Chapter Text
The last thing he remembers is being surrounded by his segments. And then the memories of twenty-five, eight, eighteen, sixty-five, and forty-five being deleted kicks into high gear. And then finally, the memories of the last years thirty-five had lived, and then had died.
So it is natural that he wakes up with a throbbing headache—given all of his segments memories of the last three hundred years have overwhelmed his senses.
How annoying.
Then he is (rudely) kicked roughly in his side. “Stop sleeping behind my shop, you runt!”
He jolts awake, sputtering as he looks up.
An angry shopkeeper runs at him with a broom. Zandik doesn't have the time to think about what is going on, scrambling away—out of the alley, and into the bright sunlit streets. But he doesn't really have time to think about what just happened.
STARTING POINT HYEJE: WELCOME, ZANDIK IBN LA'AHAD.
A screen appears above his head. Then the screen makes a large exclamation point. Quest: Find the Thousand-Ring Celestial Cedar Staff, it reads. Then, another exclamation point.
Objective: Get out of Hyeje.
Was that the town name? This was not what he died—three times!—for. Was it too late to die a fourth time? He is sure there is a nice cliff he could throw himself off of.
Then he looks down at himself. He is covered in soot, his arms carelessly wrapped in bandages. He is also small. Not a child small, but he knows he is not an adult.
Wonderful.
Then the screen randomly turned red. A feeling of dread floods his chest for reasons he cannot explain—it feels like fear. An emotion he is not used to feeling– much used to inflicting the emotion rather than feeling it himself.
HIDE HIDE HIDE HIDE HIDE. DON'T LET THEM FIND YOU.
What? A feeling of dread fills his chest, and he starts booking it. He finds a pile of hay, and instantly jumps inside of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see cloaked figures.
“The ritual was a success. But we must find the chosen one.”
He stays mostly quiet at that, because what? Since when has he been a chosen anything? He had never been chosen before—rejected by everyone, and everything. His village, his homeland—
(In the back of his mind, he can remember a wedding band being slipped onto his finger. Mauve eyes fond, and his heart races in his chest. There is loud music behind them.
“In the name of the God of Love, we pronounce the two of you as beloveds before the Cryo Archon!”
In the memory, he takes his husband's hand, and lets himself be led out of the room.)
The screen floats above him, and he touches it. Pressing a button that says ‘information.’
Name: Zandik Ibn La'Ahad
Role: Protagonist
Current Age: 14
Technique: Polished Scarlet Hallucination
Alright… Putting aside the ridiculously corny names, it would appear he's somehow been put into some other world. Maybe segment thirty-five erasing the other segments and then dying himself has finally pieced his soul back together, and he had reawoken in this place.
Polished Scarlet Hallucination… What a ridiculously cheesy name, it reminds him of those books that Feofan would pick up in their time in Liyue, back when Feofan was still his subordinate. If he shuts his eyes, he can see the lanky man raising a book with a bright grin that showed his glee.
“Isn't it fascinating, Commander? These stories about a soul being transferred to another world.. A power system so unlike our own.”
Feofan had been more amused than anything else, his mauve eyes lighting up with glee.
It is safe to come out now.
The screen tells him, so he gets out of the hay. And then he makes his way to the gates of this town– brushing the hay off of his dirty and ruined clothes. Adrenaline still pumps through his veins.
As he leaves this cursed town, the screen lights up.
Objective ‘Get out of Hyeje’ complete, rewarded five points.
There is a new screen that the screen loads. The top of it reads Skills, and when he swipes left, it reads Techniques. He can unlock new powers by putting points into the slots.
There is a technique that reads “Solid Torrent Catalyst of the Shattered Heaven.” Which, he has to groan out loud at. Who is naming these things? Ridiculous. Even his contraptions weren't named that, at least he had some class.
He taps on the little exclamation mark in the corner that accompanies the ridiculous title.
“Technique type: Alchemy. By using a tremendous amount of power, the user summons a divine-class torrent of water.” He reads out loud.
Technique types… He goes through each and every one to find out what knowledge this world has to offer.
Sword Art, Alchemy, Poison, Illusion, Array Formation, Movement, Seal, Qi Technique, and Body Refinement.
That had to be what that ‘Polished Scarlet Hallucination’ technique was, an illusion type. On top of that, there seemed to be power tiers and elements.
Mortal, Earth, Heaven, Divine, and Immortal. And the elements were: Fire, Water, Earth, Lightning, Blood, Void, Metal, Wood, and Shadow.
It is so complicated that he drags a hand over his face.
“… I suddenly really miss Teyvat,” Zandik found himself muttering in half–disgust. He didn't think he would ever find himself saying such blasphemy, longing for the home that rejected him.
At least things weren't so complicated back home, and the power system was just visions given to mortals. This? This was much more complicated.
“Whatever, let me just…” He puts five points into that divine–rank skill, which will unlock it. Or at least, it should have. Instead, a message flashes across the screen.
You are not a high enough cultivation rank to unlock this skill. Get stronger.
How annoying, Zandik fumes.
He swipes back to the original page, running a hand through his blue hair. Is this what he really died for?
