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Chapter Text

Bloodied cloth clung heavily onto the Yaksha’s limbs as he trudged through the misty marsh. The cold struck deep into his bones, rattled them at the very core and shook his worn frame. Each ragged breath he took tasted of decay as he felt the dense mist cloud over his senses. His eyes were half lidded, but his gaze reached ahead. Though even in the obscuring mist, one could see those kindling amber orbs blaze with an otherworldly fire under the moonlit sky.

“Duty…”

He took yet another arduous step. His lungs burned with each laboured breath, but he had to keep breathing, keep moving.

“…And vigilance?”

The little voice in his head that just won’t silence itself, it speaks endlessly of his charges. The Yaksha’s grip on his spear grew tighter, and his knuckles turned white at the thought of it. And he felt his gloved fingers dig into his palm. The jade tip of his spear swished past the mud, and it emanated a viridescent glow; it guided him through the haze. Mounds of flesh and lifeless remains were piled at his weary feet. With each spent step he took, he felt the wet bulk of the dead squish and squirm to make way. Below the moonlight, these pale bodies are wrapped in red ribbons around their arms and back. He felt their lives glowing only as dim as a flickering ember, living only a second longer for what their hearts yearn to remember. And he heard the last, jagged breaths fade away. 

His breathing, although quiet, stood out from the silence amongst the damp air in the marsh. Millenia of slaughter brought him and the soldiers to this point. He’d wished that he could accuse another of the murders, of the crimson that laid about; But who could he blame except himself? He was not blameless, neither were they. His sins had taken root, stretching far and wide through soil and dirt, tainting the heavenly sheen of the silver-white tree.

“Brother? Sister?”

Everything happening now, it was punishment. A rightful penalty for his failure here. He’d felt arrows of agony as they lanced through his figure with every thudding heartbeat, each movement with anguish coursing through his red-hot veins stripped raw. Where was he? At the edge of his oblivion. With only the coherent sound of his voice that kept him to his duty, having barely dragged him out of the slums of death and inexistence.

Time itself had bled away. The battle had raged on so long, so very, very long. It left the Yaksha trekking through the endless slog of rising demons and mist and mud and… Blood. So much blood. It was everywhere. 

The very essence of death was etched into the crevices of his being. His nails, even under cloth and leather, were tainted with rust. Many fine strands of dark teal hair stuck to his face pale, yet fair. A thin layer made from the liquid form of toil, and tears from his pleading victims made him gleam under what little light the fog would let through. The Yaksha’s eyes were outlined red, did it complement his amber eyes? Or did it just make him seem to behold a more wretched and inhuman visage, to have the face of a ruthless demon? His eyes would survey the perimeter, however far the fog would let him see. Every fibre screamed for rest. But how could he? There would be no respite. Not when demons are still in Liyue, not when they are still lurking in the shadows, not when they are still ready to strike and seize an innocent life. 

A low growl had escaped his lips. The Yaksha had rarely shown signs of suffering, even when he himself is knee-deep in its sloughs. He’d grown weak. And pitiful. And pathetic.

He’d heard a noise blown to him by the winds. As if in response to his condition, it was a single, dissonant note.

“Fuck.” He cursed. Even his own ears were to play tricks on his mind, to torment himself with ridiculous antics. Mocking himself  with seemingly fictitious noises. He’d wanted to silence them, whatever way possible. The thought of his self-induced derangement meant that he was failing. And maybe… Maybe he would finally fall. Maybe it was his time. Maybe he had finally roused the anger of the karmic debt that condemned him to this life. Shadows had begun to dance at the edge of his fractured vision. His fingers felt the prickling of cold and eventual numbness. The muffled cries behind his ears began to fade, only to be replaced by a maddening, roaring flame. 

He fell on one knee, and the spear in his hand plunged deep into the dirt. He could see its glow no longer. It all clouded over. Agony consumed him entirely, flames of debt raging unchecked within as the last of his strength failed. Rising tides of memory flooded his mind, drowned him with recollections of fallen kin, innocent lives lost across centuries fighting a never-ending battle. It was all for nothing. Darkness closed in from the edges of his vision, an impenetrable veil dragging him down into an abyss he deserved. And he knew it. Tears burned unnoticed trails through grime on his cheeks, his body wracked with choking sobs no one would ever hear. This was his end—to fade away alone and forgotten, his purpose long since lost to the mists of time. The inferno inside rose to a cataclysm, myriad souls' tormented voices joining its hellish song within his shredded mind. The Yaksha screamed, a silent scream. It was a ragged cry torn from a throat mutilated over countless centuries.

