The bamboo rifle rested across his knees, its surface etched with breath-forged lines. Each mark held a memory. Each groove, a vow.
He sat beneath the grove, unmoving.
A wild hare darted through the underbrush.
He inhaled.
He held.
He exhaled.
The rifle pulsed.
The hare collapsed.
No sound.
No flash.
No scent of blood.
He stood, left no footprints, and vanished into the mist.
By morning, the nearby village spoke of a beast found dead without wound or cause.
No one saw him.
No one knew.
No one would.