Chapter Text
Lord Kusanali’s only command for him today.
“Return back to the sanctuary before sundown,” she said.
It was an oddly specific command, but one that left him almost entirely unchained. At least for the time being.
This was only a test, he was sure. She was still watching. Kusanali was always watching. With her all-swallowing eyes that unblinkingly surveyed, taking in the rainforests she so favored. Even whilst the moon has risen far into the false sky, as her people peacefully slumber below, she never takes her eyes off the mundane. He may be out of sight, but he was never out of mind.
Specifically to prove that he knows what and why she is doing this, the Wanderer plans from the morning to be back before she can even notice he has gone out. He can cooperate. And why shouldn’t he? She'd already taken all he had to give. More than he had to give. Everything he saw value in, stripped from him and leaving just the body-suit he moves through the world in. Best to stay in her good graces. For now, at least. Until he has more information, and an opportunity to take back what he is owed.
But life is often bewildering, and his day doesn’t go as he expects at all.
It is a lively city he’s trapped inside. With far too many people for his liking. He doesn’t enjoy the smell or the noise of it, but he does like the dancers he passes by who set up as quickly as they scatter at the sound of clanging metal swords or the flash of fitted armor. The shops too are extensive, at least as far as the Wanderer is concerned, Sumeru sports the largest and most free of the markets he has ever stepped foot in. None could walk around here and want for something that cannot be found. Even he cannot find anything to complain about.
This is better than home. The quiet side streets of Inazuma can’t hold a candle to the welcoming novelty of these wide pathways. Only during the rare festival wherein all the people come together to create a mimicry of this exuberant marketplace would it ever match the bustle or color. Nor would the wooden, homemade feeling of a Snezhnayan market ever match the heat and laughter of Sumeru. Both of these examples were good in their own ways, but they held little of interest or value for him. This market was different, it had both intrigue and quality.
Uninspired was the word he’d use to describe those other markets. Lacking in competition, direction, or great rarity. And that was even more true now that he has witnessed Sumeru.
This is a shopping district full of color. Red ribbons tying up shaded overhangs and dazzling blue carpets intermingling with purple silks and massive green bay leaves. Even cyan and orange inks are sold here, rarer than any single rock or gemstone. Smoking ovens cough out intermingling smells of freshly ground spices like cardamom and clove, and these enticing, musky perfumes which are worn by most vendors. The day is colored with the yellow of sweet saffron, warm and inviting, and the sound of hundreds of voices blur together into an unintelligible chatter.
Like a halo cast over everyone, even a little bit of sunshine manages to make it down to the people through the Great Tree's impossible canopy high above, dappling the cobbled streets and making even the most poorly made sword on sale glow with an unrealized edge. The Wanderer can’t help but stop to look at these blades, narrowing his eyes at their craftsmanship, appraising them with a trained eye, but never staring down for too long. Lest the merchants think he’s truly interested and attempt to sell him their ‘favorable discount’ in exchange for what he can recognize is plain garbage, just repolished to disguise their poor craftsmanship.
For today, he was willing to be out here. With the sun on his face after so many weeks spent locked away from the people and completely alone with his thoughts. Being outside again is both freeing and suffocating, but he just can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched. How was it that he could feel so entirely unbound while being so sure he had only been given a longer chain to yank on? He’d spent so much of his life caged, now even the idea of freedom itself insults him. Makes him nervous.
But he can pay no mind to such distracting thoughts. He had gone out of his comfort zone for a reason. There were three things he planned to get, all of which meant to fill some void of the person he’d left behind when he awoke in this strange life.
A new needle and thread with which to mend a mistake or two in his beloved dolls stitchwork. A dozen or so ripe red henna berries to crush into a stain, ideal for painting across the crease of his monolids, or dabbing onto his lips. And most enticingly, an ancient book. Saved for him by a merchant he’d spoken to on Buer’s behalf a day or two prior.
The berries are easiest to find at an older woman's stall, pleasingly firm and untouched by pests in the palm of his hand. He pays extra for them. Not only to waste money he didn’t earn, though that thought does pass through his mind, but as a show of respect for this woman’s trouble. Plants don’t grow this way without care, and very few are lucky enough to hold a Vision to ease the longest droughts.
He doesn’t have to walk far to find a needle either. Nearly everyone in the market has one handy to fix their clothing or the pillows they sit upon. And he haggles the price to get a spool of string as well in exchange for giving the women a kiss on either cheek.
It seems ridiculous, but they squeal and laugh when he does it in turn for each of them. Even as he walks away, they call after him and holler, and he dips his hat down, walking a bit faster.
And it is then that he runs into the first hiccup of his journey. He’s easily found all but the most important item. His old and tattered book.
He returns to the stall, but the book is nowhere to be seen. Now, perhaps the merchant had simply pulled it back for him. Away from where the curious eyes of other customers might have seen it. But he knows better when the merchant sets eyes on him and quails. The old man’s face says everything the Wanderer needs to hear before a word has even shaped upon his lips.
“I sold it!” the elderly man cries, clasping his dark and wrinkled hands together in a plea for forgiveness. “But this man he—he offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse! Sixty thousand Mora, just for that old book! And he—he had a sword! He said he wouldn’t leave without that book, and he– he meant it!”
The Wanderer leans back from the stall, one arm crossed over his stomach and the other rubbing a frustrated hole into his temple. He’s hot, he’s used up most of his allowance already, and he feels disrespected on top of it all.
