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Sumeru · Nameless Ruin
The first time Skirk saw Dainsleif, what she immediately recognized wasn't his face.
It was his stance.
Feet and shoulders the same width apart, center of gravity shifted marginally leftward, right hand always maintaining a distance within three inches from the sword — this was a stance honed through countless battles, every last detail refined to be outrageously precise.
Her first day training with The Foul, he demonstrated this exact stance.
"This is the Truthseeker Art's initial stance," The Foul had said back then, "Someone else already trained in this art to the extreme when I first learned it. I changed it quite a lot later on, but never this. Because it cannot be changed — it's already perfected."
Skirk looked upon the distant silhouette, understanding something.
What her master taught her was never the "Truthseeker Art". What he taught was "how to deal with someone who had trained in the Truthseeker Art to the extreme".
Every deviation, every adjustment, it was all to repair the Truthseeker Art's weaknesses. The imaginary sparring partner that The Foul gave her was never a figment of his imagination — such a person truly existed.
"You've been staring too long."
Dainsleif's voice was lower than she imagined. He didn't look back, but his hand already rested on the hilt of his sword.
"I mean no harm," Skirk said.
"You don't. But you carry his air around you."
Dainsleif turned around, his face gaunter than Skirk imagined. The shadows under his eyes seemed carved into skin, but his eyes were bright — not the brightness of hope, but of embers that had burned for five hundred years, able to reignite at any time.
"Surtalogi's disciple," he stated, no question in his tone.
"Skirk," Skirk confirmed.
"I know." Dainsleif's hand did not shift from his sword.
He did not say how he knew, and neither did Skirk ask.
"Your master's technique is different from the original Truthseeker's Art." Dainsleif said.
"He changed a lot," Skirk replied, "but the initial stance wasn't changed. He said it cannot be changed — because it's already perfected."
Dainsleif contemplated for a moment.
"What else did he say?"
"He said it didn't have any excess movement. It's not for flair or intimidation, it's only to win."
"He wasn't wrong."
"But he forgot to say something," Skirk said.
Dainsleif looked at her.
"Your stance has something the Truthseeker Art doesn't."
"What?"
"Respect."
Dainsleif's fingers tightened around his sword.
Wordlessly, he turned and entered the ruin's shadow. The sound of footsteps reverberated upward off the stone walls like the tolling of clock bells.
Skirk stood where she was, reminded of something.
———
It was back when Skirk was only just able to go on solo battles. The Foul took her somewhere that was nowhere — no air, no water, no life, only endless rubble and a distant star on the verge of extinguishing.
"There's nothing here." Skirk said. Her body was already made of abyssal energy, no need to breathe, but she still inhaled when speaking out of habit.
"It's suitable for training." The Foul sat on a boulder, using his sword to nudge a meteor no larger than a fist. "There's nothing that can disturb you."
Skirk drew her sword, starting to learn The Foul's thirty-seventh swordwork variation — one that focused on the "leftward center of gravity, lowered right hand" stance. She trained that form repeatedly, but kept feeling that something was off.
"Your left shoulder's too stiff," The Foul suddenly spoke.
Skirk adjusted.
"That's still wrong. The shoulder's not supposed to be relaxed, you're supposed to feel it — when he assumes that stance, all the power is on the left leg, so the shoulder looks relaxed, but is in fact tightened. You're not replicating his position, but the way he holds the power."
Skirk stopped: "Master, who even is this person?"
The Foul didn't give an immediate answer, he contemplated the distant fading star in silence, and stayed silent for a long time. Long enough that Skirk thought he wasn't going to answer.
"Someone who wants to kill me," The Foul said finally.
"…and you're still using his techniques to teach me?"
"It's exactly because he wants to kill me that I'm learning how to deal with it." The Foul's tone was placid, like it was only a matter of course. "And that stance of his is worth learning. Out of all of the opponents I've had, his initial stance was the cleanest."
"The cleanest?"
"Without any excess movement. Not for fair or intimidation, just to win." The Foul paused, "No, not to win. To prove."
"Prove what?"
The Foul fell silent again, for an even longer period of time.
"To prove it's possible," he said, "prove that someone with nothing at all can use their own power to stand at the highest peak."
Skirk didn't particularly understand the meaning of those words, but she remembered them all the same.
Many years later, when she saw Dainsleif, saw his stance and posture, the way he held his sword, his countenance when facing an enemy — she understood.
What her master wanted to prove, Dainsleif already had granted to him at birth.
But he never used that fact to look down on him.
While her master was proving himself, Dainsleif stood by his side, and became friends with him.
That was "respect."
"Master," Skirk had asked back then, "have you ever fought him?"
"We fought a bunch times."
"Who won?"
Her master looked on that fading star, gaze seeming to penetrate it, falling on something even more distant.
"Neither won," he said.
Skirk later realized what "neither won" truly meant — not a tie, but a fight that had never finished.
———
Mondstadt · Nameless Tavern
Skirk crossed paths with Dainsleif in Mondstadt.
This time he didn't draw his sword. He sat in the furthest corner of the tavern, facing a barely-touched glass of wine, sights focused on the evening crowd outside the window.
Skirk sat across from him.
"Out of anyone in the universe, your master took you in as his disciple, that wasn't a coincidence," Dainsleif said.
"I know."
"He does everything for a reason." Dainsleif looked at her, "he wouldn't take in a disciple out of the blue. What was it about you, that made him think you were worthy?"
Skirk thought for a moment.
