The great hall of the Latian clan pulsed with anticipation. Its carved pillars of dark sandalwood rose high into the vaulted ceiling, where five golden chandeliers shimmered with hundreds of candles. The marble staircase gleamed under the light, leading to the dais where the elders sat in their solemn seats of honor. Rows of long banquet tables lined the edges of the chamber, prepared for the feast that would follow. Above it all, a mural of the Latian progenitor, painted in sweeping strokes of red and gold, watched silently over the proceedings.
The annual Ceremony of Summoning was the heart of Latian tradition. On this auspicious night, when the moon crested at its zenith, every youth of summoning age was called to step forward, place their hands upon the etched runic stone, and bind their first beast into their dantian's runic space.
Zed stood among his cousins, heart hammering. Some glanced at him with faint smirks, others with veiled curiosity. Whispers traveled the hall like wind through reeds.
"After last year's humiliation, he dares to show up again?" someone muttered.
"Perhaps he's changed. I saw him training at dawn more than once," another said, uncertain.
"Training or not, what can trash amount to? Let's see how he embarrasses himself this time."
Zed's fists clenched at his sides, but he kept his gaze forward.
The First Elder rose, robes embroidered with the crest of the clan. His voice carried over the hall:
"Tonight, the blood of Latian proves itself. Each child of this house shall bind their first companion, forging the path of summoner and warrior alike. Step forward as your name is called."
The children of the clan were summoned one by one.
"Selene, daughter of Varik."
A girl with raven-dark hair tied in an elegant braid stepped gracefully into the circle, robes stitched with silver trim that shimmered in the torchlight. The summoning array beneath her feet flared to life, symbols igniting in pale blue radiance. A column of light surged upward, then cascaded down around her. Gasps filled the room as a sleek Twilight Hound emerged, its silver-gray fur glimmering faintly. Its eyes burned with predatory awareness.
Admiring murmurs rippled through the hall. Selene gave only a polite nod, as though she had expected nothing less.
"Darius, son of Rynor."
Tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark combat robes, Darius strode confidently into the circle. The runes blazed red this time, casting shadows across the walls. The cylindrical pillar of light pulsed like a living flame before releasing a creature wreathed in flickering embers—a Fire Lynx, its fur striped in glowing red, sparks dancing with each movement of its tail.
"Excellent! A natural-born predator." Cheers filled the chamber. Darius smirked and inclined his head to the elders before stepping back.
One after another, cousins stepped forward—some summoning hawks, others serpents, one even manifesting a stout, tusked boar that drew laughter but still respect. None failed. Each was met with cheers, gossip, or at the very least, acknowledgment. The hall seemed to grow warmer with every successful summon.
At last, the elder's gaze swept to him.
"Zed, son of Varun."
The laughter began before he even moved.
"Here it comes."
"Let's see what the stone spits out for the disappointment."
"Perhaps it will summon a worm."
Ignoring them, Zed stepped onto the circle. The runes beneath his feet hummed faintly, the glow struggling at first before catching flame. A column of light shot upward, but it was dim, pale… weak. Unlike the silver blaze of Selene or the fiery red of Darius, this light wavered unsteadily before crashing down again.
The shape that emerged staggered forward—a humanoid form, thin and broken. Gray skin clung tightly to its bones. Its eyes were clouded, its mouth half-open in a soundless groan.
A Zombie.
The hall erupted.
"Trash for trash!"
"He's cursed the clan with filth!"
"A walking corpse? That's not a summon, it's a pest!"
The jeers battered him from all sides, but Zed stood firm. His breath was steady, his gaze locked on the shambling figure. Weak though it was, he could feel the tether—its essence pulled into his dantian, settling into the runic space like a faint ember of shadow.
But Zed stood still, watching the creature. Its posture was pitiful, its power insignificant. And yet… it answered him. Despite all the jeers, despite his own low expectations, he had summoned. A year ago, he couldn't have. His training, his sweat, his nights of Asura's Breath—it had brought him here.
A smirk ghosted across his lips, quiet and proud. For others, this was shame. For him, it was proof. He had clawed his way above nothingness.
The First Elder's expression was unreadable. "The bond is made. Zed, son of Varun, step back."
The zombie flickered and vanished into his runic space within his dantian, the bond sealed.
The ceremony continued, but for Zed, the laughter no longer burned. He knew what this meant—small as it was, it was his victory.
The summons completed, the elder's voice rang out:
"The Ceremony is ended. The feast begins."
As the tables were drawn forward and wine poured, the mood turned celebratory—at least for most. Selene basked in congratulations, her Twilight Hound sitting proudly at her side. Darius laughed among his peers, the Fire Lynx prowling near him. The hall filled with music, drums beating in rhythm with pipes, dancers stepping onto the polished stone floor.
But wherever Zed walked, whispers followed.
"Zombie… truly cursed."
"Even if he survived training, this proves it. He'll never rise."
Zed found a quiet corner, the pale shadow of his summon hidden within his dantian's runic space. He touched his chest, where the tether pulsed faintly. Trash or not, it was his. And he would shape its fate—just as he would his own.
A shadow fell across his table. He looked up and found his father standing there. Varun Latian, head of the clan, his presence as solid as the pillars that held the great hall aloft. He did not smile. He did not frown. His aura was steady, immovable, a weight of command honed through decades of leadership.
For a moment, they said nothing. The din of music and laughter seemed distant. Then, in a voice low and firm, Varun spoke only two words:
"Congratulations, son."
Zed blinked, the simple acknowledgment striking harder than any ridicule. He nodded, a quiet warmth settling in his chest. His father did not linger—he turned, cloak swaying behind him, already walking back toward the dais.
But for Zed, it was enough.
That night, as the feast roared on around him, he held those words close. His father had seen him—not as failure, not as shame. He had seen his effort, his progress. And for the first time in years, Zed allowed himself to believe: this was only the beginning.