“Oh quit groveling, I’m not going to cut you up,” says the Wanderer, annoyed.
But at the mention of doing so, he tries to savor the image of it. Just as he might have done in the past.
Rightful action taken against someone who has wronged him… Once, it was such a sweet poison to swallow. Now he is jolted back, at least metaphorically. Like he’d hit a brick wall in his haste to fall back into his old worldview. Even the idea of it is so repulsive. He can’t even picture it without feeling a disturbing sense of guilt and disgust.
Shaken by the change, he clenches his hand like he could strangle the air itself, harshly shaking his head to clear it.
“Old man, just tell me what he looks like and I’ll go pay him for it,” he snips out, glaring at the tremble in his fist.
“Ah, well…”
Twisting his battered shirt between his gangly fingers, the old man clears his throat, “I don’t think he would sell something like this, after he paid so much for it…”
“Oh? And why’s that?” the Wanderer asks, crossing his arms.
“It’s such a one of a kind find, that piece of history? I was even hard-pressed to sell it. My misses just insist’d I get rid of all my dusty old tomes. Maybe you could just… find another book to read? It’s just like any other story right? Just a—a battered old book, right? It wasn’t even my nicest book…”
The Wanderer’s free hand slaps the table palm down, making the poor old man jump back in fright.
“No.” He spits the word out with all the fury they are due. “It is not just any other book, and you sold it even after you swore you’d keep it for me. You’re lucky I’ve not cut off your head for such a display of disrespect toward me.”
The merchant throws up his arms to guard his face, apologizing in broken-off pleas. And in spite of himself, the Wanderer feels irritated by his own outburst.
This was an old elderly man, the Wanderer should treat him better than this. He could have seen this man was a coward from the moment he first met him, of course the first person to come and want that book was going to get it without a fight. It was the Wanderer’s fault for not taking it first.
He just hadn’t expected anyone else would have wanted it. An old Inazuman book with a molded cover and damaged pages wasn’t what he expected most people to find an enticing piece of literature. Especially not here in Sumeru, where very few could even read it.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the old man pleads. “I remember he was an Inazuman just like you! Not so pale, more tan, and with quite a few scars! His hand was all mangled… I guess it was injured. I– I didn’t really ask him any questions… he was just so quiet. I was a– afraid to say a word, I didn’t even start any small talk.”
“You seem to be talking plenty now.” the Wanderer pointedly remarks, fighting the urge to grind his delicate teeth to vent out his frustration.
The merchant sounds close to tears when he huffs out a breath, gesturing vaguely down toward the lefternmost street.
“He went that way not too long ago. Just an hour, maybe two. . . please don’t hurt me over this.”
“Come on, surely you’ve got something better than that for me?“ the Wanderer presses, leaning forward. “Those from Inazuma are everywhere in Sumeru these days. Haven’t you seen the docks? Full to bursting with us. How about a clan? Or some iconography all over his clothes? Hair color? Eye color? Was the sword wound in bamboo or in wood?”
The man looks to be thinking hard, his dark brows pulled together in a deep crease.
“I suppose he had these terrible red eyes,” he slowly gestures to his face, recalling them. “And similarly matching clothes. What do ya call em… those kimorio? Your people’s flowery, long sleeved shawls. His was a bit like yours, but his was a lot shorter. It was orange and black with…”
The old man pauses, looking uncertain. “Was it flowers? I remember something like flowers. And they were red, just like his sword. He didn’t have a sheathe, and the sword wasn’t wound in anything. He just wore it out, like he wanted it to be a threat.”
Dendrobium? Could it really be that insignia? Or could it be Silk Flowers? A foreign family? Perhaps this man couldn’t recognize that he was really from Liyue, not from Inazuma.
The Wanderer reconsiders. No clan used either iconography in the past due to a superstition of it cursing their bloodline. They were flowers that would grow especially vivid where blood had been shed. Naturally, it was assumed to be a curse to wear them proudly. Unless you sought to be a Warlord. But that was some centuries back. Perhaps the times have changed. He hasn’t been back in Inazuma for tourism in a very long time, and his last visit had been cut quite short.
The merchant finishes by doing a half-aborted bow. “I hope that this can help you…”
Leaning back, the Wanderer’s demeanor shifts. A beautiful smile forms across his lips. A softer character slipping into place, not one bit as frightening as the person he had been just moments before.
“Well then, thank you. You’ve been exceedingly compliant, so we can say that is right between us now.”
He seems almost sarcastic when he bows his head and his ornate hat down along with it.
Reaching down to explore about in his pocket, the Wanderer pulls out a prize for the man, a couple of coins, and with a flick of his wrist he carelessly scatters a small amount of golden Mora across the table and down onto the street. He can almost feel Lesser Lord Kusanali wincing at his waste, but the shimmering coins clink with such a richness. A value which attracts many hungry eyes over their way. Onlookers who stir the moment the gold's surface is set alight in the sun.
Lowering himself to be eye-to-eye with the old man, the Wanderer interlocks his fingers and lays his chin atop them.
“Thank you for the information. I imagine it will be helpful. But for future reference? Just between you and me?” the Wanderer barely speaks above a whisper, like it is a secret between only them, forcing the man to lean forward in order to hear.
Then as a scorpion strikes, the Wanderer’s hand snaps forward and grabs the man's gangly wrist. Yanking it forward and spreading each bent finger so that his calloused palm is laid open between them. The Wanderer smiles, and he almost feels like he’s the Kunikuzushi once more.
It is… uncomfortable. He pretends that it isn’t.
