The seventh son was born in silence.
While his siblings cried, trained, and sparred under the proud gaze of their martial parents, he remained quiet. Weak in body, slow in progress, and absent from clan rituals, he was labeled early: useless. A shadow among stars.
He did not argue. He did not explain. He watched.
At night, while the others slept, he sat beneath the bamboo grove behind the family estate. The wind moved. The leaves fell. He breathed.
One breath. Two. Ten. A hundred.
He learned the rhythm of silence. The weight of stillness. The shape of fear.
He did not cultivate like the others. No sword forms. No fist techniques. No roaring qi. He inhaled. He held. He exhaled. And in that breath, he began to shape something else.
A stalk of bamboo, hollow and green, lay across his lap. He carved it slowly. Not with tools, but with intent. His internal energy flowed—not loud, not bright, but steady. It entered the bamboo. It stayed.
Days passed. Then weeks. Then months.
His siblings broke barriers. He broke sound.
One night, a leaf fell.
He raised the bamboo.
He breathed.
The leaf stopped mid-air. Split. Fell in two.
No sound.
No flash.
No witness.
He lowered the bamboo. He closed his eyes.
The path had begun.