He was moments away before he keeled over on the ground, but he forced his head level with the horizon, like a falcon stalking its prey. Shadows slipped past his line of sight and he followed. Anything that showed a sign of movement was an enemy waiting to be struck down. So, in one fell swoop, he let the point of his spear cut through the haze, and let it plunge straight into the heart of the shadow. However, as opposed to the routine occurrence of hearing a screaming voice laced with agony and the wet squelch of a jewelled blade to flesh, it simply, disappeared. There was no texture, no resistance. It was just empty.

Everywhere around and about him was silent. One would only see the vague outline of a convulsing body, kneeling in the mud. 

Everybody’s voices, friend and foe alike, sang a cacophony that echoed in his mind. His vision was faded and blurred, it had left only the hazy shapes and flashes of blue, red, gold and purple coherent. He saw horns, claws, stone and thunder. To him, it felt familiar. It felt like family. Was it really?

The sky wept for it pitied, and he felt its sorrows descend lightly on his face. The rain fell all around him, its soft pattering hummed in his ears, a most distinct sound when it splashed on the little pebbles scattered across the corpse-strewn swamp. Those pure raindrops washed away filth and sin alike. The rain reminded him of his sister in all her flowing grace. Dark hair with a colour deep as the ocean trenches, yet her eyes reflecting light as the shimmering corals do. Alas, rushing water eroded even the most resilient stone, yet it still stands solemnly, blocking the stream. 

In his delirium, as his mind wandered over to his family, he felt the smooth surface of a tiny pebble digging into his back, his muscles contracted in surprise from the sudden sensation. As he twitched, the smooth surface of the stone beneath the mud brushed past his skin. Regardless, to him, it was somewhat reassuring that even if he fell, he knows that the stone and earth would be there to catch him; And the earth beneath his body was in testament to its truth. Albeit if he fell, the stone would always be sturdy and the hard pillar of reassurance. His fall would not be cushioned, but nonetheless, the stone would always be there. He would know danger if it cracked, because then, failure is not an option. If he falls, it will be endless. Nothing to stop him, nothing to help him; Ever left to the forces of gravity, no matter how unwilling. Though his back was still against the ground, the mere thought of it had him staring up into the rain with widened eyes struck with fear.

“I’m falling.”

A few disjointed notes had rang through his ears. The sense of falling had not dwindled, but it had changed entirely; For that moment, he felt weightless and he was blessed with glorious white wings. He could glide freely through the sky. It was a fall, but he, instead of trapped in endless descent, could candidly fly and land as he wished. But when the sound of the flute receded, his wings snapped off and the feathers burned to pale ashen powder. The Yaksha was left alone again.

Raindrops crashed into his irises and they retaliated to the foreign substance as he aggressively blinked his weary eyes. One second it was dark, and then it was like looking through the biggest kaleidoscope in Teyvat. The Yaksha couldn’t tell what it was or how it happened, but he saw a flickering rainbow in the sky. The moon cast its glow, and the raindrops scattered it into a thousand hues, brilliant and beautiful. Though the reds gleamed brightest, it was subtle and transient—there one moment and gone the next. He had seldom contacted her, why didn’t he do so more often? The Yaksha berated his past misdoings in his mind. And suddenly, the ink black sky painted over the rainbow entirely, only the moonlight remained. But it was distant, cold and uncaring. How unlike the gentle warmth of the sun’s rays in the burgeoning of spring. He wanted to feel her warmth again. Just one more time.

Like always, the lightning flashed and thunder struck, breaking the quiet in his thought or rest. The lightning’s glow had drawn ugly shapes on his face. Shadows of little black swirls on his cheeks where the messy foliage blocked the light, while the rest was illuminated brightly. He had an inexplicable longing for the familiarity of rumbling thunder. The Yaksha waited for another burst of lightning, even if it were to strike him, he would gladly take on the full brunt of its force. He waited, and waited, but the sky would not answer. This storm was forever lost into the vast emptiness of space.