“Do not,” he enunciates every word, “sell the things you promised to me. Don’t even leave them out to be seen. Can’t you do that?”
He drags his fingernail harmlessly across the man's knuckles, imitating slicing them off. Morphing his worn hand down into a harmless nub.
“You’ve heard the rumors, surely? Most of us from Inazuma aren’t a merciful bunch. It’s a cultural phenomenon you see. We’re like our goddess, I’m sure you’ve heard all the terrible stories. Inazuman duels and the like. We’re not satisfied with minor shows of skill.”
The man gulps, shaking helplessly.
“Remember today next time someone gives you that ‘offer you can’t refuse’. Or I’ll be paying you another visit with a sword of my own. Doesn’t that sound fair to you?”
To reinforce his words, the Wanderer reaches down and presses one final coin into the center of the man's palm, forcing his hand closed around it. He will be generous. At least give the man one coin to take home with him.
“Goodbye now,” he says. “Oh, and these coins are for everyone here! Take as many as you can hold!”
With that declaration, the Wanderer pirouettes around on the front of his sandal, dodging the desperate few who are already falling to the ground, reaching to grab up his generosity for themselves.
He imagines he’s going to be in trouble for these actions later, but he’s almost surprised Kusanali didn’t intervene to begin with. It’s hard to imagine her enjoying that little show. But for now he’s quite pleased with himself. He handled that quite amicably. He didn’t slice off any of the man's fingers, and he spared his whole family. That’s downright generous for a member of the Fatui. For Scaram—
Not for Scaramouche. For the Wanderer.
As he disappears down the street, two blue ribbons drift up behind him in the breeze like loyal followers. And the merchant very wisely does not call after him. He picks up what coins he can reach in silence, retreating back from the violent brawl beginning in front of his stall, a deathly pale look on his face.
After that, the Wanderer’s day shifts from shopping to searching. His hunt has begun.
Though not as common as those from Liyue or Mondstadt, an Inazuman in Sumeru is no longer unheard of. The country's lockdown has been lifted at last, and many of its citizens escaped the moment a foreign ship had been spotted on the horizon. Every day now it seems a new person appears bearing a familiar dress and thick accent as they attempt to enter the big city seeking out financial opportunity or longing for a clean slate. A new name after the war took their family, their clan, and their home from them.
Not that the Wanderer could really relate, he’d lost his own long before the war had begun. And he’d been an integral part of starting and finishing the war.
As for this stranger, an Inazuman who has a sword could be of high status. A lord big or small, a ronin more likely than a samurai. No samurai would travel so far from their Shogun. Or it could be a diplomat, sent to make new agreements with Kusanali. A traveling swordsmith was also a possibility. An errand boy, a delivery man, for goodness sake it could even be a youkai attracted to the negative emotions in the market.
Inazuman’s like their swords. So, ‘a sword on the hip’ didn’t really differentiate them much from each other. Only a keen eye like his own could pick out the differences between clans and tribes, the rich and poor, a human or an inhuman like himself.
Not to mention every corner of the city has at least one man holding a sword. Sumeru liked their weapons just as well as Inazuma did. No paid mercenary worth their salt would go without one. Though they were often sabers instead of katanas, they were still distracting and often got his hopes up when it turned out to just be an Eremite once again.
What is useful to him was that the man in question has red eyes. And at least earlier today was wearing clothes stitched in a pattern of something… vaguely floral. A red sword… what was it made out of? There weren’t many of those in the street.
In fact, there weren’t any of those.
Even with what seemed a quite damning visual in mind the Wanderer could find nothing of the mysterious buyer. He speaks to other merchants, plays coy with the lonely guards standing miserable in the sun, and even begins asking fellow shoppers for some sighting of this supposed swordsman after all other avenues turn up nothing.
He even goes as far as to check the small and disgusting docking port at the lowest point in the city, careful to not step his painted shoes into any unsavory piles containing unspeakable waste. All he finds there for his brave effort is the reek of fish and a few too many fishermen asking for their hands to be swiftly removed.
There is next to nothing to check after that. Only uncertain mutterings about a man who might fit the description. But he conveniently flew past in a blur, unremarkable and disappearing without a trace. He didn’t attract many eyes. There and gone like a lone ghost. Blown away on the day's breeze, if he ever existed at all.
The man might be real, but hunting him down like this seems asinine. If he didn’t want to be found, the Wanderer wasn’t properly prepared to track him. And it seemed somewhat likely that the man was yanking him around on purpose. What, with the wind laughing softly around the Wanderer every time he turned suddenly to look at something red. He hated the presence of it. The stalking hand that seems to tickle his face and grope his sides. He’d never felt the winds so strongly before he received this Vision.
It wasn’t like Electro which always behaved, buzzing around in a comforting aura, a subtle shield to keep others far away. Anemo came and went whenever it saw fit. Blew stronger one moment just to end abruptly the next. It also did not like to be commanded. Instead of going exactly where he demanded it refused to be reigned in with exacts. His Vision may lay against his chest, above where his Gnosis was meant to be, but it was as useless as any forgery. Equivalent to a shiny pebble. Only in moments of desperation did the wind ever seem intent on listening to his commands.
Electro fit him so much better. He knew what to expect and it understood exactly what he wanted. Destruction and power. At the very least Electro Energy in the past came from within him instead of from a fancy stone. He thinks he’d smash his Vision with a rock if it had been one from the Raiden Shogun. The thought alone was enough to make him snarl.
