The sky still smelled faintly of salt and blown stone when the nine-tube launcher finished its chorus. A long, low rattling whoosh, and then the horizon answered with scattered plumes like distant fireworks. The metal rack cooled, smoke curled from its vents, and Klee danced in place as if music had been played.
"Boom, boom, boom!" she sang, clapping until her palms tingled.
Takumi wiped a smear of soot from his hand and grinned at the display. The saturation bombardment had gone exactly as planned — in fact, better. Accuracy was solid, recoil manageable, and the launch pattern dispersed force in a way that maximized structural disruption while minimizing stray rockfall. In plain language: it did a lot of damage where he wanted and not much where he didn't.
Keqing, who'd been watching from a safe ridge with the clipboard that had become a permanent limb, sprinted over with a paper-blowwind of calculations.
"What you've built," she said, breathless, "is essentially a deployable salvo system. It can level cliff faces, remove shoals, and provide a concentrated barrage in defense. If mass-produced, it would change our tactical envelope."
Her eyes flashed with something like professional hunger — not for war, but for tools that solved problems. Keqing already saw use-cases: clearing dangerous rocks from a proposed shipping lane, blasting an opening when a land route was blocked by an earthquake, or delivering concentrated counterattacks if a threat emerged from the Abyss.
Takumi shrugged, mildly pleased. "It's meant for construction first. But mechanics are mechanics."
Klee, still buzzing from her role as ignition operator, hopped up and down. "Klee did it! Klee did the big boom!"
Sucrose hovered a short distance away, cheeks flushed, spectacles crooked. "I recorded the plume pattern and particulate dispersion," she said, hurriedly producing a neat stack of papers so dense they had their own gravity. "The environmental impact is contained if detonations are time-limited and followed by silt-curtain deployment. I recommend alternating firing schedules to allow benthos recovery."
Albedo — who'd arrived earlier with a satchel of mineral probes and curiosity — tilted his head. "The fragmentation profile is efficient," he mused. "If you optimize grain size, you can favor mining outcomes instead of mere destruction. This has civilian value."
Keqing's eyes narrowed in thought, then warmed into decision. "Ningguang must be informed. If this is to be used for infrastructure and defense, we'll need production capacity, testing protocols, and official oversight."
Takumi, who was washing his hands in a nearby basin, blinked. "You want me to give this to Ningguang?"
"Not just give," Keqing said. "Document. Blueprint. Present. If Ningguang buys into this, she'll fund production. But she'll want detailed schematics and profit models."
He nodded. That suited him. Takumi liked things that could be built reproducibly; blueprints were his poetry. He set to work there on the spot, sketching angles, propellant formulas (non-leyline), fin tolerances, and the safer arming sequences he'd already tested.
The Blueprint Exchange
That evening in the Jade Chamber, Ningguang did what Ningguang did best: she weighed possibility like a merchant weighs pearls. The launch footage and Takumi's crisp, organized blueprints were rolled out on a long table. Ningguang's fingers traced the lines and columns as if reading the heartbeat of a plan.
"This is military-grade thinking packaged as civil engineering," she said coolly. "If we market this as harbor clearance and emergency shoring, we can sell units to neighboring ports. Mondstadt will snap up contracts for brood-shore work."
Keqing, blunt and efficient, added, "We also need safeguards. Ningguang, if you fund this, we require licensing and Qi'an oversight — technical registration for every unit issued."
Ningguang smiled; that was the language she liked. "Commercialize it, regulate it, and profit from both production and licensure."
Takumi suppressed a grin. He'd expected economic calculus. He'd not expected niceties about licensing and profit-sharing, but they were practical and useful: money meant more cement, more steel, faster roads. He remembered the system's private note blinking when the Katyusha prototype appeared — "Dual-use technology; political risk." Ningguang's approach reduced risk by converting it to trade.
"Also," Takumi said, leaning forward, "Klee was instrumental in developing the ignition sequence. She should be credited. I asked Keqing to propose cultivating her research fund."
Ningguang's gaze drifted to Klee, who had been invited in and sat on a cushion, face streaked with ash and eyes like twin suns. The little girl fidgeted with a pocketful of scraps that looked suspiciously like fuses.
"A research allocation," Ningguang murmured, "could be useful. Give the child seed funds, and we can direct her energies toward controlled studies. But there will be oversight. We will not have unsupervised detonations in the harbor."
Klee's grin widened as if the promise were a chest of treasure. "Mora? Klee will buy super-sweets?"
Keqing put a hand on Klee's shoulder, firm but gentle. "You'll receive funds, but with conditions. No unauthorized explosions. You will use Ningguang's workshops and work under professional supervision."
Klee's face fell a touch — the rules subtracted from her anarchy — but then the child nodded, eyes bright. "Okay! Klee promise!"
