The courtyard echoed with the clash of blades and the roar of qi techniques. His six siblings moved like storms—each one a prodigy, each one praised. He stood at the edge, unnoticed.
Their father watched with pride. His gaze never drifted toward the seventh.
"You'll never catch up," one brother said.
"You don't even have a technique," another laughed.
He didn't respond.
That night, he returned to the bamboo grove. The wind was still. The moon hung low. He sat cross-legged, bamboo rifle across his lap, breath slow and deep.
He remembered the battlefield. The silence. The final breath.
He inhaled.
He held.
He exhaled.
A falling leaf split in two.
No sound.
No light.
No witness.
He carved another line into the bamboo. Not for decoration. For memory.
Each breath was a bullet.
Each bullet was a vow.
Each vow was silence.