Chapter Text
What an oddity. Scaramoucheʼs mental thread unravels as he stares at the ceiling, which seems to sink endlessly into the abyss. He wished the void would take him too—but every time the hollow darkness swallowed him, it spat him back out, like a vile heap of discarded scrap.
What an odd thing to say, wasnʼt it? To liken himself to pungent vomit that burns the throat with rancid purge. But what else could he be?
The Sixth of the Fatui Harbingers? The arrogant Balladeer?
The wide-eyed naive Kabukimono?
Kunikuzushi? A master schemer?
Neither the heavens nor the hell welcomed him; both realms recoiled from him. They will always spit him back on this mortal shell, condemning him to face another hell. Perhaps, this was what people probably meant by the repulsiveness of immortality.
But he knew well enough that there was no peace in death, yet no glory to attain through living. Maybe–just maybe, this was what Ei envisioned when she pursued her path to eternity. It was no paradise but a stasis.
All that remained for him was the unrelenting and endless stretch of time
Scaramouche had lived long enough to forget who told him that—people usually count to make themselves sleepy when they are having difficulties in sleeping. Yet, he had been counting while awake, having difficulties trying to live; over these five hundred grueling years. But his counting had only reached four tonight.
His fourth betrayal.
This was the fourth time he has been betrayed. Betrayed by the hands of someone he knew would betray him. He feels crazy—losing his mind, contemplating if this was indeed betrayal if he already anticipated this; there was an absence of trust coming from him. Therefore, there was no trust being broken at all—and betrayals were, well, laborious, when trust was shattered into unpatchable pieces.
But what does four truly mean, anyway? Well, four does not mean much; for a banker like Pantalone, it's low and worthless, and a mayor like Pulcinella would not bat an eye trying to earn four measly votes, but Scaramouche was neither a banker nor a politician. For a person like him who still has the ability to feel agony from it, to him—it brought such intensity. It cuts deep; it was a musou isshin that severs the heart from the body. He absolutely hated the apprehension that was tied with it. It was also an unlucky number that reeked so much of death, and so he wondered; Has his fourth betrayal finally brought him to his end?
In his defense, betrayals were not the common currency that he usually dealt in. As a Fatui harbinger, he counted on several significant things, like debts that he will collect and the ounce of blood that would be paid in exchange for unsettlement. How much money would be spent on the expanse of Pantalone’s ill-gotten stack?
Or, the days standing by before his troops would reach Tenshukaku to collect some speck of dust that wicked witch came to be, but when he arrived—he had not expected that he would meet a pile of scrap metal that puppet came to be. Scaramouche was overjoyed to witness that. In fact, he had forgotten to count how much time he spent laughing at her wake as Columbina sang with eerily but bittersweet reverence. To which that stupid kid Tartaglia berated him for his rudeness. What a fucking hypocrite, that snotty newbie, as if he hadn't run his mouth maligning his co-worker to the entirety of Liyue, warbling camaraderie bullshit.
He calculated the demise of others for so long, but he never forgot to count his demise too. He had anticipated this, but no matter how much he had seen or experienced, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that the world was utterly unfair and disgustingly treacherous. He would always wonder why the wheel of his fate would always roll in such a predicament.
The sixth of the fatui harbinger was strapped on a metal bed holding the scrap of metal that he was in place— now, captive by his very own colleague.
In his long life, he had worn many hats, but being a lab rat was the lowest of them all.
It is not like it did not fit him well, he was originally an experiment after all. A test subject for the electro gnosis. Being a lab rat was chapeau but it does not mean that it fits him, that he also likes it.
He never wanted to wear that hat but it was the colonel crowned on him by most people, a pet name title etched on his forehead like thorns, as his crucified body was hailed for hungry vultures to peck on.
Therefore, he was not surprised really, and certainly not surprised how it came to be. Dottore. That lunatic who never failed to outdo himself in sheer madness. He can always count on that being—to be the title holder of the biggest lunatic who has ever graced Teyvat and beyond.
After all of this bullshit was said and done, Scaramouche would love to tally the number of slices he could carve from each of Dottore’s stupid, equally crazed fragmented creations.
This fucker truly knew no bounds, huh. Scaramouche inwardly thought.