Perhaps he could still use Anemo. He was adaptable, and though he would have preferred an element that fit his personality more naturally, he at least liked what it stood for. If the people stuck within the streets couldn’t find what he was looking for, perhaps the wind could be of some assistance.
It was such a foolish thought—but the wind felt far more alive than electricity. Both in its touch and in its action. No element could speak, yet it still seemed to supply him with answers. Even when he never gave voice to his question, the wind still seemed to act in the benefit of an answer.
With some shame, he closes his eyes and focuses on the breeze. His Vision lifts up in response and floats there, fighting against its clasp as though it wishes to rise and levitate to be right in front of his eyes. Or held protectively in the palm of his hand. He has never seen a Vision like his own, perhaps due to his own strange creation his Vision reflected his forms own oddity. A non-human receiving a Vision creates some… unique reactions.
Almost immediately after he reaches for it, the wind whips backwards toward him. An unnatural gust going in the wrong direction blows back through his hair and tickles his cheeks, his ears, and leaves the sensation of fingers ghosting across the back of his neck.
He flinches, eyes blowing wide. He throws his hands up to cover the sensitive mark there, grimacing.
But it had worked—so long as he wasn’t commanding it too harshly, the wind would respond to him. Still, it was far too invasive. Curious as a child, reaching blindly and uncaring of social structures or boundaries. He didn’t like it.
Uncertainly, he whispers his command this time. It was good to be specific. Not demanding, not commanding, just asking.
“Can you find for me the swordsman with red eyes?”
The wind blows past him hard enough to nearly take his hat off his head and he must quickly snatch the brim and hold it down to keep it from falling. But the breeze doesn’t let up, and he realizes after a moment that it seems to be only blowing so strongly within this one, small area. The breeze pushes on his chest to turn him around, and when he slowly does so, pushes even harder against his back to make him stumble forward in the direction it pulls.
“I’m going, I'm going! Don’t shove me!” He yells, and the wind stills. Then, slightly less demandingly, it continues nudging him forwards.
Down winding alleyways. Back the way he’d come. Up stairways and stone ramps, nearer to the Academia and further from the center of commerce down below. Then, it suddenly changes, leading him in a semicircle back towards where he started. But it veers off before then, sharply changing to take a hard left.
He’s about fed up with it when it turns him around again, blowing backwards and messing up his hat in its capricious nature. It can’t seem to pick a direction, and he huffs out a breath, cursing himself for expecting the air would be capable of solving his problem.
“Enough,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’ve made enough of a fool of me. I hope you’re happy with yourself. I really was better off looking on my own.”
The wind seems to laugh at that in a chattering swirl that rocks the tree branches above his head, but it pulls away as he requests. It has left him in an alleyway with a dead end.
He lets out a sigh. A fake habit he can’t seem to break. The ‘Wanderer’ had learned to exist within humanity. Lived just to become human. Willingly pretended to be one, relished every little thing he could do to fit in. And now that his memories existed at the forefront of their shared head he couldn’t help giving into the habits the ‘Wanderer’ had done for hundreds of years. He even breathed purposefully now, forgetting he was even expending the effort to do so until he breathed something in and had to cough to get it out.
He considers returning to the merchant. But would he even still be there? After the Wanderer’s little spectacle he’d probably closed up shop for the day, and then he’d just be chasing down another shadow he can’t find.
Then suddenly like the cut of a blade, he senses the coming of another presence.
He doesn’t hear a single footfall, but he has just enough of a warning to realize someone has approached. Feels they are there only a millisecond before they speak and reveal themselves to him. And that makes the Wanderer quite nervous. How easily they could have struck him. Grabbed him—ran him into the wall. This was a dead end. They’d followed him in and he hadn’t even felt it. How had he not noticed?
“Hello.”
What sounds like a young man greets him. With a voice so gentle it is almost hard to make out. Even the wind has to push it toward the Wanderer’s ears so he may hear it properly, and it does so quite willingly.
But that doesn’t change his position. He is naturally guarded, and he moves to back away a step.
“Who’s there?” he snaps, a warning in his voice. He turns on his heel to face the stranger with his hand raised, unnerved.
But once his hat has lifted and the stranger comes into view, he freezes. Holding the gaze that finds him with stiff joints and frozen lips.
Old memories crash like a tsunami over him in a wave so painful he can hear his own mimicry of a gasp. His free hand jumps to grab at his chest, or he thinks it does. Flying from one image to the next, like a river that flows unstoppable into numerous directions, each ripple expanding and going to war over the picture laid before them. One true, one false, both as clear as the springs of home.
Or is this imagery home? Where is he now? He doesn’t know this place—is he swimming in a false memory? But he’s been here a hundred times. He knows each corner so well.
And at the forefront of these images is the paleness of his own skin. The purple welts that subtlety form there, like juicy grapes. From this touch of corruption comes the swords of the Mikage furnace, smelting down a dead God’s hatred so potent even he cannot bear its touch anymore. These bumps melt into cooked fat, which he knows to be impossible, some strange horrific imagery his mind created while it still thought itself human, or perhaps a nightmare that Irminsul created, making him misremember. The real memory is just as horrible. He willingly touches an impossibly hot flame, torching his hands and arms. Watched as it does little to harm them. A fire which he himself had created, burning away the memory of hope and of allies and of the goodness of friendship alongside all the people he loved and their betrayals.
Then it turns to the oozing of blood.
