Chapter Text
The Irodori Festival wasn’t originally a traditional celebration in Inazuma. It was a new event established not long ago by Yae Miko, the high priestess of the Grand Narukami Shrine, who sought to revive Inazuma’s cultural and literary spirit following the end of the Vision Hunt Decree. It was for this occasion that Kazuha, a member of the once-renowned Kaedehara Clan, now found himself in Ritou, eager to take part.
The young samurai had hoped to bring someone along—if only to avoid being alone and enjoy the company of friends—but they were all tied up that day with work and obligations. He bore them no resentment; Kazuha had never been the kind of person to cling to companionship, and he had taken many of his journeys alone. Still, a part of him felt that spending time with those to whom he owed so much might have been a small way to show his gratitude for their unwavering kindness.
Even so, Kazuha was glad to be there. He had a deep love for literature—especially poetry—so taking part in a festival dedicated to it filled him with inspiration and, perhaps, a rare sense of ease. After all, it had been a long time since he’d truly allowed himself to relax. And given that Inazuma had only recently emerged from a time of civil unrest, it wasn’t an unreasonable desire.
Swept up in the liveliness of Ritou, Kazuha wandered over to a food stall, bought some grilled fish—one of his favorite dishes—and made his way toward the heart of the festival: the town square. There, he paused to admire the event’s centerpiece. Canvases had been arranged in a circle, each depicting one of the Five Kasen, legendary figures of Inazuma's literary past. To Kazuha’s surprise, one of the paintings featured a figure that looked strikingly familiar. His eyes widened slightly as he studied it—was that him? Or rather, a Kaedehara, recognizable by the signature streak of red in their hair. The resemblance was uncanny. A soft smile touched his lips. Perhaps one of the Five had been a Kaedehara too? If so, what an honor that would be.
Stepping aside to give others a chance to see, Kazuha moved toward a quiet spot and leaned against a low stone wall nearby. He watched the breeze stir the thick maple leaves at the center of the square, his expression calm and content.
It was going to be a peaceful evening—the kind he needed to truly rest and restore himself.
The Wanderer wasn’t in Inazuma by chance: the Irodori Festival was taking place in Ritou during this exact time of year. He had never attended it before—unsurprising, given it was a relatively recent event—and he’d never been fond of festivals, much less of this particular corner of Inazuma. He usually avoided it as much as possible: too many people, too much noise, too much politeness… and above all, far too many guards. Not that he had anything to hide anymore—their presence simply irritated him. That said, after everything that had happened in Sumeru, there really wasn’t much risk of being recognized anymore… right?
«Sir, is that you in the painting?» asked a child standing in front of him just as he stepped into the town’s main square.
"Sir"? Did the brat think he was old or something? Scaramouche didn’t respond. Instead, he glanced toward the painting the kid was pointing at. There were five of them, arranged in a circle around the thick trunk of a large tree. The one the child referred to depicted a figure that looked eerily similar to the Wanderer himself. He stared at it in stunned silence for a few moments, then turned his gaze back to the curious little boy still standing in front of him.
«...uh, I don't think so.» he replied, dodging any further conversation as he turned to walk away.
The festive atmosphere in the town was certainly intriguing, but the longer Scaramouche stayed, the more he realized the Irodori Festival wasn’t made for someone like him.
Irritated, he looked for a quieter spot, climbing a set of stairs on the left side of the square where no one else seemed to be.
He had barely taken a few steps when he looked up and froze. At the top of the stairs stood a familiar figure: a long mask covered the upper part of his face, framed by wavy, pale-blue hair. Scaramouche recognized him instantly.
«I apologize for my sudden appearance, Wanderer...»
Heat surged through his body like wildfire, rage rising from his gut to the top of his head. Just seeing that face reminded him who was responsible for it all. Every single day, he remembered what had been done to him. Every single day, he dreamed of revenge. Maybe this was the moment?
«I know it was you who attacked my men not too long ago, am I wrong?» The man chuckled, stepping down a few stairs to draw closer. But Scaramouche, who had been glaring at him with clenched fists and gritted teeth, lunged forward as soon as he saw him move. Mid-air, he stopped just inches from the man’s face, a twisted smile spreading across his lips.
«Dottore, what a surprise to see you here… to which of your segments do I owe the pleasure?»