"Maybe there was something," she said, "but I don't care."
Dainsleif raised an eyebrow.
"It doesn't matter why he took me in," Skirk continued, "what's important is that I'm stronger now. One day, I'll face him and make him use his full strength."
"And then?"
"And then I'll win."
Dainsleif considered her, something seeming to gleam in his eyes.
"You're like your master," he said, "he also spoke like this, unafraid of anything. It wasn't bravery, he really just didn't care."
Skirk was dumbfounded.
"He trained you?" she asked.
"No." Dainsleif raised his glass, then set it down again, "He was already like that. He was like that when I first met him."
"What was he like?"
Dainsleif fell silent for a long time.
"He would sit on the city wall, watching the dome's light go out." His voice was light. "I asked him what he was looking at, and he said 'to see it end'. I said that the light would still shine tomorrow. He thought about it, and then said 'you're right.'"
Skirk waited.
"Just that." Dainsleif said, "But I remembered it for five hundred years."
He stood up.
"The light will still shine tomorrow," he said "whether I believe it or not."
Then he walked towards the door.
Skirk watched his retreating form, and suddenly spoke: "Master still considers you his best friend. He says he doesn't have any regrets, only guilt."
Dainsleif paused, and didn't answer.
The door closed behind him.
———
That was Skirk's first time questioning The Foul about "regret".
She had trained with The Foul for many years, her body had ceased to be human long ago, and her strength was far beyond any mortal's limit. But The Foul was still The Foul, using his sword to poke at something, speaking about everything casually like it was the weather.
"Master, do you have any regrets?"
"What?"
"Have you ever done something, then felt like you shouldn't have done it?"
The Foul thought for a while.
"No."
"Not a single thing?"
"Some things were done wrongly, but I don't regret them." Her master stuck his sword into the ground, "Regret is a waste of time."
"Then what about guilt?"
The Foul glanced at her.
"Yes," he said.
Skirk waited for a while, and discovered he had no intention to elaborate.
"Guilt towards whom?"
The Foul stood up, the sword made of abyssal energy dissipating into the ether.
"Someone who won't forgive me."
His tone was flat, but Skirk heard something else, not pain and not remorse, but something closer to an "admission".
I know I hurt you, I don't regret it. But I'll admit I hurt you.
"Then do you still consider them a friend?” Skirk asked.
The Foul had already walked away, but the wind brought his voice back.
"He's not a friend."
Skirk thought that was that.
Then she heard him again, lighter than before.
"He is my best friend."
———
Teyvat · Nameless Wilderness
Skirk was tracking down an Abyss Herald when she ran into Dainsleif for the third time.
This wasn't a coincidence — he was looking for her.
"You said last time," Dainsleif wasted no time in getting to the point, "he felt guilty, but didn't regret it."
"Yes."
"Did he say anything else?"
"No."
Dainsleif's face didn't show any emotion, but Skirk noticed a finger trembling slightly on his hilt.
"I thought about it for a century," Dainsleif said, "from the day he left Khaenri'ah, I thought about why he would betray me."
"You hate him."
"I do."
"But you're still asking after him."
Dainsleif neither confirmed nor denied.
"Because I'm still confused on one thing," he said.
"What?"
"Why he would choose to be my friend from the start, if he really didn't care about me."
Skirk fell silent.
"Master once said something," she spoke slowly, "'when the entire universe is my front lawn, all to see from then on will be two anthills waging pint-sized war.'"
Dainsleif didn't respond.
"I thought at first he was saying the universe was vast, and he was bored," Skirk said, "But then I met you. I think I might have misunderstood."
"He wasn't talking about the universe," Skirk continued, "he was talking about himself. He could turn the entire universe into a lawn, but the fight he wanted to see the most was never in the universe."
"Where is it, then?"
"You know where."
Dainsleif didn't ask a second time.
He raised his head, watching the starry skies of Teyvat.
That sky was different from Khaenri'ah's, and different from the universe's. It was smaller, more gentle, like a carefully wrapped cocoon, a cocoon watchfully protected by the entity above.
"He's waited five hundred years," Dainsleif said.
"He has."
"For what?"
Skirk also looked at the stars.
She thought about what her master said: "He'll come find me."
"He's waiting for you," Skirk said, "for you to stop chasing after him. When you stand in front of him, not to ask 'why' but—"
She stopped herself.
"I don't know, that's your business."
Dainsleif was silent.
"Skirk."
"Hm."
"If one day, I went searching for him—"
He paused for a long time.
"Would you help me?"
Skirk looked into his eyes.
The embers that had burned for five hundred years, finally held the hint of a real flame.
"No," Skirk replied.
Dainsleif's expression didn't change.
"Because that's your business," Skirk said, "But I'll there to witness the end of things."
Dainsleif nodded faintly.
Then he stood up, dusting off the dirt on his clothes.
That movement — Skirk felt it was familiar. Like she saw it somewhere before, like she saw it on someone else.
And he turned, walking away into the night.
Skirk stood where she was, remembering.
That dusting movement was the same as master's.
She suddenly wanted to laugh a little.
These two people, across five hundred years of space, separated by betrayal and revenge, separated by hate and guilt—
Turned out to be mirrors of each other.
A shooting star grazed the faraway sky.
She looked in the direction that Dainsleif left in, not knowing if he made a wish or not.
But she thought, if master could witness the scene in this moment—
He might admit, the image Dainsleif standing under a starry sky, thinking of him, is closer to "perfection" than any battle.