Chapter Text
Rain falls and soaks into the earth. Dig in the earth and you can see the water. Only people return to the source below.
For all of time. . . this we know. To whom now can I turn?
The small, chess-like piece shone—dazzled!—in the light. And in his hand, it thrummed with power. This was a gnosis—a gift from the creator, the Demiurge. It was a remarkable object, the symbol of his triumph. No one could deny that. He twirled the piece in his hand as he glided his thumb across the sleek surface. A symbol of his unmatched strength—and yet? All was not saved. The impregnable jade, whispering its reprised sorrow, became tools of slaughter; and with every weapon uptook, god after god fell before his feet. Yet in the end, even alongside the rock spirit to whom he gave eyes, the dream-devouring yaksha he saved, and the countless Adepti who headed his call, she’d fallen to the earth’s depths with a lonely smile upon her face.
Unlike Baal and her Kagemusha, Beelzebub, who’d won their war together, when the dust settled and razed the fields of glaze lilies which she so loved, he stood alone. And he swore to the people of the Guili Assembly, as their God, he would fulfill Celestia’s contract—guide the humans, who lived in his lands: from the Chasm’s southernmost point to the northern Stonegate, which divided his lands from Barbatos’s.
He shall not part from the surface above, where the living walk, unlike his fallen friends and foes—not for a long time, lest some God wills to move a mountain.
Doubtful, but if a Demon God dared challenge him, he would take up his weapons, craft his many minions of rock, and don his icy visage once again.
He set the Gnosis onto the ming square coffee table, and watched as shards of the piece faded one by one till nothing remained atop the wooden surface. The hollowness behind his chest near-faded as Celestia’s power pulsed through his veins; the piece had returned to its rightful place. Later, he could rip it out of his chest once more—to stare, to ponder, to question. Why?
Why does the hollowness linger? Why do the rocks and lilies take pity upon the Lord of Geo?
He sat—crossed-legged, hands in his lap—and closed his eyes: to stills one’s mind, if only for a moment. Leaves rustled with the wind, while birds sang melodies to the sky, but nature’s sounds paled compared to the peoples’ chatter which rang through the trade city. So small they could not shake the Heavens, nevertheless they made such a ruckus. She’d—
He opened his eyes and sighed. His posture went slack as his shoulders slumped, and he lifted his hand. Suspended above his open palm, his stone dumbbell appeared.
When he first took it from her hands, in the fields of Dihua Marsh, he had scoffed at the object. The power within it was negligible—though not a hinder, the endless-transforming dumbbell seemed neither helpful. Guizhong stood beside him. For what reason should he open it? At the time, the dumbbell merely acted as a mark of their pledge, to oversee the Guili Assembly together. And then she’d said, in her last moments: forget about it. Would you?
No! They were supposed to rule together. . . a flourishing city, wealth and prosperity abundant . . .
The cold metal object sat in his hands. He looked upon it with a frown. It’s small power was all that remained. Why had he forsaken it all those centuries ago?—this cold metal which held the remnants of his dear friend, her unchallenged wisdom. If you could unlock it—
He’d tried—and tried—and tried. Alas? The stone dumbbell remained locked. She did not deserve it.
The stone dumbbell disappeared as drowsiness washed over him. Though a God—now an Archon—he wasn’t exempt from all mortal woes, one being fatigue. He’d begun to experiment with his Celestial powers till he perfected a particular object, creating countless duplicates: small, round, golden, each imbued with a bit of elemental power. It looked much like gold, hammered into a disk. What should he name this object? How should it be used?
For now, it didn’t matter. Right now, he would—a bell jingled.
“My lord,”—Yelan appeared before him, spear in hand— “forgive me, I did not bring tea this time.”
She took a seat on the floor, across from him, and bowed her head with a smile.
“There is no need to bow nor apologize, Yelan. The tea can wait till the winds settle and the time is right for a game of mahjong—what is the situation?”
“Today, at the city square, a foreign man caused quite the ruckus. I’d only see the remnants of his fight between the Millelith. None patrolling died, but many—around 20 to 30—were bruised and battered. The Millelith reported: the man walked away without a scratch. It’s hard to believe—I’d thought so, too—but the people attested to the Millelith’s claim. They were quite shaken—expect to receive many prayers come evening.”
“I see. . . tell—what did you hear about this man’s looks?—weapon?—fighting style?”
Yelan explained in great detail the stories she’d heard: an orange-haired man, donning a red mask, wielded shape-shifting blades of Hydro to fight the millelith at the city’s center square before heading south toward mount Tianheng. No one had seen such a man before—if they had, they would’ve known. With unusual clothes, fair skin as if he’d seldom seen the sun, and an orb strapped onto his belt, he stuck out like a sore thumb, even amidst the countless foreigners who frequented their trading city.
“Yet they claim this man is mortal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send twenty men to scour Mount Tianheng. Keep Ganyu, alongside the Millelith's best platoon, on stand-by till this man is found. You, too. Bring him to me—alive.”
She stood up and brushed off her robes. “It shall be done.”
He stood up. Those who disrupted peace—refused order—would not go unpunished.