Eventually, the clouds were dry of tears, in the absence of the rain, he could no longer see rainbows in the moonlight, and the stones below him sank further into the damp mud as it softened and swallowed it whole. He fell on all fours and let loose another inhuman noise as it overtook him. However many battles he had fought, and wounds he had sustained before could never prepare him for the overwhelming onslaught of the purest suffering that crashed into him at this moment. It lasted long in his flesh and bones. It was a searing pain that stayed with him ever as he convulsed on the ground, curling up in a foetal position like an incapable child. The arm that shielded his head from the dirt slid up to the top of his head. His fingers dug into his scalp, scraping it clear of skin, and he felt as the warm, crimson liquid soak up into his gloves; turning the dark green into an unsightly burgundy. His fingers traced around tufts of his hair, and he tugged back on it, hard. Perhaps, it was in hope of pulling himself out of the nightmarish state he was in right now, as if it was possible in the first place.

Everything was going dark, the only thing functioning was his mind. But what did it matter?

“It doesn’t.”

The pain had gotten worse, it moved from being a splitting headache to slowly creeping down his spine. It had already got to his upper torso, where his chest, his lungs and ribs were shot with an indescribable hurt. Where he felt as if all his ribs suddenly grew to the length of his forearm. Where it punctured his lungs, heart and diaphragm, sprouting thorns as it twisted around and torn his already deformed organs into bloody mush, drilling out a void in his chest. His other hand had now lost its grip on his spear and it flew up to grope for the false ribs that he felt had penetrated his body. They waved around frantically, in a desperate attempt to identify what had brought upon him such piercing pain. Although no abnormality existed, it was just all too real, and his hand continued to flail around maniacally in futile search.

From trying to locate his ribs, his hand was now pounding at the front of his chest, his fingers broke through the cloth of his gloves and pushed further into himself. His nails tore through the fragile skin of his chest and it met bone. He felt the rough surface of his bones scrape against his nails. It would surely leave another scar, one shaped like claw marks from being mauled by a rabid animal, it was another mark to add to his collection of hundreds. Blood was trickling down his extremities at an alarming pace. He continued to hammer away at his chest, as if he was about to rip his own heart out. Perhaps it was to allow himself a quick death instead of the creeping, crawling pain down his entire body? It could have been, but none could know but himself. For he only growled and grunted incoherently, he could not utter a single word.

The torturous feeling would not cease, the Yaksha only felt as the sensations moved down to the small of his back. Every bone in his spine appeared to be hollow, the marrow only to be replaced with smouldering, hot magma. It would seep through the cracks of his spine and it would burn through muscle and tendon, then his stomach, releasing another bout of acid on his insides. His guts dissolved rapidly, leaving a large cavity bereft of life. Had his nose been functioning, he swore he that he could almost smell the ashes and char of past anguish.

As the pain continued to intensify, the shrill laughter of his previous master was stuck in his head. The cackling noise reverberated from the walls of his skull. Hearing it only made him remember the dark times of when he was a ‘bloodhound’. When he would devour the sweet dreams of unsuspecting children. The Yaksha remembered the scrunched up brows that plait themselves to a youthful face. Little tears that rolled down their lustrous skin, so full of spirit. No matter how much time ticked by, the past stayed with him like a scar; It would heal, but never disappear, he could never forget. Bandage it as he may, there was always something to remind him of the past.

His vision continues to blur, in a sudden moment of clarity, the Yakshas eyes widened as they witnessed the scene before them. The stars were falling, its light flowing from the heavens to the abyss. Its glow burned brighter just before it hits the ground, shattering into innumerable pieces. They fell all around him, but never once hit him. As if the thrones above wanted to carve an outline of his being for mocking his disgrace while he weeps for the destruction around. The stars crashed into the glaze lilies, and it too, disintegrated into ephemeral, azure dust, it settled slowly into the narrow slits in the stone. The stardust and the ethereal glow of the glaze lilies ignited in an outburst of glistening wonder. However, in stark contrast was a frail and debilitated Yaksha. Even the rich purple of his pants and the diaphanous white of his top seemed more lively than himself. The moon’s light grew dim as it shook, and the fragile string that hung it in the sky snapped. In his splintered mind, the moon swelled to enormity and it glared at his pitiful form with menacing threats, swearing to be the ominous witness to his demise.

Here it was again, the flute. The Yaksha felt an onslaught of emotions wash onto the shore of his mind. Why is it here again? Is this real? He was burdened with insurmountable confusion as the flute continued to sing its light and vivacious trills. The notes fluttered from pitch to pitch rapidly, but then it stopped again. The flickering noises left his ears and the colour in his eyes faded. He was left only with pain and imminent destruction.