The man was visibly caught off guard for a moment, but then quickly recovered. After all, it made sense that the puppet might know such details. He broke into laughter.
«I knew it was worth seeking you out… divine puppet.» He gazed directly into Scaramouche’s eyes, clearly fascinated. Before him stood the creation of a god—who knew what powers might lie within? The Doctor could only imagine the endless possibilities if he ever managed to get his hands on such a specimen.
But he didn’t get to savor the thought for long. The boy suddenly lunged again—nearly hitting him—though Dottore dodged the strike with ease.
«How strange… it’s almost as if you’re angry with me. Yet I had an interesting proposition to offer you.» he added with an indifferent smirk, turning back toward the other, whose glare had only sharpened.
«Why should I listen to you?» the other growled, his tone openly defiant.
«Why shouldn’t you? Looks to me like you’ve got plenty of time to waste.»
Boiling with rage again, Scaramouche thrust a hand forward, summoning a vortex beneath the Doctor’s feet; but once again, the man dodged effortlessly.
«Why don’t you just go die?» he hissed through clenched teeth, eyes locked on the figure he loathed more than anyone. He knew the man's strength, and he knew that unless he caught him off guard, he’d never land a hit… but he couldn't stop trying.
«Weird...» Dottore muttered as he adjusted his jacket without a care. «You’re rather weak.»
It was likely just provocation, but it still caught the Wanderer off guard. Him, weak?
«You know, what I wanted to offer could have benefited us both. But I see you’re as stubborn as ever… so I’ll wait. I could make you strong, invincible. As powerful as your creator—maybe even more so. You know that, don’t you?»
Scaramouche knew it was a lie. Of course he did. And yet, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. The Doctor could do it, that much was true. But why admit it now? What was his angle?
«Sooner or later, you’ll come looking for me. And if I’m wrong… well, that just means I’ll be looking for you again. Think about it.»
The man turned and walked away slowly, casting one last glance at the boy before disappearing from view.
At that point, Scaramouche was furious. First of all, what was Dottore doing there? And how did he know he wasn't human? Who had told him? How had he figured it out?
The man hadn't seemed to recognize him, and yet… he knew things he shouldn’t have known. The rage in the puppet’s small body simmered again, rising from somewhere deep and bitter. The man who had destroyed his life had stood right in front of him—and he had let him go. He should’ve torn every one of his segments apart and wiped his existence from the world entirely.
For a while, the Wanderer stood still, seething, before adjusting his hat and descending the steps back to the square. Among the crowd, at least, he'd be harder to target. Not that it helped him enjoy the festival now—he was far too angry to appreciate anything. He didn’t even notice the figure leaning against the low wall by the stairs. That person had been there the whole time, and had heard everything.
Scaramouche made his way back to the painting—the one that seemed to depict him. He stared at it with a cold, disgusted expression. It wasn’t just that it resembled him. It resembled who he used to be. The version of himself he despised—the one who had made mistake after mistake, unforgivable ones.
It was probably because of that hatred burning in his chest that he didn’t realize right away what was happening: the painting was actually burning. Slowly, the flames began to creep across the other nearby canvases as well.
His eyes widened in alarm and he instinctively stepped back. It wasn’t his doing. Of course it wasn’t. But for a moment, even he questioned it: how was it possible that it had caught fire right before him? The answer came quickly.
«...Dottore.» he muttered, watching the flames spread as panic rippled through the crowd. People scattered in all directions, shouting.
«Halt!»
Guards had already gathered behind him. They were convinced he had started the fire—and honestly, it made perfect sense, except that it wasn’t true.
The Wanderer exhaled sharply, turning slowly to face them. He wasn’t even surprised by the accusation. «It wasn't me.» he muttered, annoyed, as spears were pointed in his direction.
«You have the right to remain silent! Put your hands up and follow us without resistance.»
He sighed again, crossing his arms. The guards always acted like this. It was all coming back to him—just one more reason he hated this place. «No.» he replied simply, ignoring the encroaching weapons. «If I were the culprit, I wouldn't be stupid enough to be the only one standing here. You're just picking on me because I’m an unfamiliar face.»
«Save the talk! Someone saw you start the fire!»
