"I wish I had known…"
The words echoed silently in the vastness of the Dawnyu Sect's Grand Council Hall. It was a place carved from obsidian stone and mountain bone, a chamber that had seen centuries of decisions—some glorious, others disastrous. The high ceiling arched like the heavens themselves, and golden incense smoke curled toward it in lazy spirals, as though reluctant to witness what was about to unfold.
At the head of the hall sat Patriarch Zhenxu, clad in flowing black robes embroidered with silver threads of storm dragons. His gaze, like a calm lake hiding deep currents, was fixed on the empty seat beside him—one reserved for his only son, Zhen Hu.
A storm brewed in the room, not of thunder or rain, but of words—sharp, relentless, and growing louder.
"We cannot keep wasting resources on him!" Elder Fei's voice cracked through the silence. "There are hundreds of disciples showing promise—true cultivators, rising through the Kyrekh Realm and even touching the edge of Aethonix! And yet, your son remains rootless!"
Another voice chimed in, Elder Min this time, her fingers tapping impatiently on the jade-engraved table. "He has absorbed more than two thousand gold worth of rare zen elixirs, been given the finest techniques of the sect… and yet, after all these years, he hasn't even entered the first level of the Kyrekh Realm."
Zhenxu's face remained unreadable, but inside, something tightened.
"This is not just about a son," Elder Min continued. "It's about the future of the Dawnyu Sect. If we show favoritism, if we allow weakness to fester within our core… we all pay the price."
"Enough."
The word was quiet. But the zen behind it rolled out like a tidal wave.
The hall fell silent.
The pressure was instant. An invisible force pressed down on the elders like the weight of a collapsing mountain. Breathing became harder. A few of the less cultivated members even staggered backward.
Zhenxu's aura had flared—just for a moment—but it was enough to remind them why he was their patriarch.
"My son is not without worth," he said slowly. "You speak of him as if he were already a failure. But cultivation is not a straight road. Some walk it like fire, others like stone."
"But Sect Master," Elder Sun spoke this time—soft-spoken, but with a mind like tempered steel. "Stone that does not move is still stone. It never becomes a mountain."
Zhenxu raised an eyebrow. "Then what would you have me do?"
"Send him into the Dark Forest."
The air changed.
Not a whisper stirred in the chamber. Even the ever-burning torches lining the walls seemed to flicker with unease.
"You would have me send my son… to that place?" Zhenxu's voice was still calm, but the air around him began to hum with restrained zen. "Where demon beasts run wild, ancient formations shift the mind, and death walks with its hand open?"
"Yes," Elder Sun said, unfazed. "And not as punishment—but as necessity."
"He is not ready."
"Then let him become ready. You've shielded him for too long. We all have. Zhen Hu must find his strength not from manuals or masters… but from survival. From pain. From fear."
Zhenxu turned his face away, as if struggling to keep the weight of his position from sinking into the vulnerability of his heart. He thought of his son—quiet, kind-eyed, often lost in scrolls more than sparring. The boy who once asked him if zen could heal instead of hurt.
"He could die," Zhenxu said, barely above a whisper.
Elder Sun stepped forward. "And if he does not try, he will never truly live."
There was a long pause. No one spoke.
Then, the Sect Master of the Aethonix realm spoke for the first time. His voice, cold and smooth, cut through the silence like a blade. "He will not go alone. Shadow Guardians can follow him in secret. He will be tested—but not abandoned."
Zhenxu closed his eyes.
For a moment, he was no longer Patriarch Zhenxu of the Dawnyu Sect, Peak Nexarion cultivator, bearer of the Storm Lotus Crown. He was simply a father.
When he opened them again, steel had returned to his gaze.
"Prepare him," he said. "He enters the Dark Forest at dawn"