Kael stood before the grove's heart, where the bamboo grew thickest—stalks older than memory, roots deeper than qi veins. He selected one. Not the tallest. Not the straightest. The one that bent with the wind but never broke.
He placed his palm against it.
It pulsed.
He inhaled.
Qi flowed from his dantian into the stalk, tracing its fibers, mapping its soul. He did not cut. He did not carve. He asked.
The bamboo answered.
It split along its grain, revealing a hollow core untouched by time. Kael knelt. He pressed his fingers into the chamber, shaping it not with tools, but with intent.
He remembered the weight of a rifle.
The balance of recoil.
The silence after a kill.
He infused each memory into the bamboo, layer by layer. Qi hardened the barrel. Breath cooled it. Will aligned it.
He etched no runes.
He spoke no names.
He simply built.
The barrel curved slightly—not by mistake, but by design. It would bend qi. It would guide silence. It would carry resolve.
Kael fitted it to Silent Recoil.
The rifle pulsed.
Not once.
Twice.
Then slept.
He had forged the barrel.
Not from metal.
From memory.
From breath.
From will.
The weapon was no longer a tool.
It was a ritual.
It was him.