But it is not his own, it is the warmth not of a forge but of a head cracked open, and he is so, so satisfied by the pop and crack. The scent of a stomach slit and gutted in one relentless motion. He’s grown so much stronger than he ever was before. The echoing screams of innocence lost and families forever ended. And the dimming eyes that stare lifelessly up at him from against the tatami floor as it grows stained with their unlucky inheritance. The blood that once ran through their veins. Their eyes are the same as the ones he returns to now—
The eyes of Niwa.
When he finds himself, he is shaken in both mind and body. One hand clutching his head while the other is held out a length in front of him. Not commandingly, but desperately. As he tries to put distance between himself and this threat while he tries to process everything in his mind at once. He doesn’t know how long he has stood still, steadying himself, he can barely see.
The bitter, heartbroken Scaramouche recoils with anger and horror at this moment. Entirely contrary, the Wanderer’s never-faltering sense of honor wishes to plant himself at the man’s feet and bare his neck for forgiveness. And somewhere, deep below them both, is the smallest opinion that is Kabukimono. And he trembles at confrontation. He simply wants to run away. And for once, he is winning.
He cannot choose which voice to obey. Craving only some sort of release from the ruthless pulling of all of these opposing sides that he fears will split him apart if he keeps ignoring their demands. Kill, fight, flee, forgive— he can’t even hear the wind over the chattering voices
The strangers' eyes narrow, his head turning to the side like he is puzzling him out. Is he concerned? Confused? The Wanderer can’t decipher the look in his eye. But the motion causes his white fringe to fall down into his face, and it is then that the Wanderer notices something very important about his appearance. A detail that changes his state of mind entirely.
One streak of red from scalp to hair-tip, almost hidden entirely behind his bangs.
Red eyes red sword red streaked hair
Like bloodshed
Like home
Like Niwa
Something about seeing it brings the Wanderer back down to the present. Like being pushed into a river of icy cold water. It clears his head, as if it was the final piece he needed to make sense of his situation.
He moves back so quickly that his feet catch on the uneven stones and he stumbles, the volatile nature of Anemo still too new and flighty in his untrained hands. But he tries anyway, envisioning a sword that makes him nauseated to know the shape of, and with some resistance the winds hear his barking command and form into a shaky point held directly between those two piercing red eyes.
The swordsman stares at the sputtering blade with indifference. He does not even flinch at the unbridled energy reflecting blue light into the center of his eyes. It must’ve malfunctioned somewhat, because a small dollop of blood drips down from the side of his face. He merely swipes it away with a bandaged hand.
“You’re… untrained.” he comments instead, not quite questioning. He doesn’t need an answer from him to know.
His gaze moves further down to the Wanderer’s tightly clenched hands. Stopping at where a dark fluid is dripping, slowly draining between his fingertips and pooling down from the palms of his hands.
The Wanderer’s lip draws down into a snarl, and he tightens his grip around the uneasy energy, surprised by how roughly it seems to react compared to Electro. He thought pure electricity would burn more to hold than measly air—but it seems he’d been mistaken. Of the two, Anemo clearly hurts more when restrained.
“I know enough.” he spits out, willing his hand to hold steady. “The descendant of the Niwa clan, here already? Aren’t you hasty! How long has it been since you were told? A week? Two weeks?”
“Three weeks. Just under a month.” the swordsman says, meeting the Wanderer’s eyes again. “But you’re mistaken. I’m not—”
“I am not mistaken.” the Wanderer interrupts, surprised by the sure edge in his voice. “I know your eyes. This red-streaked hair. I’ve seen them many years whilst I hunted your family. Your kin. You’re here avenging your clan? That’s fine.”
He takes another careful step back, but the wind is almost hesitant to move with him. As if it is struggling to pick a side.
“Everything you’ve been told is true. The fall of the Raiden Gokaden falls onto me. The history you remember is a falsehood, and it is I who holds the blame for your clan's downfall. For the destruction of so many sword-arts within Inazuma. Even the war, it all comes back to me.”
The swordsman's expression falters, and he lifts up a bandaged hand to lay it upon his chest.
“You misunderstand me. I truly only wish to talk.”
And the Wanderer looks at him. He hesitates— because he isn’t sure of himself anymore. Eyes lowering down to look at the sword tied at this man's side. Where his hand is already placed on its hilt, ready to be drawn.
“Talk?” he coldly repeats.
He touches his toe-tip to the ground, and in the next moment with a burst of power, he is high above in a burst of Anemo that kicks up dust, sending the swordsman sliding backwards. He is as amazed by the wind's sudden trust as it seems to be that this meeting has taken this turn. He is wobbly, and he is frightened it will suddenly pull away and leave him to crash back down. But Anemo always seems ready to respond to his desperation, his fear, and it does so here as well.
“If you want to talk… then catch up to me. I’m not going to wait for you.” he calls from above, one hand poised elegantly behind his back while the other is already twisting a finger, compelling the winds to follow his will.
But the samurai only nods his head, seemingly unbothered by the aggressiveness the Wanderer meets him with. As if he had expected it. He switches his form to one that is offensive, with his body lowered to the ground slightly and his sword peeking out of its sheath
“I see. Well, this isn’t the ideal place to talk.” he remarks.
Against the Wanderer’s expectations, the samurai lunges off the ground in a powerful jump of his own, fueled by the same element as his company. Anemo that causes the wind to bend around his body like an old friend, pulling them away from the Wanderer. He hadn’t even seen the swordsman's Vision before, hidden somewhere on his back to give him his own advantage.
So quickly he closes the space between them right back to what it was before, smiling at the face the Wanderer makes.