Takumi exhaled. The family-like arrangement of the project bore fruit: finance for research, institutional oversight, and a path to production that skirted the dangerous line between construction and armament.
[SYSTEM — PRIVATE]
New Blueprint Registered: 'KAT-Launcher (Model: Guili Mk.I)'
Classification: Dual-use (Infrastructure / Defensive)
Recommendation: Register production under Ningguang's Qixing licenses; deploy to civil engineering corp first.
The System's ledger pinged in his head like a compact metronome. It liked order.
Keqing's Conditions
Keqing, who'd been silent while the adults negotiated utility and profit, stepped forward and set the ground rules that would govern Klee's new "research stipend."
"Klee," Keqing said in her practical voice, "you're brilliant and spirited. But your talent requires discipline. I will help you with the paperwork; Ningguang will fund your materials; Sucrose will conduct lab work. Takumi will supervise your prototypes. In return — and this is important — you will not use these on people, cities, or trade caravans. No unauthorized field tests."
Klee pouted a half-second, then gave the solemn nod of someone who'd signed a treaty. "Klee will be sensible. Klee will not make Mondstadt go 'puff'."
Ningguang's smile was thin and intriguing. "We will also file an insurance clause. Any unlawful use will result in immediate forfeiture of research privileges and restitution to affected parties. Keqing, ensure the clause is binding."
Keqing tapped a crisp note into her pad. "Done."
Takumi found himself pleased and oddly comforted. He had no desire to militarize Liyue, but he recognized that tools could be used for defense; he also knew that unchecked innovation without social guardrails led to ruin. The oversight structure felt right: civilian-first, regulated, and usable for both harbor-building and emergency defense. If it became a weapon, it would be because the people decided it had to be.
Klee's Funding (and a Little Misunderstanding)
Once the legal and financial scaffolding was arranged, Ningguang waved a hand. "We'll issue an initial research fund. Five thousand Mora to be disbursed over six months for materials, protective gear, and supervised testing. Additional funds upon demonstrated safety and utility."
Klee's eyes widened. Five thousand Mora was a princely fortune in a child's mind. She blinked, then hugged Takumi's arm.
"Brother Takumi, you're so nice! Klee will make safe and good things!"
Takumi tousled her hair. "Use it well. And don't hide it from Jean for too long — she worries."
Keqing snorted. "She'll worry more if Jean catches her blowing things up without contracts."
Ningguang's fingers flashed across a ledger. "And for the record, we'll label the research as 'civil engineering ordnance' and patent the ignition mechanism. Licenses to be sold to third parties. Profit will fund further social projects."
Takumi suppressed the thought that Ningguang's keen nose for profit had already turned a child's curiosity into an industrial engine. He did not mind. Money made progress possible. Money also required careful handling. He would be the one to keep learning and the one to put brakes on missteps.
A Quiet Moment — The Ethics of Fire
As night spilled across Liyue and workers drifted home, Takumi walked with Keqing along the newly poured road toward Wangshu Inn. The air was cooler, scented with the smoke from Xiangling's fires and the salt from the new pier.
"You worry?" Keqing asked, direct as ever.
Takumi glanced at the horizon where the launcher's embankment stood silhouetted. "A little. Powerful things in the wrong hands worry me."
Keqing's expression softened, something rare and human rounding her features. "Then keep them out of the wrong hands. Build institutions around them. Train people. Make rules."
"I will," he promised.
She looked at him for a beat longer, like someone appraising a plan. "Then we might not lose Liyue to its desires. We'll build a people-first city, Takumi. Not yours, not mine, but theirs. Keep that in mind when designing things."
He nodded. He would. He had already thought of markets and schools, of steel and glass, of entertainment and food production. He'd imagined factories next to fisheries and schools for engineers where Klee could be a guest lecturer on controlled demolitions. The dreams were big — industrial, messy, and full of people.
They reached Wangshu Inn. Klee was asleep in a corner, drooling softly on a cushion, her tiny hands clutching a scrap of fuse as if it were a favorite blanket.
"Goodnight, little demolitionist," Takumi whispered.
Keqing leaned on the railing, watching the sleeping child, and said quietly, "Don't let your machines teach her cruelty."
Takumi smiled with tired conviction. "I won't. I'd rather teach her how to build a bridge than how to burn one."
Keqing's rare smile was a map of trust. "Then let us build."
Behind them, the sea licked the newly cut shore, patient and ancient. Above, the Jade Chamber looked down with cool indifference, and for now the world held its breath, an unstable but hopeful thing. The launcher stood silent on its rack, a tool waiting for use.
And Klee, who would one day be many things, dreamed of rockets that didn't always explode — of firework gardens and starlit festivals where people laughed and nothing was blasted but boredom.
Takumi opened his ledger and wrote, simply:
"Build. Protect. Teach."
It was a good plan.