...okay, he actually had no proof of his innocence. What now? Was he really about to get arrested on his first day in Inazuma?
«Sure, of course...» he muttered sarcastically, slowly raising his hands. He needed time to think, to plan a way out. There was no way he’d let himself be jailed for something he hadn’t even done—especially when he’d gotten away with so many far worse things. That would’ve been... ironic.
Kazuha wasn’t someone who sought conflict. He didn’t enjoy confrontation, especially not without good reason. But this? This was a very good reason.
He had witnessed everything—from the moment the stranger argued with that masked figure to the moment the fire broke out, and he was certain the boy now surrounded by guards was innocent.
He hadn’t wanted to get involved and he hadn’t intended to eavesdrop either, but once he saw what was happening, he’d silently placed a hand on his katana, just in case things spiraled out of control. That other man… there was something wrong about him: his presence was heavy, dangerous.
He had dealt with the Tenryou Commission before and he knew how they operated, so hearing them accuse the stranger of a crime he hadn’t committed made his blood run hot. Normally, Kazuha kept his resentment for the Shogunate buried; but this wasn’t about resentment—this was about justice.
Scaramouche was still standing with his hands up, glaring at the guards in quiet defiance. He wasn’t about to submit. But then a figure stepped through the ring of weapons—a boy with white hair tied back in a loose ponytail, the glint of an Anemo Vision catching his eye.
«It's weird.» he said plainly, making his way through the crowd. People turned to look at him, surprised by the simple comment. Calmly, he moved toward the circle of guards.
Several of them turned to glare at him.
«What do you think you’re doing, kiddo?!» one growled, leveling his spear at Kazuha.
Scaramouche stared at him, struck by something. The flash of red in his hair... the delicate features... For a moment, his breath caught. «…Niwa?» he whispered.
But then the boy tilted his head, revealing more of his face. It wasn’t Niwa... not quite. But the resemblance was there.
«I just said it’s weird.» Kazuha repeated softly, standing his ground. His posture was relaxed, but his grip on the katana at his waist was sure. «I can vouch for him. I didn’t see him start the fire.»
The guards exchanged glances. The tension rose.
He'd dealt with people of their caliber before, and they usually didn't listen to the opinions of those who weren't part of them, reasoning only according to their justice which, most of the time, wasn't even definable as such.
«So you're defending a criminal?!»
Kazuha shook his head, glancing once at the boy beside him. «He’s not a criminal. He didn’t start the fire.»
The other had been distracted, so he hadn’t caught the whole exchange. But when the boy spoke up in his defense, he raised an eyebrow. How did he know that? There hadn’t been anyone close enough to see the truth.
He stayed quiet, arms crossed, watching. He was already irritated—mostly at Dottore—but this sudden interference left him unsure. Who was this guy? Why get involved? He could have handled it himself.
The leading guard snarled. «You must be his accomplice! We’ll arrest you both!»
Scaramouche’s eyes widened. «Huh? Are you kidding me?!» he snapped, incredulous.
The guard gestured sharply, and two men lunged toward Kazuha—who dodged them effortlessly with a sidestep. Their spears came out next, but before they could strike, the samurai unsheathed his katana, calling forth a gust of wind that forced them back without injuring them.
Turning toward the blue-haired boy, he spoke quickly, firmly: «Run. Please.»
Scaramouche had already been preparing to act, but it was clear now: this stranger could handle himself. He watched him for a long moment, motionless. That face, that lock of red… Who was this person? When their eyes met, he studied him intently. Then, Kazuha nodded subtly and broke into a run—away from the port, away from the crowd. And Scaramouche followed, because of course he did.
Once they had gotten far enough from the central square, Kazuha slowed, catching his breath and glancing behind him. Thankfully, the boy was there.
Slightly out of breath, Scaramouche stood a few steps away, his posture casual but still guarded. As soon as the samurai looked at him, he adjusted his hat and straightened.
«Do I know you?» he asked, the words sharp, cautious. That resemblance still gnawed at him.
Kazuha calmly re-sheathed his sword, brushing wind-tossed strands of white hair from his forehead. He hadn’t expected thanks—not from someone like him—so he didn’t mind the tone.
He took a breath, calming his heartbeat, and replied softly, «No, I don’t think so.»