“Lead the way, then?” he says just as calmly as he had been speaking before, but his eyes glow with an excitement unlike his tone of voice.
The Wanderer jerks back, touching one of the city's many silky tents and shooting off from it and away from the accumulating crowd of people yelling in panic below. He can’t fly properly, only leap and glide and levitate in small bursts, but he believes that will be enough.
Until he checks and realizes how little distance he’s really put between them. It’s remarkable how the samurai matches him. His feet barely tap the ground before he follows in agile pursuit, fearless of the speed at which he must hurtle himself after or the deathly height at which he dangles above after every other jump.
The Wanderer attempts to stretch the distance thin by flying properly in bursts of energy, but the wind refuses to obey and he can only boost himself up to run a bit higher over rooftops than his company. The swordsman only changes his pathing to be smarter. Choosing cleverly thought-out routes across balconies and roofs to regain the distance he loses. The Wanderer tries ducking under overhangs or sliding across railings, only to look behind and see that the samurai has matched him step-for-step, every movement practiced and balanced, like a stray cat racing across gutters without anything stopping his pursuit.
By now, the Corps have caught onto their little unsanctioned duel. But without a Vision to boost them up to their level they can only yell from below and try to be heard over the roar of the wind and the cheering of the crowd. The Wanderer can hear them just fine, of course. But they both choose to ignore their demands. They have more pressing things to be focusing on.
But with all this climbing the Wanderer begins to feel the strain of his body. His Vision pulses like a coughing engine, over-used, so much weaker than when Electro had flowed through his veins. It signals to him that he must slow down and rest, begging silently for him to air on the side of caution. The growing pain of ignoring it and barreling onwards only spurs him on, it makes him aggravated, and so he runs his finger through the air as it blows past and creates a ring of energy. Hurdling it where the samurai is not far behind. His first real attack towards him. He doesn’t expect it to land.
And it doesn’t, but what happens instead might just rattle him more.
The samurai slices right through it. With his blade, there for a moment then gone the next.
He cuts through it like he’s cut tofu, his scarlet sword elegant and poised. The energy is broken into nothingness, unable to hold itself together when it is cut into two separate chunks. Rendered completely harmless. He doesn’t even seem bothered by the attack. His sword is sheathed once more.
The Wanderer falters.
He knew that the person who could withstand the Musou no Hitotachi would be a threat to him… but it seems he is far more confident in himself than the Wanderer had pictured he’d be. He faces every attack thrown at him with a coolheadedness that is awe-inspiring. Most people when forced to fight in the air with the looming threat of the ground below would have their attention diverted, but he seems used to fighting in the air. It is nothing but an advantage for him.
Somehow, he seems to live and breathe to be airborne, moving far more elegantly than the Wanderer. Less like a human and more like a leaf on the breeze.
The swordsman isn’t afraid, but he doesn’t charge blindly forward either. He thinks on his feet, reacts right on time, and his form is excellent. Well trained, but a bit scruffy around the edges. Time erodes all things, even such an ancient tradition. And he hasn’t had an easy life. No thanks to the Wanderer.
But it is still so clearly Isshin. Just a modern variant of their art. It makes his soul sing to see it again.
The Wanderer throws a few more shaky attacks in for good measure, each one a little more sure than the last. How kind of the winds to finally listen to his beck and call so willingly, even if his mastership of them was still uncertain.
“Not bad!” he twirls around mid-air, grinning. “But you’ll have to do better than follow me!”
He isn’t sure the swordsman can hear him, but it doesn’t really matter
The Wanderer drops, allowing gravity to drag his form down to land upon a green-tiled roof. The moment his feet make contact he shoots across it, and when he reaches the end, he simply leaps, landing with a roll into someone's garden, trampling their flowers. Behind him, he hears both a woman yelling after him, and the sound of another's footsteps, wooden shoes similar to his own. Clicking loudly for a time, then repeating the same motion.
So he does not dare to stop and look back.
He leads them right to the city's edge, scrambling up with a light boost from the wind onto yellow stone walls and then rolling down the other side to touch wild grass. Against the aggressive impulse to keep running, he skids to a halt and hides, pressing against the city wall and its slight overhang to lie in wait.The Wanderer is lucky he doesn’t need to breathe, but his Vision still pulses like it is gasping for air.
Surely the samurai will soon falter. He waits, listening very closely and counting up in his head.
One… two… three…
And low and behold, just three seconds pass before someone clammers onto the stone wall, pausing at the top.
The swordsman is panting, out of breath as any human would be after such a demanding cat-and-mouse game. But… he had managed to keep up. Chasing after a bird and doing so without wings. That was impressive. He’s determined, the Wanderer can respect that.
He hasn’t looked down yet. Instead, he scans the wilds of Sumeru’s forest beyond the city searching for any sign of blue or white to continue chasing.
Seeing his chance the Wanderer reaches up, slipping forward like a snake, coiling around the swordsman's ankle then yanking with all his strength to pull him off balance. The force propels them both downwards, and the already out of breath man gasps sharply as he is dragged toward the ground. He kicks out, flailing around and searching for purchase, but the Wanderer is quick, more agile and light, and he smashes the swordsman chest first into the grass with a loud thud.
He can hear as much as he feels the air forced out of the samurai’s lung, his own Anemo Vision now visible and coughing at the sudden, dizzying change in trajectory. The Wanderer snatches the teal rock immediately, ripping it free of its clasp and throwing it down the hillside with a cheeky grin.