Like the moon, his entire world was collapsing in on itself, and so did his body; It crawled under his skin, corroding the marrow in his hollow bones, biting at his every nerve. The pain was a curtain, the unveiling to the prelude of his death. Where the dancers are the gods, the puppeteers are his masters. Tied to his wrists and ankles were his orders, an obligation to duty. No benefit could come of disobedience. The puppeteers’ strings are thin, but they are resilient; moving against their word would only mean to cut his wrists. And rightfully so, he knows the feeling of splattered blood on his cheeks—-warm, and then all of a sudden, turned to lifeless frost. For that, he sways to action at their order, having found no further purpose in his role. 

Fiery anguish seared relentlessly through his body. Little muscle spasms began in his arms and continued in his legs. The narrow margins between his knees felt like they expanded incessantly. The cartilage in his joints seem to have swelled to the point of an explosive size. His own legs push themselves apart, until it finally snaps from the rest of his body with a satisfying crack. Blossoming embers sparked in his irises, the closer he inches towards his end, the clearer the images of his family become. They come into focus, just out of reach. His bloodshot eyes narrowed, and his hands were outstretched in hopeless craving for an embrace.

His fingers twitched reflexively, clawing at the blood-soaked earth beneath him, desperately seeking an anchor to hold onto; Biding his time to stay on this mortal plane. The Yaksha’s eyes rolled back into his skull and only his dun white sockets were left visible as he sank further into the ground. It swallowed him alive, it was so suffocating, it was so dark. He felt chains that dragged him down into the deepest, most unforgiving abyss. 

“Right where I belong.”

Tendrils of black started to coil around his neck.

“My lord Rex Lapis… I have honoured our contract… Over all this time… I have protected Liyue with my brothers and sisters… But maybe, it ends here. I’m sorry.”

He opened his mouth wide and his fang-like teeth bared, as if he was a drowning man gasping for air, not knowing that what was around him was only the sea and its conquerors. His throat was struck by a torrid pain, like having white hot irons stabbed into his flesh. The cold gales whipped violently around him. And it all was to end in a silent, pleading, shriek-

.

.

.

Until a sound reappeared and cut through the crisp night winds, the beckoning of a distant yet soothing melody… The same flute?

Chapter Text

The moon hung high in the dark expanse, its pale glow illuminating the lean figure of Adeptus Xiao as he kept his silent vigil over Liyue. The hours had slipped by unnoticed as he perched atop the roof of Wangshu Inn, his eyes perpetually scouring the land for any impending darkness.

Though seeming like he was so utterly focused, he was none but lost in thought.

It was etched into his mind, the sound and feeling of the flute that night ever lingered in his memory. It was so tranquil, like the gentle cascade of the dandelion buds scattered in the wind. Adeptus Xiao had never touched one before, it was only when he patrolled around Stone Gate that he saw a few children frolicking on the grassy fields. He saw them pick dandelions and blow the buds off, they disappeared into the air. One of those little girls, her smile was sweet. Her warmth radiated past nation borders and reached to embrace the heart of a handsome young man whom she saw was watching them. He averted his gaze instantaneously. Though, her smile, if it reached him, would see none but a bottomless pit, it was filled with black and red. A messy blur of madness shackling the man who was trapped in its midst. A little further and she would have felt those tendrils around her wrists, then her torso, and finally her neck… Her warmth had been shunted away with a cold glare, along with the person herself. Adeptus Xiao watched as the children receded further into the acceptance of the free winds of Mondstadt. That girl, he remembered another one like her, he knows another little girl... Or, well, he knew her.

Mondstadt, he remembers, it is free. The nation of freedom.

He remembers the flute’s light caress. It sounded peculiarly similar to the folk tunes of Mondstadt, as he had heard before from travellers and adventurers alike. This tune in particular, however, was as if it had intricately carved illustrations upon it’s every note, weaving together a grander tapestry of billowing clouds and swirling winds.

He furrows his brows, and brought two fingers to his forehead, trying to pluck the withering memory of that flute from a forest of recollections. The few randomly played notes at the start, what did they mean? Was he being mocked? Was he just imagining it? The melody afterwards was so soothing and otherworldly, could it be the same person who played it? Why? Such strange music. But for what purpose? Xiao was confounded by such a composition, as most mortal artistries did. And he’d pondered such questions for nearly half a millennia.

