A colossal rectangular hall lay drowned in silence, so deep it felt as though even sound feared to exist within it.
One side of the hall rose higher than the rest, forming an elevated stage carved from ancient stone. At its center stood a throne—old, imposing, and steeped in authority. Upon it sat a man who appeared to be around fifty years old. Though motionless, a terrifyingly heavy immortal aura flowed endlessly from his body, filling every corner of the hall like an invisible tide. The air itself felt suppressed, as if bowing in submission.
He was clad in a deep blue robe, its surface threaded with fine golden lines that glimmered faintly, forming patterns too profound to fully comprehend.
Directly behind the throne stood two Sword Masters, silent and unmoving, like statues carved to guard eternity itself. They wore pitch-black robes that seemed to absorb light. Their faces were hidden behind white masks, each marked with red curved symbols resembling distorted blood arcs. At their waists hung their swords, still sheathed, yet the restrained sword intent leaking from them made the surrounding space subtly tremble.
A red-and-yellow veil hung before the throne, concealing the seated man's face entirely. Only his presence could be felt—his expression, his gaze, his thoughts all buried behind that thin yet absolute barrier.
From the base of the throne, a crimson carpet extended straight toward the far end of the hall. On both sides of the carpet, rows of chairs were arranged with perfect symmetry—empty, waiting, as if meant for guests who either had not yet arrived… or no longer existed.
Outside, the night had reached its deepest hour. The full moon hung high in the sky, its pale light spilling through unseen openings and washing the hall in a cold, ghostly glow. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, twisting along the walls like silent watchers.
Within the vast hall, aside from those three figures, there was no one else.
At that very moment, the heavy silence of the hall was disturbed.
A lone figure stepped inside.
The man held a folded fan in his hand, his movements calm and unhurried. Each step he took echoed softly against the vast hall as he walked straight toward the throne, his presence strangely blending with the shadows—as if he belonged to them.
Stopping before the steps of the throne, right upon the red carpet, he lowered himself. One leg folded neatly beneath him, forming a triangular kneeling posture. His head dipped slightly, his manner flawless, respectful, yet carrying an unspoken confidence.
With a calm, unreadable voice, he spoke:
"Tian Wuyan pays his respects to the Patriarch."
The fan in his hand remained still.
The hall once again fell into absolute silence.
The Patriarch spoke calmly, his voice steady and unhurried—
as if nothing in this world could truly surprise him.
"What message do you bring?" he asked softly.
"Or did you see something… unusual?"
The way he spoke made it clear—
it was as though he already knew the answer long before the words were spoken.
Tian Wuyan did not waste a second.
"Yes, Patriarch," he said promptly.
"An A-grade aptitude Sword Master has awakened in this generation."
For the first time, his voice hesitated. He paused briefly, an unease flickering beneath his calm exterior.
"…And he is from—"
The Patriarch's aura shifted slightly. His voice turned cold with irritation.
"From where, Wuyan?"
"Why do you sound uncomfortable?"
Tian Wuyan lowered his head a fraction more.
"Patriarch… that boy belongs to the Fang Family."
Another pause.
"His name is Fang Lin."
The words hung heavily in the vast hall, as if fate itself had just been spoken aloud
The air inside the hall suddenly grew heavy.
An invisible pressure descended like a mountain, spreading outward from the throne. The red carpet trembled faintly, and the golden lines on the Patriarch's robe glowed for a brief instant before dimming again. Even the moonlight spilling into the hall seemed to waver, as if it were being pushed back.
The two Sword Masters behind the throne stiffened. Their grips tightened around their sheathed swords, and a sharp sword intent leaked uncontrollably for a split second before they forcibly suppressed it.
Silence reigned.
The Patriarch remained seated, unmoving, yet the oppressive immortal aura pouring from him grew denser, heavier—so overwhelming that Tian Wuyan felt a subtle pressure bearing down on his shoulders.
It was not anger.
It was weight.
The kind of weight that only someone who stood at the peak could release.
The hall itself seemed to bow.
The Patriarch's eyes narrowed slightly behind the veil.
"That old man was right…" he thought deeply.
"Everything he said has come true. I tried to prove his words wrong… yet fate did not deviate."
A trace of heaviness settled in his heart.
Tian Wuyan spoke again, trying hard to remain composed.
"Patriarch… what is wrong?"
"Is there truly nothing we can do?"
Under that crushing pressure, Tian Wuyan's thoughts wavered.
"I am only the son of the Patriarch's concubine…"
"No matter what I do, I will never truly stand in the center."
His fingers tightened slightly around the fan.
"The woman he truly loves gave birth to Tian Lingxiao."
"No matter what happens… Lingxiao will always be the one he protects."
A bitter calm settled in his heart.
"If fate is already moving… then I cannot afford to be crushed by it."
The patriarch's words reached him not through sound, but directly in thought, an unspoken exchange that carried weight beyond mere speech.
Wuyan rose, his posture straightening, eyes lowered in reverent obedience. "I understand, Patriarch," he said, his voice steady yet filled with respect. "Whatever you have decreed shall come to pass."
Then wuyan gone from hall.