But the swordsman doesn’t concede defeat easily. Stronger than the Wanderer expects, he snarls and abandons use of his Vision entirely for a much more rough fighting-style. He manages to get ahold of the Wanderer’s wrist and twists it, jerking him forward and over his back, kneeing his foe in the stomach. But the Wanderer isn’t human, and though it hurts he has no vital organs to damage, so he just grins through the wound and rolls over onto his hands and knees.
Then, he raises his hand to create another ring of energy. But the swordsman recognizes the gesture from earlier and kicks out with just his foot, jerking his arm and hand aside in a painful hit. And before the Wanderer can recover from his injury, the swordsman jumps on him, and then the fight becomes more of a battle between who can remain on top.
The Wanderer, perhaps surprisingly, manages it quite well. He still has the winds to propel himself out of reach and push the swordsman off. A more offensive approach. But it ends up being his downfall, as the swordsman recognizes his blindspot and uses it. The Wanderer is lacking in defense. So the next time the swordsman rolls around and ends up pressed into the grass, he kicks out with all his strength. The hit lands so cleanly into his foes stomach that it sends him flying backwards, and the Wanderer is so taken aback by it that he hits the ground in a stunned heap, blinking rapidly up at the sky. He hadn’t realized he was so easy to manhandle.
More akin to a brawl, the fight takes a decisive turn. The swordsman has far more experience than his company, flipping the fight to his advantage immediately. The Wanderer isn’t sure how to fight like this and it shows, as he weakly backs away and tries his best to keep distance between them as the swordsman closes it over and over again with kicks and punches the Wanderer can only barely evade or catch. Then, the swordsman suddenly makes a rash decision, tackling him at the waist and sending them both rolling down the side of the hill.
Down they go, still fighting. Away from the city lights and landing in the shallow, boggy water and sewage of the island.
Neither has truly won, and they wrestle for control even in the filthy pool of warm, contaminated water. Covering each other in muck and breaking lotus flowers open to sprinkle the water with seeds. It isn’t a pretty fight, and gone is the elegance the Wanderer normally carries as he finds himself trapped at more and more of a disadvantage.
They separate just once, where the Wanderer has only a moment to drag himself back and stare in both fear and admiration at the swordsman's disheveled appearance. The man himself stops for only a moment to catch his breath in pants before he lunges at him again, too quick to be dodged. Knocking them both down, but especially the Wanderer, with a large splash.
And though the Wanderer fights valiantly, the fight was over the moment the swordsman pinned him to the earth. The Wanderer’s body runs on a controlled battery of stored elemental power — far less powerful than his once electro-infused core. And he doesn’t know his new limits, already speeding right through it and using up every drop.
Gradually, it becomes clear that the swordsman is keeping the upper-hand, having managed to hold him down beneath him.
In some mockery of human emotion, the Wanderer suddenly feels a sense of rising fear. Self-preservation. The will to fight. It must be the Wanderer’s influence. Like a cornered animal, he struggles and strikes forward wildly with his hands and fists. He can’t seem to get free, and that makes him even more agitated, coughing up the vile water he is forced to swallow in their skirmish.
But the swordsman bears down on him without letting up, seeming to understand to some degree that the Wanderer can’t keep fighting like this. He must feel it, as he grows weaker beneath him. He pins one of his wrists above his head and the other out of sight in the muggy water, never truly returning any of the Wanderer’s desperate attacks with hits of his own. He seems ready to wait, letting the Wanderer go still of his own volition after he’s burned the fight right out of himself.
…And though he’d never admit to it, he does. His limbs grow sluggish even when he commands them to move, and his resistance becomes more and more futile as his eyesight starts to malfunction and blur, speckling over with black dots. Only then does he lament, cursing and pushing back weakly, going as limp as a puppet without its strings.
He doesn’t need to catch his breath, but he does need a moment to just sit still. Forcing his foolish fear to contain itself he lets breathing be the guiding force to resettle him. It intakes energy, which he needs, and it respects the side of him that is the ‘Wanderer’. He wants it to be so, and he admits the action is soothing.
Other sensations start to return to him in detail — sound, touch, and taste. He grits his teeth, disgusted by the unfortunate combination of sticky, dirty liquid that is too warm and too thick to really qualify as water and the pressing weight of a person holding him down in it. He begins to take in the sight before him in proper detail as well, hissing out a sharp breath.
Now that they’re not wrestling, the Wanderer stares owlishly up at the Kaedehara who meets his eyes immediately. His terrifying, beautiful eyes which narrow as they look down on him. He doesn’t seem entirely convinced that the Wanderer won't suddenly kick out again or make a hasty escape, so he seems intent on keeping a hold of him.
… And running away is well within the Wanderer’s character, but he truly can’t manage that feat until he’s given his body time to rest.
Instead, he lays in the shallows, trying not to absorb the smell of decaying plants and dirt and chooses to focus instead on the swordsman's behavior. He hasn’t said a word — and he hasn’t reached for his blade, which would be the most effective means of disposing of the Wanderer.
… Nor has he held his head underneath the water, or wrapped his hands around his pale neck. That was all together very disturbing. As was the swordsman's bleeding face. He doesn’t remember hitting him there, yet a long, needle-thin scratch creates beads of blood that drip down like tears from his cheek.
When one drop falls onto the Wanderer’s face, he twitches involuntarily, bothered by the tickling feeling of it rolling down towards his ear.