Yet, even under the streams of childlike vigour, there laid low a subtle strain of melancholy in its song. Had there been an audience, Xiao would be sure that it could draw out drop after drop of emotion; After all, it had done so to him. The low fluttering of harmonic support interchanged with it’s lingering voice of a shared sorrow. As the melody had wrapped around him, easing his tense muscles, if he would open his eyes and himself to the music, he would find a treasure-trove of strange calmness and comfort in between the quavers and rests.

This piece was almost like a wistful variation of the sea-shanties and rhymes sang by humans as they gathered merrily around a fire, or in a tavern, each with a drink in hand. It reminded him of his simpler times, from when he only heeded the gentle crackle and glare of a flame, the distant droning of cicadas and the raucous chant of folk songs that would continue all throughout many long summer nights. Of carefree laughter and exchanged pleasantries. Of brighter days that once was and… he wonders if could they be again.

The flautist played with such mirth; Joyous as it sounded, the flute was soft and yearning, and had whispered along the night air with a haunting beauty. It’s notes rang clear as spring water, wherever they may have played from, their tunes swayed and soared with the rolling hills and windswept plains; A moment of hope was sang, weaning his mind to believe that the flautist would play again, baiting him into waiting endlessly for its call on the wind.

The Yaksha only heard the final note of that phrase, but not the end of the piece, as his consciousness faded away into serenity. He could, willingly, let his eyelids fall and grip on his spear loosen without a sliver of fear for waking with a blade’s edge poised to his throat. He could wake to a fresh breath of the dawn, with light reaching to the dew-kissed petals, quick chirps of songbirds carried along the wind that blew past foliage ablaze with life. And so, he let slumber claim him indefinitely, trusting that when he opens his eyes again, it will be to a new day’s promise for peace.

Xiao had stirred as the pale sunlight peeked over the rolling clouds of pearlescent sheen on bright blue skies. No dream burdened his slumber that night, nor has little, if any true sleep graced him in the years past. When wakefulness finally met his body, memories of the past night lingered like faint echoes on the breeze. It never truly left him; If he listened hard enough, perhaps he could catch a whisper, just a snippet of what music there was, carried aloft zephyrs soft and slow, so long as the wind blows.

His eyes opened to a violent glare, unaccustomed to the sudden, watery dawn after long days of shadow. A reservoir of unwept tears glazed over the black abyss amidst a field of amber. He’d found that his tears had cast an unnatural weight and a dark cloud over his gaze, like eaves of fog rolling down the high cliffs.

He blinked his eyes a few times, letting the swampy liquid roll out of his eyes and into his matted hair which was crowned atop his creased brows. Xiao turned his head to the side, and watched as the sunlight reflects off a few torn-out strands that were strung across the ground, alongside the background of swords, spears and arrows thrusted violently into the thirsty, hardened soil. He’d found that it stopped raining a while ago in the night. As the soil was now slightly cracked and dry. There were larger pits and cracks formed along each cavity, with a slight glimmer of pale dust sprinkled throughout.

The sunlight blighted his eyes when he turned back towards the sky, he squinted in futile defense, though eventually, just submitting and closed his eyes, fully in-tune with his surroundings, letting himself enjoy the warmth he seldom came across.

With a firm push to the ground, he hoisted himself from the grasses and stood tall. At that moment, he heard a light clinking as some garment or accessory of his fell, as well as soft rustles as it tumbled past the folds of his clothes; Which, now, had become a brownish filth from dried blood and grime.

As the Yaksha looked down upon the grassy field, there was a brilliant glow of turquoise that laid peacefully on the background of green, it hummed with a choir of soft tinklings like wind chimes on a quiet day. He gazed down on the turquoise gem with an unfamiliar sense of fondness that graced his mind and bent down to cradle it in his palms. The gem was featherlight. He’d study the wings on either side of the centerpiece of the vision, he’d feel the smooth surface of the gem. The adeptus recognised this as a vision, an Anemo one in his case.

Xiao sighs again, sinking into thought regarding Barbatos, the Anemo archon, who had gave him his blessing. His relief was short-lived, for a notion of betrayal tugs at his mind. His lord Morax is the only God or Archon he wishes to serve. He’s grateful for this gift of life, but it feels undeserved, taken for granted. His brows furrow once more, his mind stays in deep contemplation. His logic dictates that it shouldn’t matter what vision he received, but instead where his loyalties lie, and for how long they do. It’s still uncomfortable for him to accept that it was not the blessing of his lord he was bestowed, but for his lord he will use it.

