Muni Naga sat in the Crafting Alcove, a chamber carved from polished blackstone and lit by hovering flame-wisps. Around him floated seven lacquered boxes, their golden seals humming faintly with divine energy. The old Naga’s tail coiled beneath him like a throne, while his clawed hands reached for tools that had not been used since the Fall of the Thunder Age.
He placed a jade slate before him — perfectly smooth, no thicker than a page, but laced with ancient formation veins. With a delicate stylus made from Swanbone, Muni Naga began to draw.
Not sketch.
Not outline.
But weave — layers of intention, spell-structure, balance, weight, and divinity into the form of the bow.
“This won’t be a weapon… it will be a storm sealed in silence,” he muttered.
From one box, he drew Voidsteel Dust, shimmering with specks of floating gravity — each grain heavier than regret. He sprinkled it into the slate’s groove, letting the stylus channel it into lines that moved even after being drawn.
From another, he brought out a Feathersteel Spine, barely visible, yet unbreakable. He placed it across the design — this would become the inner soul of the bow, its memory.
Then came the Phoenix Bark Fragment, which pulsed warmly the moment it touched the slate, as if recognizing the ancestral string’s distant aura.
Muni Naga worked in silence, save for the occasional crackle of fire or the sharp hiss of quill against stone. His eyes were focused, each movement precise, rehearsed, but never mechanical. These were ritual motions, passed down through soul imprint — not mere craft, but divine inheritance.
Hours passed. Then days.
The jade slate slowly filled — the quiver’s curve was unlike any mortal weapon. It had no fixed ends, but a looping spiral, representing time, space, and destruction in balance.
Meanwhile, Kent had finally connected the sixth Wind Vein Channel.
He stood shirtless, drenched in sweat and soot, breathing heavily as a massive tunnel lit up with blue fire, indicating the heat had reached the fifth stage. It was still far from what was required, but the forge had begun to breathe on its own — shallow, uncertain breaths… but real.
From the alcove, Muni Naga looked up at the glowing veins spider webbing across the forge’s walls.
“Hmph,” he murmured, a rare smirk curling his scaled lips.
“The boy doesn’t just carry dreams… he carries storms.”
He turned back to the jade slate. Only a third was complete for the quivers. The shaping process would take a full month, maybe more.
But he had time. Kent was buying it with blood and grit.
–
Deeper in the Abyss… Past Muni Naga cave…
Here, beyond the last stone steps of Muni Naga’s cavern, darkness moved, not as shadow, but as a breathing entity. The air was heavy with ash and ancient sulfur, the walls lined with jagged veins of dormant fire, and the ground twisted with roots of forgotten creatures. But Kent walked with purpose, lightning in his stride and grit in his eyes.
He had no choice.
The furnace wouldn’t wake unless Sky-Iron Coals, Molten Sun Crystals, and Windstones were brought together — all buried deep within the lower abyss. Each item wasn’t just rare — it was guarded.
–
On the first day, Kent reached the banks of the Crimson Sink, a bubbling lake of blood-colored magma. The Sky-Iron Coals he needed clung to the walls of a nearby cliff, but a Six-Eyed Molten Croc, coated in hardened lava scales, blocked the way.
Kent drew no weapon. Instead, he raised his palm, and a streak of golden lightning roared down from the cavern’s dome, slamming the beast into the lake. But the croc didn’t die — it laughed. It opened its maw and spat molten breath.
Kent moved. Swift as wind, heavy as judgment.
It took twenty-two strikes, a mix of Storm God footwork, and the last of his stored spiritual energy to bring it down. He collapsed beside its carcass, panting, blood on his lip — but with three sacks of coal packed into his spatial ring.
–
On the second day, he descended into Stone Spine Ravine, where Molten Sun Crystals grew like parasitic thorns on the roots of a Fire-Spine Tree. But to reach them, he had to slip through a nest of Abyss Wyrmlings, blind serpents that hunted by sensing energy.
Kent sat cross-legged at the edge of the ravine for four hours, sealing every ounce of spiritual energy in his body until he felt like a corpse.
Then he moved — silent, barefoot, crawling through bone fields, gathering shards, never flaring a single spark.
Only once he climbed back, did he breathe again. In his hand gleamed three perfect Sun Crystals — still glowing, still warm, like pieces of the sun sealed in amber.
–
On the fourth day, he was ambushed.
A pack of Shatterfang Boars charged him near the Windstone caves. Ten of them — each with hides that deflected elemental spells. Kent grinned.
“Perfect test subjects.”
He reached into his spirit ring and pulled out three strange arrowheads, carved crudely from bone and wrapped with his own spell threads. He had no bow, but he had a Spellshot Technique, learned from the Storm God’s Tome.
He snapped the arrows between his fingers and threw them like daggers — the moment they left his hand, they hummed, exploded mid-air, and released a spiral of thunder-poison mist.
Three boars died instantly. The rest ran.
Kent didn’t chase. “These things will be of great use in solo fight. I’ll refine the tips later… add a binding glyph.”
–
Back in the cavern, Muni Naga watched the Wind Veins come alive faster than expected. On the sixth night, he narrowed his eyes. The flame lines weren’t just warm… they were surging.
By the seventh day, the ancient forge, sealed for centuries, began to roar.
Not flicker. Not crackle.
But roar — like a beast reawakened, like thunder sealed inside a cave finally breaking free.
The stones trembled. Old chains on the furnace’s corners broke. A deep red glow burst through the floor, and with a howling gust, flames exploded upward, licking the ceiling with divine heat.
Muni Naga rushed in, startled, his scaled brow furrowed.
“Impossible…! This shouldn’t be ready for another two weeks! How did—?”
Then he saw Kent walking back, shirt torn, chest bleeding from a long gash, but smiling. His arms held a sack of fresh bones and minerals — not from the list Muni Naga gave.
“Where were you?” the old Naga demanded, eyes sharp.
Kent dusted himself off, dropped the sack of Sky-Iron by the furnace, and spoke calmly:
“Collecting what you asked. And a bit more.”
“More?”
Kent nodded and tossed a smaller pouch toward the Muni Naga. It opened midair, spilling Void Fangs, Stardust Horn chips, and Blackglass Ash — exotic materials.
“I’ve got plans for special arrows. Soul-tipped, burst-type, storm-bound. If I’m making a bow like this… I’ll need more than just lightning.”
Muni Naga stared at the youth. For a moment, the cave was quiet — only the rhythmic growl of the living forge echoed.
–
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