«You got in trouble for nothing. I could’ve handled it myself…» Scaramouche muttered with typical arrogance, adjusting his hat with an air of indifference.
Kazuha shook his head slowly, his gaze resting gently on him.
He didn’t move closer: instinct told him that this stranger wouldn’t welcome it. So he stayed still, his eyes checking their surroundings.
«I'm not the type to watch injustice and do nothing,» he said after confirming they were alone, then turned back to the other. «So I wouldn’t say I got in trouble “for nothing.” I did it for a cause I thought was right.» He echoed the boy's own words, a subtle smile ghosting over his lips before fading.
The Wanderer kept his arms folded, still tense, still suspicious. Noble gestures meant nothing to him—not without motive. Why risk yourself for someone you don’t know?
He laughed, dryly. «What injustice? For all you know, I did start the fire.» He narrowed his eyes at Kazuha, searching him. Testing him. He didn’t want to talk about Dottore—not if he didn’t have to. «So maybe you defended a cause or whatever, but now we're both in trouble.» His resemblance to Niwa made him suspicious—maybe it was just a ploy to let his guard down, or perhaps in front of him was a subordinate or even the Doctor himself.
«Kaedehara Kazuha. You at least know my name now, by the way.» He walked past him with measured steps, surveying the distant city lights. He didn’t ask for the other’s name—he figured, if he ever wanted to give it, he would.
The name hit Scaramouche like a spark in a powder keg. Kaedehara.
Kaedehara Yoshinori. The man who had made him hesitate—who had made him let go of revenge, once.
His eyes widened; his breath caught. What was he supposed to say now? Should he confess everything? Should he run away?
«I don't think we should stay here too long,» Kazuha added, turning to gesture toward Inazuma’s distant glow. «The Tenryou Commission doesn’t look kindly on fugitives.»
To the other, he probably did seem suspicious. Helping a complete stranger and risking himself in the process? It made no sense. But Kazuha had a feeling: something deep inside told him that this was the right path. As if an unconscious bond within him pushed him towards the other, telling him that being by his side was the right thing—the best thing he could do.
Scaramouche didn’t respond at first. He seemed lost in thought. Then suddenly, «Huh?? We should??» he snapped, taken aback. «What makes you think I’ll go with you?»
Kazuha blinked slowly, considering. He turned his head slightly, meeting the stranger’s gaze with unshaken calm. He didn’t blame him; he understood that kind of mistrust, but even so, he couldn’t abandon him. He felt compelled to reach out his hand in hopes that he would take it, as if the mere idea of leaving him there made his stomach knot.
There was no real reason.
«Nothing makes me think that,» he replied evenly. «I saw you arguing with someone before the fire. I just assumed it wasn’t your doing—but his.»
Scaramouche’s face relaxed slightly, his default irritation giving way to something closer to normal. He still didn’t trust him, not completely, but that boy's presence… it didn’t feel threatening, it felt real, somehow genuine. It was strange.
«Ahh, so you saw him…» he muttered, irritated. He’d thought they were alone. Of course he hadn’t seen anyone—he’d been too consumed by hatred. «I hadn’t noticed anyone…» His head dipped slightly, hat shadowing his face. Then, quietly, more serious: «Did you hear what we said?»
Kazuha sensed his tension and answered plainly, with honesty. «I'm pretty sure that man started the fire. He didn’t seem... trustworthy. But correct me if I’m wrong.» He offered a small smile, careful not to move closer.
«You're not wrong.» the other interrupted him, voice sharp. «That man is Dottore. He’s with the Fatui. Dangerous.» He exhaled slowly, keeping his tone level. «And yes… I’m sure he did it. Just to spite me.»
A beat of silence passed.
«You don’t strike me as the type to burn paintings at a cultural festival for no reason,» Kazuha said softly, hesitating just briefly. «I think this cause—yours—was a good reason to get in trouble. You were set up.»
«Well, you don't know that.» Scaramouche chuckled darkly. «Maybe I’m a thug, or an idiot. How would you know?» He walked past the other, taking a few steps forward, then paused. «But, well… alright, Kazuha.» He said the name carefully, syllable by syllable. A small gesture of trust, of acceptance. «If you do have a plan, I suppose I’ll follow you.» He glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.
This might actually be interesting.