It had just been a brief few hours since the crack of dawn in the sky, the earth beneath his feet and the wounds on his skin needs time to heal; He’s willing to wait. Though this battle is long past in the streams of time, it remains deep in his conscious. Every sight he saw that day and night is ingrained in his memory. It won’t be very long before the natural law of Teyvat washes them away, will it? Despite his conflicted stance on the vision, Xiao still wonders why Barbatos blessed a Yaksha not even in his service, but instead under another one of the Seven.

Piles of thinned and frayed cloth stretched beyond what Xiao’s eyes could see. Colourful as they were before, it is now smudged with a cracked layer of dried paint. The past night, he remembered how their limbs were frozen to the touch, how the protruding bits and pieces of bone and flesh littered the ground. It’s a gruesome sight to the mortal man.

Xiao’s gaze lingers on the corpses lying face flat in the soil, the crushing weight of their comrades and enemies stashed atop had pressed a dent into the ground, quite literally having dug a grave for themselves. He couldn’t help but look at them with a tinge of envy. Hundreds fell upon his killing stroke, Xiao envied them, though he was unsure of what.

He stood still for another few moments in silent contemplation. He knelt down again, with his head bowed and eyes closed. Whispering soft prayers to his fallen comrades, our lord Morax extends his regards, in honour of your service and loyalty to Liyue. On behalf of the lord Morax, I bow my head in your servitude. May your afterlife be a pleasant one, and you reunited with those whom you lost.

Xiao’s head remains bowed in solemnity as he mutters the rest of his well wishes to the dead. He leaves his arms dangling, unmoved by his side, but there was something crawling under his skin, begging him to feel the smooth hilt of his spear again. His fingers twitched, perhaps of a lingering pain from the past night, or from the unpleasant feeling of the sticky bits and pieces of all those around him. What was the point, though? He shouldn’t care too much, he thought. Both were a commonality in his life, wasn’t it? It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

He grazed his hand over the spear that laid by his feet. It was thrusted into the mud, but nothing short of its destruction could deprive Xiao of the comfort and familiarity that stayed his hand. It’s comforting because it’s familiar, he doesn’t know what he likes about it, though it feels every bit right. The simplicity, the sheen, the very feel of that spear in his hand. It was an undeniable attraction, to which it was akin to opposite magnetic poles; Irresistible, so very tempting.

Decisively, he grips the spear again, shaking it a few times to rid it of the filth. Getting up from his kneeling position, he walks back to Liyue Harbour in search of his lord. Xiao was injured, much too weak to use his adeptal arts to quicken the journey back. As much as he wished to clean himself, it was against better judgement to delay the news to his lord Morax.

So there he left his wishes, only able to wait, waiting for that ghost of a song ever to return for a haunting.

That is what he remembered from the fateful day he received Barbatos’ blessing. He is forever grateful for it. Mountains of questions upon questions had, and still persist in his vying mind. He paid no mind to them for years on end; though, for a while, when the soft touch of the breeze brushes past his sides, he will remember, and he will continue to wonder. He wonders of answers to his questions that he is not privy to. It would be a sin to pry into the inner workings of this world, as the hilichurls who roam recklessly across the land pay evidence to. It would be rash of him to take this risk. For he is the sole survivor amongst his Yaksha kinsmen. Who will be his lord’s aide then? Who will stand by his lord’s side in dire times? He will. To his lord Morax does he pledge fealty, by his honour will he keep this oath. Fealty beyond the human confines of mortality.

Though one thing was unsettling him, His lord Morax, God of Contracts, Archon of Geo; From when he first met him, he was stoic and unchanging as the stone cliffs of Liyue. Button, he knows change. His lord surrendered his Gnosis to the Tsarista, for what… for a mortal life? He could not understand his lord’s decision this time. To him, it matters not. He serves the lord Morax, from then in the past, stretching into forevermore. Regardless of his lord’s current nature and state of mind, even in death, Xiao honours the pledge he gave, the gift of freedom his lord gave is worth more than mortal woes and joys. With his newfound liberty, he pledged his fealty to his lord Morax. It was his choice, and it is one that he will never regret.

Dozens of blinking lights and hung lanterns of Liyue Harbour shine fondly in the distance. Even atop the roof of Wangshu Inn, he can imagine the smiling faces and giggling voices of the bustling youth of the city. This is the city his lord Morax built and guided from the ground up… with Lady Guizhong. At times, when he meets with his lord Morax, Xiao can sense a pain and nostalgia when he reminisces of his time together with the Lady Guizhong as he looks about the Harbour. The city and its people that his lord and lady are so fond of, he is too.