Cultivation Rank: Mortal 1/5
— You are the weakest of the weak.
Medical Knowledge: 0/100
— If you try to patch yourself up, you may poison yourself instead!
Economy 0/100
— Maybe its best to let people pay for you
Music: 63/100 Pianist
— Skilled Pianist.
Engineering 0/100
— Maybe your hands are meant for another purpose.
Athletics 18/100
— Flexible, but could use some work
Aesthetics 45/100
— Pretty boy.
Just reading through these skills makes him want to grit his teeth. He was The Doctor before, Il Dottore, and now he was what–? Some weakling? At least he could still play the piano.
There were even more skills, but he didn't want to strain his eyes reading through all of them. His head was still throbbing.
He put five points into his cultivation rank, watching it go up.
Cultivation Rank: Mortal 2/5
+2 Athletics!
So there were five stages to each cultivation rank. Then there was also the fact that some skills seemed to be linked to others. He rubs a hand over his face, then watches as the talent screen disappears—and a new pop-up appears.
New objective unlocked: Find Feofan.
Feofan? As in his Feofan?
Great— so he is in a foreign world with a foreign power system, he is basically a weakling, some kind of cult is after him, and now he has to find Feofan and some kind of staff.
“Cigarettes better not exist in this world,” he breathes out before he walks on the long trek to what will be a very long journey.
He does not need to replace Feofan's lungs a second time.
Unfortunately, cigarettes do exist in this world.
When he gets to a new town, he can smell that awful disgusting stench—and his eyes sting from the smoke. He reaches a hand up, rubbing his eyes as if it might help. He can't see where he is going, and ends up bumping into someone else.
“Hi there!”
He looks up, only to see a woman with soft pink hair—accompanied by two others, and a small ten year old girl. He recognises the little girl instantly. How could he not?
Columbina?
So that would make the three older ladies… The three moon sisters? Dear lord, someone get him out of here.
“Poor thing, you're all dirty.”
To his utter surprise and distain, the one with pink hair picks him up from under his arms. He squirms, thrashing repeatedly— and then there is a sharp sting from his side.
Its then he realises that his side is killing me. He winces, and he tries— He tries but he can't stop the tears.
He feels weak. He hates feeling weak. Weakness means vulnerability, and vulnerability gets you killed.
“Sonnet!” Her sister, a girl with blond hair yells. “You're hurting him.”
Sonnet promptly drops him, and he winces. The third sister hands Columbina to the pink-haired girl, and lifts his shirt slightly. Its then that he sees the ugly bruise on his skin.
Its hideous, really.
“Oh, this poor thing…”
Sonnet looks at the blonde haired girl. “Aria, can we keep him?” She all but begs her sister. Aria—the girl with the blonde hair, frowns. Then she takes a good look at him.
“Poor thing is probably all on his own. Alright, we'll take him in.”
As he is forced to follow the sisters to what is no doubt his home, the screen appears again—this time with confetti on the screen before a message appears.
Achievement Unlocked!
— Adopted by the Hyposelenia family.
+2 Aesthetics
+2 Cultivation Rank
Achievements give points to other skills, it seems. This world is mocking him.
He's taken back home, and to a spare room. The third sister, who he later learns is named Canon, is the one who patches him up. She summons some ice in her hand, placing it against the bruise.
He winces.
“Easy,” Canon tells him. “Whatever happened?”
Zandik does not pull his punches. “I was kicked for sleeping behind a shop.”
Canon frowns at that, her eyes turning sorrowful in the face of the truth.
The youth of Sumeru do not dream. At least, they did not when he was at the Akademiya. But when he is placed in bed later that night, Aria tucks him in like he is a child, it does not take long for him to fall asleep.
He dreams of Feofan.
(The man's lips are curled into an amused smile, even as Zandik's head spins. Dancing was a common practice between newlyweds. But the infamous doctor can only go for so long before he begins to feel nauseous, and his motion sickness gets the better of him.
“Overwhelmed yourself, did you?” The Regrator's lips are curled into something that isn't quite a smirk. He raises a fork, taking a bite of their wedding cake. The frosting smears against his lips, and his new husband takes his time eating his cake.
Never has he ever been so jealous of a cake.
“I didn't take you as one to ignore your limits, Zandik–am.”
Zandik–am. The affectionate term makes his heart skid in his chest—a Sumerian term of endearment that he thought he would never hear. He wants to melt, but then he remembers that he has more dignity to melt at being called “My Zandik,” and straightens his posture in the chair.
“The good doctor can make an exception on our wedding night, Fanya.”
He leans in, kissing the frosting away. Sweet, he has always liked sweet things. And wedding cake frosting on his husband’s lips is by far the sweetest.)
When he wakes up, his face is wet. He brings his hand up, touching his face. The liquid is clear, but the ache in his chest is all too real.
He misses his husband—who isn't even his husband in this lifetime. He misses the other half of his soul, the only person who had ever came close to loving him for who he was and not what he could be. The only person who has ever completed him, who has accepted him as he was.
Was Feofan sleeping under the same star lit sky?
The screen goes off again.
Attribute Unlocked: Yearner
A man who yearns is a man who earns.
He hates this world, he really does.