This lunatic decided that Teyvat would be so peaceful with one piece of (shit) Dottore and decided that he should make little echoes of himself,creating segments using different points of his life as a basis and sent them off to terrorize four corners of Teyvat. The amount of fucking narcissism this fucker has was on par with those fuckers in Celestia too.
That lunatic's face is thick but this puppet's patience is paper-thin. Can this stupid, sadistic foreplay end already?
His chest tightened in vexation, and the synthetic veins under his skin pulsated with frustration. His hands curled into fists as though he were already crushing a skull—definitely Dottore's.
"How sweet. You really are taking quite some time", he spoke through gritted teeth at the back of the man standing before him.
A low laugh was earned from the man in return, "Indeed, I am, puppet. Such opportunities are rare and hard to come by, rarer than the divine descending onto Teyvat."
There was a stillness hanging in the air. Like a blade about to drop—and someone about to bleed.
"I have to savor this."
A smile of mirth plastered proudly on his face, the man turned to face Scaramouche by the end of his reply.
Scaramouche held his chin high as he received a pair of blood-stained bottomless eyes belonging to the Doctor; staring back at him. "Now tell me, why shouldn't I spend my precious sweet time on you? Beelzebub might have failed in creating you, but I will not."
His lips curved into a meek smile, biting his tongue from barking a laugh at the mention of the Electro Archon—Beelzebub. Raiden Ei.
His God.
His Creator.
His Mother.
Funny, that stack of the significance of how the Electro Archon meant to him stood high, and yet, he was still nothing to her. Laughable, but it still stung like hell anyway.
Dottore spoke The Electro Archon’s name as if it was a disgusting slur rolling off his tongue. A sentiment he silently shared with Dottore towards his mother.
The magnitude of Dottore’s hatred towards the Electro Archon paled in comparison to this. After all, his vendetta against his creator her wasn’t just philosophical—it was deeply, intimately personal.
As Dottore took a few deliberate steps towards the metal board. Scaramouche caught a glimpse of glowing green casually dancing on Dottore’s fingertips, the Dendro Gnosis.
Why the hell does Dottore have the Dendro Gnosis? Did he remove it from the Akasha Terminal? Or worse... did he remove it unceremoniously?
If he did remove it, for what purpose? Why is he holding it in front of me if it is for a different use that would come later?
Sure, the gnoses are merely trinkets for Dottore, but he does not look like a child showing his new toy, but rather a murderer firmly holding a weapon in his hand—ready to strike at any moment.
He resisted the formation of the knit of his brows, not wanting Dottore to know what is his current line of thought.
If Scaramouche was not tied up, he would be instinctively clutching his chest to try to shield the wound where his heart should be. Dottore had just installed the Electro Gnosis, his heart inside his chest. The gnosis continued to glow like a burning grape as if it was pulsing. A cheap mockery of a heartbeat, to Scaramouche every throb felt like daggers.
He could not help but wonder why Dottore had left his chest wide open. Perhaps, the hole in his chest would never close, a permanent reminder that he will never truly possess one.
Premonition had just filled his brain. Dottore is not yet done with him.
"I cannot help but say this though, her creation is truly commendable. The Shogun can withstand such inhumane power, and is so devoid of humanity." Dottore shifted his gaze from the gnosis and gave the puppet a meaningful glance, the implications that rolled off the lunaticʼs tongue left a bitter taste. Like a predator unsatisfied with the appetite, seeking for the main dish to sweeten his canines.
You are discarded for being too human. Scaramouche’s blood ran numb, at the jab poking at his tender wound.
"You lunatic", his voice came out hoarse, to his surprise the bitter acid within his stomach did not find its way out His disgust towards this deranged lunatic made him want to puke his insides.
Maybe that would cleanse his body from the dirt that Dottore’s hands left on him. The filth on his skin was already embedded with perenniality, seeping through his elastic bones.
The lunatic’s low laugh echoed through the empty room before spitefully adding, "Her Majesty the Queen is not as sharp as you. Puppet, you have figured it out, haven’t you? My divine foresight"
Scaramouche did have it figured out, and it was a pathetic excuse for a foresight. He scoffed, voice hefty of contempt, "Thank God, Her Majesty was not a lunatic"
The faint smile on Dottore’s face faltered and then froze, his lips twitched against his human mask... "Because of that, you would not have any God to thank for this lunatic you speak of."
