SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

Kent’s fingers reached toward the cold metal of the bow’s upper limb.

The moment he touched it—

Boom!

A low, thunderous hum rippled through the forge, shaking even the rune-carved walls. The bow vibrated under his fingers, as if resisting, trying to twist free, the divine runes flickering in agitation.

It did not wish to be tamed.

Kent gritted his teeth and set his feet shoulder-wide.

With both hands, he grabbed the limbs of the bow — one in each palm — and began bending the weapon. The divine metal refused him at first. Its body groaned, not like steel, but like something alive — a creature trying to fight its master.

Crackle… hnnnnggg… SNAP…!

No break.

But the air around him distorted from the pressure.

His arms bulged, shoulders trembling, sweat pouring down his chest in rivulets. For minutes, he leaned into it.

Then an hour passed.

Then two.

Still it refused.

But Kent was a storm tamer.

He had endured poison trials, abyssal flames, and soul-severing chants.

He roared and poured his Storm Qi into the divine runes — the Lei Xin, the Feng Jue, the Long Hun. The bow trembled under the familiar signature.

Something clicked.

And the curve began to yield.

Bit by bit, inch by inch, the divine bow bent, like a stubborn beast finally recognizing its rider.

Muni Naga watched from behind, silent, unmoving, but his eyes narrowed.

“This boy… bends heaven, not just metal.”

Finally — after three brutal hours, with arms numb and fingers blistered — Kent reached for the silver-white string, took a deep breath, and attached it to the upper notch of the bow.

Then he secured the other end onto the lower notch — forcing it into position with a final surge of power.

The Moment of Bonding

The bow shuddered.

The runes flared in perfect harmony.

And for a split second — the entire sea went silent.

Then…

The waters howled.

All across the abyss, schools of spirit-fish scattered. Sea beasts howled in fear. Ancient volcanoes rumbled louder. And the steam above the Sea Temple thickened into storm clouds under the ocean itself.

A spiritual pulse swept through coral reefs, ruptured crystal caverns, and even reached the sensing arrays of distant clans who had been watching in secrecy.

Kent stumbled backward from the pressure. His head spun. His body shook.

And the bow… trembled in his hand.

It was not done.

Now bound, the weapon had become something more — alive. Thinking. Aware.

It tried to pull away, to snap free, to reject the one who had dared shape it.

Kent’s eyes turned sharp. No fear. Only will.

He gripped the handle, dropped to one knee, and whispered:

“You carry my blood. My thunder. My breath.

I am not your wielder.

I am your Master.”

With that, he placed his toe firmly against the bow’s lower edge, leaned his back, and pulled the string with his entire body — until the curve formed the full draw of a moon about to shatter.

Storm Qi surged.

His veins lit with lightning.

And he released.

The Sea Trembled

There was no arrow.

No target.

But the very gesture of releasing that string created a shockwave of divine pressure.

The sound was silent — too high for ears — but the effect was absolute.

Tidal waves rolled across the outer trenches.

Abyssal beast kings roared in panic.

The magma veins of the Sea Temple lit up like stars, casting the entire trench in molten gold.

The ocean shook as if a god had breathed underwater.

Muni Naga’s Smile

Muni Naga, who had not smiled in a century, watched the scene unfold.

His old eyes narrowed in satisfaction as the bow calmed in Kent’s hand, its glow stabilizing, the runes humming like a sleeping dragon finally resting beside its master.

“Yes…” he murmured.

“Forged in sweat. Bathed in blood. Tamed by will.

This weapon… is in worthy hands.”

He stepped forward slowly and placed one hand on Kent’s shoulder.

“You have your bow. Now the sea will remember your name.”

And far above, where storm clouds churned over the ocean’s surface for the first time in centuries, lightning cracked across the sky — summoned not by nature… but by the hand of a single man beneath the sea.

The forge fell into an unnatural stillness.

A strange calm had settled, as if the very sea outside had paused to listen. In the heart of the chamber, Kent now sat cross-legged in a meditative lotus pose, his bow hovering above the ground before him, untouched.

He was not forging anymore.

He was not bending metal or etching blood into sacred grooves.

He had begun the prayer to the Three-Phased God — the ancient deity whose faces guided all of existence: Creation, Karma, and Destruction.

His back was straight.

His eyes closed.

Hands folded over his knees, palms upturned toward the faint divine aura now forming above his head.

The ritual was not loud.

It had no chant, no thunder.

Only stillness.

Each breath he took, each heartbeat, was an offering. His mind wandered beyond the body, seeking the first face of the god — the Creator — and then slowly, patiently, the second and third.

This would not be a one-day process.

This communion would take weeks, perhaps months.

And so — the fire moved elsewhere.

Muni Naga, who had silently watched Kent begin his meditation, gave a slow nod.

Then, with a turn of his coil and a shift of his staff, he moved to the side of the forge, toward a new workbench carved from a single stone slab taken from the Sea Temple’s altar bedrock.

This was not ordinary work.

He was preparing to forge the Immortal Quivers — artifacts designed not to simply hold arrows, but to create and bind them.

He opened a stone chest and took out the base shell of the quivers — two pieces of curved hollow spinebone, each the length of an arm, smooth and naturally polished. These had been harvested from an Ocean Whale Lord decades ago, cured in salt caves for twenty years until all marrow had been replaced with spiritual breath.

He laid them on the worktable, and they let out a soft hum — sensing the forge heat and stirring faintly.

He began by etching runes along the inside curve of each quiver’s spine using a heated needle carved from fire coral.

But instead of divine runes, he used function runes — simple, practical scripts that would stabilize the energy flow:

One rune for holding spiritual wind, to stabilize motion. One rune for channeling fire essence, to keep arrows active. One for absorption, so spent spirit could return to the holder. One for spell calling, allowing the archer to whisper a spell into the quiver and enchant every arrow it produced.

The process was slow.

Every single line needed to be carved, cooled, checked, and then sealed using a compound paste made from fine ash, saltwater dust, and crushed pearl powder.

The runes weren’t visible once finished — but the inside of each quiver now softly glowed, ready to receive the final structures.

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