Path to Primordial Silence

Behind Zen, like a vision letting go of reality, the Labyrinth of Broken Logic vanished. Instead of the familiar, unsettling murmurs of the Verge or the unadulterated sorrow of the deeper zones, the oppressive, manufactured silence of the Imitation of Death's domain gave way to something completely different: a deep, resonant silence that seemed old, almost primal. The trail that emerged once the Imitation faded was not clearly marked, yet it was unmistakably there—a tiny indentation in the mossy ground, a subtle alignment in the old trees—as though the forest itself, its big, injured nerve, had recognized his approach and was now gently directing his feet.

Zen's hand held the ember-hued, black feather. Despite being feather-light, it appeared to have a focused point of transition and an amazing richness of meaning. "True silence has no echo," the last lines of The Imitation of Death echoed in his head. The heart that recalls it should be sought.

He realized that this was his new cartography. Unlike before, he was not searching for energy signs or geographic indications. He was looking for a state of quiet, a location free of the tainted human imprints that had turned the voice of the forest into cries, melancholy lullabies, or false declarations. He was looking for Kuro-no-Mori's original, pure consciousness, the heart that recalled a time before the Unknown Age, before the Connection Project, before the "severance."

He traveled into the oldest and darkest section of the forest he had yet to experience. Massive trees, whose species had never been identified in a botanical record, rose to such heights that they were obscured by a never-ending emerald sunset. Their bark, which was covered in elaborate, organic patterns that spoke of millennia, resembled an old, worn scroll. Cool and still, the air smelled of deep dirt and primitive moss and something else, a subtle, almost undetectable scent that was as ancient and as vital as the first breath of existence.

Here, there were no overt illusions, no psychic attacks, no clear dangers. The forest appeared to be just... Its enormous, interwoven mind, possibly less hostile now and more introspective, was watching him, aware of Zen's development, his comprehension, and his hard-won preparedness. Whenever Zen felt doubtful, the ember-feather in his hand would pulse with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, and a delicate intuition, a nudge in his awareness, would lead him forward. However, the road was not always apparent, frequently disappearing into the primordial thicket. The feather itself—a relic of an imitation—seemed to be pointing him in the direction of the real.

He went through trees where the light came in cathedral-like shafts and illuminated mosses that glowed with a healthy, vibrant pulse instead of the sickly sheen of the Sunken Fields. He went over clean, quiet streams whose waters tasted cold and fresh as they ran over smooth, old stones. Here, human subconscious reflections were different; they were more about deep, archetypal ideas than they were about specific, tainted feelings or raw trauma: the interconnectivity of all things in their original, untarnished state; the slow, unstoppable turning of natural cycles; and immeasurable age. It was a location that was both strange and incredibly, innately familiar.

Nevertheless, like scars on an ancient creature, faint traces of the forest's lengthy history of contact with humans could be seen even here. The faint, nearly completely eroded carvings on the monolithic stones he saw were much older and different from those in the Sunken Archive. They might have been the remains of a people who had once coexisted peacefully with this ancient wood before the later age of blight and the desperate, flawed "Connection Project." These were places of great, silent dignity and lost wisdom, not of grief.

It was a long journey, a spiraling inward toward something fundamental. Zen took his time. He noted and observed, but his notes now focused more on the minute changes in the forest's deep, underlying resonance and the quality of its ancient silence than on oddities and threats. He was charting the way to the heart of the jungle.

After what seemed like days—or maybe ages—the trees started to get thinner. Instead of the harshness of the open sky, the constant dusk lightened with a gentle, diffused radiance that appeared to come from the air itself. The profound silence grew deeper and deeper until it became a live presence—a silence so full that it included every possibilities and all sound.

He entered a huge, round clearing that seemed to be the serene eye at the heart of Kuro-no-Mori's massive, storm-ravaged mind. Nothing stood in the middle of this clearing, or rather, what at first glance seemed to be nothing more than a vast stretch of ancient, unspoiled dirt covered in a flawless carpet of the softest, deepest greenest moss he had ever seen. However, Zen sensed an absolutely unfathomable concentration of energy, consciousness, and primordial, old life emanating from this apparently vacant area. This was a profound presence that didn't need a form, not an absence.

His palm's ember-feather pulsed once, warmly, then grew motionless, its faint light fading. He was here. He was absolutely positive that this was the entrance to the Heart of the Forest. The location that recalled actual quiet.