Ah. Right. You cannot make a mad person, mad. Scaramouche could feel a gnawing sense of unease breaking through his artificial skin.
Is this what humans call fear? Funny, after everything he had done and experienced. There was nothing to fear anymore. Well, he probably felt it before, a word on the list of his vendetta against himself. A badge of vulnerability he wore hidden under his sleeves.
Dottore tossed the Dendro Gnosis on a cold metal tray. Which caused the bundle of metallic strings he would call his ‘veins’ to jump in fear; when it hit the plate.
Dottore’s left hand reached for his opened chest—the lunatic’s slender and pale fingers were like a monster’s claw as they dug into his artificial flesh until it reached his heart, the Electro Gnosis. His blood freckled the pale and handsome face of the lunatic; merging with the sinister curvature of his lips, as a viscous puddle of blood soaked through his clothes and bed, and then stained the marbled floor—creating a gruesome viscid purplish-crimson tide.
He is bleeding. That purplish-red liquid derived from the purest source of the electro elements might have been installed as a special liquid for his bodily function—a crude-smelling oil designed to aid the vitality of his artificial body
But to Scaramouche, this is still his blood. A substance that certifies that he also bleeds when wounded. He is not that far from being human, after all.
Scaramouche’s eyes rolled back and convulsed as he felt the Electro Gnosis being held in the clutches of the devil inside his chest but not being pulled out just yet. This is torture, this is torment. This is the price of having a heart.
And he had taken a deal with the devil for this purchase.
A part of Scaramouche cursed the Gnosis inside of him, though deep down, he’s most likely cursing no one but himself for greedily harboring what wasn’t his, but he knows he is willing to pay any price—pay his blood and his being for his accursed thing to be his heart instead.
It still hurts him, pain haunts him and it has always been too great of a price.
It hurts. It hurts.
It hurts. It hurts so much.
It fucking hurts. You accursed lunatic. Damn you.
IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. DON'T PULL IT OUT. I CANNOT HAVE IT TAKEN AWAY FROM ME AGAIN. STOP. IT HURTS. OHMYMOTHERWHYHAVEYOU FORSAKEN ME. IT HURTS. EVERYTHINGBUT MY HEART. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT FUCKING HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. PLEASE ANYTBING BUT THE GNOSIS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS. IT HURTS.
Dottore’s crimson eyes burned with malice and hatred as he leaned in to whisper back. The grasp of his claws tightened around the Gnosis inside Scaramouche’s chest, sending a surge of pain through his body. A muffled sound came out from his shaking lips, a desperate plea for air that barely caught any. The lunatic caught the exhibit of pain from the puppet’s face. Like the detached onlooker that he is, a sinister smile that he always wears proudly returned to his face; satisfied with the painting that he carved out with his own hands.
His free hand grabbed Scaramouche’s sweat-damp hair, forcefully yanking the puppet’s face closer to the lunatic that he truly was. Dottore wanted the puppet to see the lunacy that he had been spouting like a knockdown gramophone. That damned nickname echoed through his tottering head, the sound it made was analogous to the screeching that plates make when a fork leaves a deafening trail of scratches
Dottore could not help but tighten his hold, he wanted to hear this puppet cry and block out the screeching of plates and forks he was causing.
"Tell me puppet, why do you call this thing a heart when it does not beat? Tell me puppet how does this heart pump blood when your blood is just crude oil hiding beneath your fake skin? Your arteries are not filled with blood but with Beelzebub’s pitiful amount of spare electro." The veins on Dottore’s neck flexed as he screamed vociferously, intensified by Scaramouche's lack of auditory response.
Scaramouche could feel the pressure in his skull building, threatening to explode. He could almost feel his eardrums being ruptured as Dottore continued to violate his sense of hearing.
Tch. How fragile. He gave himself away to Scaramouche, his ten keys temptingly exposed to the puppet to ram.
He pushed the red button and imploded the feigned sanity of this lunatic and spoiled the catalyst. He turned his head slightly to the side, speaking back into the lunatic’s ear with equal disdain.
The puppet’s eyes were inhumanely cold, divinely glowing but sinisterly glittering, meeting a pair of crazed crimson. Then whispered.