The last orange hues of the sun are retreating over the western mountains and cliffs of Mt. Aocang. Turning his head slightly to the right, the rice paddies of Qingce village lie in wait. Even further north, past the roads and the Stone Gate, he sees the city of Mondstadt, a small city compared to Liyue Harbour, though still an interesting sight when bathed in the golden sunset light. His lord Morax had often mentioned dealings with the Anemo Archon of Mondstadt. Though, from what he heard from the civilians, he was described to be as somewhat an absentee Archon. This was the Archon that blessed him that night in Dihua Marsh, dragging him out of the depths of his karmic debt. He is not so sure of his character yet. Though if his lord cares enough to mention the Anemo Archon, he is at least assured to not be malicious.

Much as he wishes to indulge in his pondering, a dark mist seems to have befell Qingce village in the north. It only grows under the cover of night. It would be cautious of him to begin his patrols there. He could not risk harm to come to the villagers.

As the sky greets the slumbering of the forests and the creatures in it with a canopy of stars overhead, Xiao readies himself to set out. A sudden influx of adeptal energy would likely alert the evils lying in wait, or even cause them to become aggressive. Maybe they are docile, but only for now. Against his better wishes for haste, he is best to go by foot. Hopefully, he will arrive before anything happens.

But worry not, in his centuries of experience, these creatures often wait until the darkest hours to finally emerge, for even a sliver of moonlight pains them.

Xiao trudges along the muddy path leading to Qingce. Looking ahead, a long winding trail devoid of grass and foliage, spread in a stark contrast of light beige against the verdant pasture surrounding it. An owl hoots in the woods, the crickets chirp their little songs and the incessant droning of many smaller insects in the marsh fill the chilled night air.

The minutes tick by unnoticed as Xiao moves along the road silently, not even his footsteps could be heard. He passes Dihua Marsh without even a bat of an eye to the thin, swaying reeds in the shallow water near the riverbank, the stilling moonlight on the lake. Unreasonably, a part of him found that he didn’t want to see.

Barely had the moon drooped low into the west when the wooden huts and the stone paved wells of Qingce came into sight, Xiao’s previous hunch proved right, he felt the ice and the foul breath of the filth that lay hidden in its waste. There was no sound nor sight of them, but the damp sensation that crawled about his skin tells otherwise.

Winds howl, the moon and her children gaze down upon him over a cloudless sky. He goes further into the isle of houses, his breathing growing shallower, with white puffs of smoke perpetrating the air with every gasping breath. The villagers are all asleep in late in the night. Here and there, every so often he hears a soft snore and a whistling noise from the children as they sleep.

Instinct tells him to look, so he peers through the gap in the flimsy curtains of a little house, wanting to see, to survey the inside of the room… so he can be sure that there are no dangers hiding in the shadows or the corners. A small girl plays curled up on her bed, eyes closed, though he could see her eyelids twitch; She had been sleeping soundly for a long while, it seems. Her chest rises and falls in even intervals, her face half-buried in the softness of her pillow.

Part of Xiao wonders if she was dreaming. What would she dream about, a little girl like her?

“I can’t get distracted.” Instinct doesn’t beat his logical mind. He’s here to slay the demons in Liyue, not… whatever this is. The room looks empty, save for the scattered items of furniture and the sleeping girl. He is sure that there’s something ailing this village, and he will find it and be rid of it tonight.

He continues down the narrow streets of Qingce village, hoping to find something for him to kill, so that this patrol wouldn’t be in vain. But perhaps him finding nothing was a good thing too, it meant that the years upon years of his existence spent on keeping these evils at bay is showing progress. There are less of them, his efforts are working. The lands and plains in Liyue are safer for all. Though there was another thing, it would mean that he got something wrong, what would that mean about him?

Even if that is the case, it would be negligent of him to stop his search now, wouldn’t it… And that’s not an option. He cannot compromise the safety of these villagers for a foolish thing like his carelessness and oversight of the situation. Xiao checks every crook and nanny of the village, going from house to house, the roads, leaving no stone unturned. Still, he found nothing, nothing at all.

In the empty silence of it all, this is conflicting, and confusing to him. So very much. Every sense in his body could feel the vile atmosphere clinging to his skin, it doesn’t make sense.