“Y– You’ve won. Get on with it.” the Wanderer croaks out, twisting his head to the side to prevent that droplet from dipping down any deeper.
The swordsman sighs out very roughly through his nose, sitting back. He lets go of the Wanderer’s wrists, allowing him some dignity to rub at his dirtied face.
“I am not here to kill you.” the samurai says at last. “Please listen to me.”
“That’s contradictory to your every action. What else would you be here for? Th – The Traveler told you that I changed the story, right? The memories you hold were a fabrication. Didn’t you hear about the true history?”
“I did.” he replies.
“Then why wouldn’t you be here for revenge?”
“Because… because I dislike the entire concept.” the swordsman explains, lifting himself up at last and wringing brown water out of his clothes. “Why should I harm someone on behalf of a person I don’t know? And what good would it do to harm you now? I lived my whole life believing a fallacy. What I do with the truth now is my choice.”
He runs a bandaged hand through his hair, the white ribbons coming undone and hanging loosely off his palm. The hand there is mangled. Burnt and wrinkled like it had been burned on purpose. Akin to a cooked piece of meat over a campfire.
“I apologize that it went this way, but I truly only intended to talk from the very beginning. You just didn’t seem ready to listen. I had a friend who was like you. Sometimes… he just needed a fight. Did it help you calm down?”
“... Hmph.” the Wanderer replies in lieu of an actual response, too exhausted and humiliated to reply.
Sitting up with some effort, he flicks both hands to scatter water, cradling his Vision in his palms. It remains undamaged, kept in pristine condition. It is cool to the touch for now, grayed out as the energy slowly restores itself and fills his limbs with new power. He takes in a slow breath, and his Vision resonates in turn, glowing brighter before he breathes out.
When he glances over at the swordsman, he seems to be staring at him.
“Let’s start over,” the swordsman says. “I am Kaedehara Kazuha, a wanderer who roams the land and goes wherever my heart takes me. And you are?”
The Wanderer scoffs, giving his Vision a grounding squeeze.
“My name is irrelevant.”
“... Alright.” the swordsman acquiesces, wading through the water. He reaches down into the depths suddenly, like he is catching a fish, his hand coming up with his discarded Vision now blackened with muck. “I would like to know. But, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t wish to. Names are sacred to some of us. I understand.”
Watching him closely, the Wanderer moves to stand, glaring at his turned back. What a show of ignorance, to bare his back to a stranger—an enemy.
“Every name I had before I renounced. Call me whatever you like.” the Wanderer sputters, dropping his own Vision like it has burned him. “Even an insult is better than the names I’ve kept in the past, so don’t hold back. I do so love a creative mind. Surely you can come up with something befitting of me.”
Kazuha steps back over to him, twirling a finger to lift up his Vision and dry it in an instant with a tiny ball of wind. He doesn’t even spare it a glance as he reaches an arm over his head and reclasps it to where the Wanderer knows he has torn the string, retying the broken piece as though unbothered by his possessions being damaged.
“Hm, I don’t know you well enough to give you a good name yet. So for now…”
Kazuha comes forward, strangely close after their past altercation, and the Wanderer meets his gaze stiffly. Then, he lifts just two fingers, and unceremoniously snatches a piece of algae off the Wanderer’s head. Holding it up, he smiles before dropping it down into the water below.
“Kaiso would be quite fitting, I think. You remind me of sour seaweed. Yes, I think for now it will do nicely. ”
The Wanderer wishes to be offended, but he’d just told him to insult him. It wasn’t the worst of the things he could have said.
Then, Kazuha tenses, eyes scanning the forest around them. He crouches down, turning back to the Wanderer with a serious expression on his face.
“Can you run?” he asks out of the blue.
The Wanderer lets out a shaky breath, forcing himself onto wobbly feet.
“If I must.” he replies, and the samurai gestures up toward the city.
“I hear voices. It must be the guards, they followed us here for their payment—” he pauses, then says. “Come with me. We’re not done talking.”
“... Okay.” The Wanderer is surprised to hear himself agree. Perhaps he’s hit his head and fried his common sense today too.
“... And do try to keep up,” the swordsman says, throwing a cheeky smile over his shoulder before shooting forward like an arrow. “I haven’t got the money to bail you out of jail!”
Striking a nerve, the Wanderer squeezes his fists together. He is nothing if not competitive, and he doesn’t need to be asked twice.
So much for conserving energy and letting himself recharge. He wasn’t going to be looked down upon. Straightening up, he kicks mud out of his shoes and charges forward, following the trail of Anemo energy the strange swordsman leaves.
…
… And they flee not a second too soon, as a dozen Corps of Thirty coming down from the brush. They have circled around to the outside of the city wall with sharpened weapons ready, circling the area.
“They’ve run off, sir!” one man reports, gesturing towards the woods. “There are elemental traces that they landed here, but once they hit the air again it blurs together. It was not long ago, they couldn't have gone far.”
A muscular man with scars crossing his arms and face makes his way through the assembled mercenaries, his green silks adorned with golden beads that chatter as he swaggers his way forward.
“Of course” the man says with a deep, gravelly voice. “It’s a shame they weren’t foolish enough to lose their senses, chasing after their honor like they’re back in Inazuma. Would have made things easier.”
“We’ll catch them, sir. They can’t hide in Sumeru, those two stick out like Dusk Birds in the desert.”
“I never had any doubt.” their leader replied coldly with a palm on his saber. “Now, go. Spread the word. Catch them and you’ll each get your share of their coin. Otherwise, you will all go hungry tonight.”