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Legend said that the Archon of Sumeru bestowed one wish a year in exchange for a crumb of knowledge He did not already possess. Having been alive for half a millennia, He knew practically all that the sun and moon touched. Divinity was omniscient and for a mere mortal to trump it was a feat worthy of whatever they desired.
You rolled the luminous stones in your hand once, twice, and then pocketed them. Polished to a shine, these were no mere moonstones; they contained generations of ritual and power, never before pulled from the ancient vaults of the Frostmoon Scions. It had taken you years to research the location, follow tales never put to paper, and finally escape every trap you came across. Your body was worn from this excursion, permanently so, the abyssal corruption gnawing at your leg and abdomen. The dark flesh peeked out from your boots, never letting you forget its presence.
Your profession wasn’t much of a scholarly life, nor was it particularly popular among a certain sect of academics; you were never one for keeping idle nor were you keen on leaving ancient stories alone. Your adventures paid well and your reputation preceded you wherever you went.
Which also meant you would never be able to step foot in Nod Krai again but you doubted there would be anything left now that the Fatui were taking root.
You trekked up the Tree to the Sanctuary, skin crawling. The gaze you felt upon you was prickly but fleeting, a sensation that left your spine stiff in an attempt to stifle a shiver. No doubt, the Archon had His eye on any who approached. It was not surprising when you caught a flash of red amid white hair and a gold and emerald headpiece as you rounded a curve.
Locked away in the Sactuary of Surasthana of His own accord, He sent fragments of himself in His place to be among the people while He toiled away. Omega was the most well-known and least liked. He was the spokesperson, the mouthpiece, and always the bearer of the harshest outcomes, for he was closest to the Archon in mimicry.
You presented your audience letter of approval to the Corp of Thirty standing watch. One of them gave you a once-over, eyes alight in recognition. Soon enough, whispers of a famous archaeologist meeting with the Archon of Wisdom would spread across Sumeru and through Teyvat. A sliver of hope raced through you at the notion that, ideally, by the time word reached elsewhere you would have what you needed.
When you stepped through the threshold, you were taken aback by how quiet it was. The Sanctuary was bathed in soft green light bouncing off of white sweeping buttresses, carved like the inside of a gourd. At the center, reclining in a structure of metal and wires that mirrored a tree, was a lean figure. His white hair was a tousled mess that looked somehow elegant, long strands framing His face while the rest curled at the nape of his neck. A mask of green and gold and white obscured His eyes but it didn’t seem to prevent him from staring at the multiple projections from the Akasha Terminal’s hub, information scrolling slowly on its own. His garb was immaculate, white flowing fabric with an emerald accented sash that went from shoulder to opposite hip before wrapping around his waist. One leg, covered in loose black pants, hung limply from his perched position, sandal-clad foot dangling as though forgotten.
You knew His posture well from every rich businessman you ever dealt with.
Zandik, Archon of Wisdom, was bored.
You approached the edge of the terminal hub but hung back, a respectable distance to allow for conversing and humility. Not that you needed the latter. Being in the presence of one shackled to the Heavenly Principles was enough.
“You are not one of my citizens,” He said at last. “State your business.”
The shiver that never crawled up your spine finally freed itself. His voice was smooth, His words to the point: He was surprisingly frank for a man who knew most of the world’s secrets.
“I come to offer knowledge and opportunity,” you replied. “And I have more than mere words.”
“I am aware. The Akasha picked up on interference the second you stepped foot into my domain. Come forward.”
You did so and presented the relics, moonstone appearing sickly green. The Archon angled His head and assessed the stones, His expression unchanged as He drank them in. He extended His hand in silent request, one you did not fulfill.
“Good to know I am no exception to your shrewdness. You would be a fool otherwise. But what makes you think I’m interested in moonstones?”
“Because you know at a glance what they are. Otherwise I would not be here.”
The bravado in your words rang through, bordering on arrogance.
“Scion relics crafted from the Third Moon Sister’s flesh are certainly impressive. The complete set was said to have been scattered across corrupted territories long abandoned. And yet here you stand. Not entirely unscathed. Tell me, what is it you believe to be an equivalent exchange for these artifacts and their supposed power?”
He cocked his head as His gaze finally fell on you in full, its weight heavy and expectant.
“You are the oldest Archon,” you started. “You’ve avoided the erosion that affects all others who hold this position for too long—“
“I can do nothing about the corruption that has claimed you,” He snapped. “You are hardly the first nor will you be the last to ask.”
“And like all men, you are arrogant and presumptuous without letting me finish,” you shot back. “Memories like yours are invaluable to someone such as myself.”
“A myth hunter.”
You shrugged. “A seeker of truths. I enjoy the adrenaline of it all, when the pieces fall together and an ancient story comes to life. I seek Shiruyeh’s mask.”
A strand of white hair fluttered as Zandik gave a soft huff.
“And where do you think it resides?”
“On your face.”
A thin mouth widened into a full toothed grin before a deep rumble broke the silence. It sent shockwaves through you, your chest tightening.
“Bold of you to assume a human can gaze right into my face and survive.”
“A risk I’m willing to take.”
“Why?”
“If I am not to survive my corruption, why should I not die getting a glimpse of divinity? The one thing I’ll never properly know?”
It was clear to you that Archon Zandik did not know what to do with your candor.
“I have hunted for the Prince’s mask for most of my life. And you are not denying my speculation,” you said after a beat. “All I want is to know the face that sparked rebellion and brought down one of Sumeru’s finest civilizations. Your secret will go with me to the grave and therefore no one will ever know. The Relics carry power beyond what the leylines provide. You stand to gain more than I ever could.”
He descended from his throne of wires after a long contemplative pause. Scion Relics, warm from your touch, changed hands before cool fingers found face.
“None have ever been foolish enough to want me,” He whispered. “The least I can do is ensure you pass knowing the full extent of divine touch.”
He was surprisingly gentle, romantic even, paying homage as countless others had done to Him. In the throes of your afterglow, spent and aching for more, he finally let your hands pull away his mask.
You never knew true beauty until that moment, a final crescendo crashing through you with a precise thrust. All the world before you disappeared as white heat seared through you, blinding you, burning you up like a match.
Legend said that the Archon of Sumeru bestowed one wish a year in exchange for a crumb of knowledge He did not already possess. As he examined the Relics, your body long since gone, he remembered the expression on your face, the adoration for his true self.
Such knowledge left a hole in his heart, never to be satisfied.