He decides to do one more circle around the village, just to be sure. Along the way, he notices a silhouette of a small girl on the side of the rice paddies’ stone walls.

Xiao strolls up to the little girl, dismissing his spear that dissipates into fine golden flakes when he does, as to not frighten her with a weapon to her face. He extends a hand to tap her on the shoulder while saying, “It’s late, you should go home.” She, above all, looks startled more than anything else. Which was expected, he did come to her rather unexpectedly. He watches as her expression changes quickly, from widened eyes to something akin to a relieved expression after seeing Xiao’s face.

She appears to be studying the green-rimmed pauldron on his left shoulder and then the detached sleeve on his arm. Her gaze made him uneasy. It was as if someone had strung an anvil to his heartstrings, the weight on him was unnatural. Still, the golden-eyed adeptus brushed these suspicions aside. After all, getting this girl home is the most important thing on his agenda at the moment. Such a young one, too. Her arms are thin, bony and her clothes ragged—it wasn’t the most unusual sight, many of the villagers here were poorer than those in Liyue Harbour, a city brimming with commerce and economy. As opposed to this small agriculture-focused village, the people in the Harbour often lead far more luxurious and extravagant lifestyles that they could only hope to afford.

A pair of eyes stared right back at his own. Perhaps under the strange lighting and reflection from the surroundings they appeared slightly purplish. “Mister Adeptus?” She chirps, voice sounding as expected of a young child. Reluctantly, Xiao replies, “Yes?” He didn’t pay mind to how she already knew that he was an Adeptus. Xiao did look very different from the villagers, perhaps that was why.

“You should go home now.” His voice comes out much softer than before. As learned from his little escapades with his lord, children are better dealt with by gentle coaxing than by force. Especially when their mothers are in the vicinity, which he doubts is the case now, but he wouldn’t want to wake any of the other villagers if she so happened to cry.

Her eyes they were looked at him with a curious air. Her brows had also perked up as if she was questioning him with some sort of snarky rhetoric. “Aww... Is it that late?” Her voice rang softly through the air.

Xiao nods at her, with his patience slowly, but very surely draining from his body as the seconds continued to pass without an affirmative reply from her. It was, in fact, very late. But Xiao had a feeling that she was only edging him on, teasing. In an attempt to contain his emotions, he only nodded to the girl, not wanting to converse with her any longer. Humans really confused him, especially the children.

“Can you walk me there?”
“Promise to go to sleep as soon as you get back.” She let out a satisfied hum.

The pair silently trekked back over the many levels of rice paddies, tier over tier of each terrace filled to the brim with water. She had occasionally hopped to and fro, leaving small ripples over the surface. The Yaksha wasn’t sure why she did such things, but so long as she doesn’t waltz off into the night and she remains out of harm’s way, then surely it wouldn’t be an issue. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to go into the water like that, barefoot. With her stature amounting to no higher than his shoulder, the water in the paddies reached up all the way up to her knees whenever she stepped foot into them.

Winding paths and dimmed street lanterns intertwined with small huts enraptured his field of sight, it felt like he’d been walking for ages on end. The girl continues to lead him on. He supposes to follow her, but the notion that Qingce village wasn’t big in terms of housing, as the village mostly consisted of farmland, tugs on his mind; So why have they been walking for so long…? A few questions were at the back of his skull. “Which one is your house?”

“Over there.” Xiao nods at her. “Let’s go, then.”

“Okay.” She lets out a light giggle. “Lead the way, Mister Adeptus.” She presses a finger to her chin. “Oops, forgot to say please.” He didn’t care for her manners, or the apparent lack of it. “Follow me.”

The girl hops back onto the road with accompanied by the soft dripping of water down her ankles. “Your clothes are wet.” Xiao was only answered by her nodding. It was a brief acknowledgment of his, as it could be considered, concern for her. “What’s your name, Mister Adeptus?”

“Call me Xiao.” He didn’t care to ask for hers.

Once more, she dips a foot into the rice paddies. He calls out to her as gently as is possible. The stench he noticed earlier creeps back. Into the air, it stills, permeates. More ripples appear in the water. Its edges illuminated under the cold moonlight as she wades further out into the field.

“Come back.” But the girl only continues on. Her steps were slow and methodical in a way that would cause unease, but still carried a childlike bounce, her arms too swaying carefree by her sides. “I’m Na'er. Don't forget me so soon!”