
The strike came behind her.
Then another.
Her blade was knocked upward.
Another strike—
CRACK!
Her sword flew from her hand, spinning through the air and landing behind her with a soft thud.
She stood, arms lowered, exposed.
The match was over.
Kagome stopped mid-spin, her blade lowered gracefully, her breath measured. She looked not triumphant—but solemn.
"You work harder than anyone I've ever seen," Kagome said quietly. "But in the end… you only follow others."
Ayaka's lips parted, but no words came.
"You'll always reach perfection," Kagome added, "but only of what already exists."
Then, she bowed and turned over the elders.
Respectfully. Elegantly.
"It's my win."
"This doesn't change anything!" one of the elders barked, standing up in anger. "We were not testing who is more skilled, but who best represents the Kamisato Clan as its head. Kagome—your talent is undeniably impressive, but you do not embody the spirit of the clan. Ayaka's mastery and dedication to our tradition make her the perfect example of what the Kamisato style is!"
Murmurs rippled through the courtyard, voices rising in heated debate. Supporters argued on both sides—some swayed by tradition, others by brilliance.
Kagome stood in silence, her expression unreadable behind the veil of calm. But she could already see it—the elders moving toward a formal consensus. The tide was shifting in Ayaka's favor.
Until—
"If we're speaking of qualifications," Kagome interrupted, stepping forward with firm resolve, "then I can make your decision much easier."
Without hesitation, she crossed the field.
"Kagome! What are you doing!?"
"Stop her!"
Cries rang out from the crowd as Kagome moved through the estate with unwavering certainty. The elders rushed after her, unsure of what she intended—until they saw her destination:
The Clan's Head Office.
And within it—rested upon its ancient pedestal—the heirloom blade of the Kamisato Clan:
The Hasui Geppaku Futsu.
The Wavespike. Azure-hued. A soul-forged weapon said to choose the leader of the Kamisato Clan for generations. None had been accepted by it for over a century.
"You plan to claim that?" one of the elders scoffed. "Impossible. No one has been chosen by the Wavespike in a hundred years. It's a relic now, nothing more."
"It simply means," Kagome said quietly, her hand reaching for the hilt, "that no one until now was worthy."
She wrapped her fingers around the handle.
FLASH!
A radiant burst of azure light blinded the chamber. Every heart in the room stopped as the brilliance pulsed through the estate like a heartbeat—calm, commanding, absolute.
Gasps filled the air. No words were needed.
Everyone knew.
The blade had accepted her.
One elder fell to his knees.
Another dropped his cane.
"We recognize the new Kamisato Clan's leader," one elder whispered, his voice trembling with reverence. "Kamisato Kagome."
One by one, those present bowed. Nobles. Retainers. Elders. Even Ayato stood motionless, his face blank as reality set in.
The Hasui Geppaku Futsu was not ceremonial. It was the soul of the Kamisato legacy. It did not err. It did not choose lightly.
It had spoken.
Kagome held the sword aloft. Its blade shimmered with ancient light, glowing like starlight over calm waters.
"It's been a long time, old friend," she whispered so quietly none could hear. Her fingers tightened around the hilt. "I'm sorry… for what happened, and what's still to come. But I promise—I will take care of the Kamisato Clan."
She turned to face them all, the sword gleaming in her hand.
"I, Kamisato Kagome, accept my role as the head of this clan. The Kamisato name has drifted into comfortable stagnation. But no more."
Her voice rose with conviction.
"This clan once stood as the finest of all Inazuma—and with me at its helm, it shall rise again!"
Cheers broke out across the estate.
Thunderous.
Rapturous.
Even those still uncertain found themselves clapping. The aura was overwhelming.
And deep inside, beneath Kagome's serene smile, Allen grinned.
First part of the plan—achieved.