"Tell me, do you ask because you do not have a heart, huh, Zandik?" His voice lay like stagnant water, unperturbed, yet his voice was deep, wrenched out from loathing.
Zandik. The outcast of the Akademiya, a persona of Dottore’s life that could not be sliced from his brain, a festering pest of his pitiful past. It was not his research papers that were rejected at the time; it was Zandik who was being rejected by the world. This was a period of his life that he did not bother creating a segment for. This was Dottore’s only sore spot, and Scaramouche wants to land a blow on it.
Zandik.
The room fell eerily silent, except for the faint buzz of the Dendro Gnosis. An ill sound of foreboding of the Divine Will’s impending descent.
Then, like the first ripple on still water, Dottore replied with unnerving serenity, “Like this.” He first felt Dottoreʼs hand tightening, a brutal clench around his heart, and then—
The glint from his eyes fluctuated as they widened in surprise. Scaramouche then felt what he feared the most, the sensation of his heart being torn away from the very core of his being, a sensation of your soul being torn into halves.
Violently and cruelly so. His body convulsed and twisted to be freed from the straps, yearning to release the surge of electrifying pain in his system.
His vision buzzed with white sparks, but the empty room too pulsed erratically with elemental energy. The frenzy electro unleashed bolts of lightning, striking everything it touched; metallic things clanked and glassware shattered around him, but he could not care less about the herald of material chaos in the room. Dottore broke something in him that cannot be tidied up.
To Scaramouche it was not the gnosis that was being ripped from him, but his very heart that he had sought for centuries. It was the heart he had been searching for; this heart was the testimony of his being. This heart was his humanity.
But it was ruptured from him in an instant, and he was powerless to protect it.
In Beelzebub’s eyes, he was a puppet that was built to house a gnosis and lead in her stead; that was his purpose. A purpose that he had failed the very moment his heart was placed within his chest. This was the heart that made him shed tears that he should not have.
"The Divine Will had truly left this thing, what a pity," the lunatic lamented, but there was no authentic display of sentimental loss.
Dottore paid no mind to the convulsing puppet he just mutilated, as if Scaramouche were just another failed, disposable test subject in his lab. His eyes lingered instead on the gnosis, placing greater importance on it and observing the lack of divinity within.
He lazily dragged his crimson eyes on Scaramouche, bored. He watched as the puppet tried to wiggle out of the strings, as if he was just watching a line of ants climbing the wall. A natural phenomenon in the wilderness, predictable and inevitable. This is the food chain, where the apex predator preys on the weak under the survival of the fittest. Now that he had his fill, Dottore could only watch the life being drained out of his meal. "Her Majesty, the Resistance, the people of Teyvat, and the Abyss have only one goal over the years."
Dottore’s bloodied hands reached for the Dendro Gnosis, immediately staining it with the sinner’s blood. “That is to kill whoever God might have the blessings of the Divine. To kill whoever will be the enactor of that will.”
The Electro Gnosis and the Dendro Gnosis knocked on each other with a crackling sound as Dottore held them firmly in one hand, his bloodied fingers flexing around the gnoses, washing them with sin. A frenzied static of electro danced around the Dendro Gnosis as if having an irritable elemental reaction. He studied them for a moment, savoring the fleeting connection between their powers.
Dottore started to speak into them, enthralled with the mystery it posses that he covets to uncover. “The Raiden Shogun was assassinated by the Resistance a few months ago, and yet Teyvat remains guarded. Humans fear that only two things come down from Celestia, a Celestial Nail or the descent of the Divine Will." Dottore barked a laugh, finding humor in his own monologue, delightfully chatting with himself.
"The latter is far less catastrophic, but it is what everyone feared the most. Ironic, isn’t it? How curious." A seed of enthusiasm took root on his face as he smiled excitedly.
Dottore took a step toward Scaramouche, looking down at him. His crimson eyes gleamed with intensity, and the rotten flesh in his skull started to drip out with madness. "Do you know why, puppet?" his voice dripped with venom that is his delusional tirade of divinity, revering each word as divine revelation passed onto his tongue.
"The root cause remains, uneliminated, and human arrogance alone would not be sufficient to do so. The Divine Knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended and Their Will cannot be fully eliminated." Dottore's body loomed over the dazed puppet. When his eyes finally registered the result of his outburst, he merely clicked his tongue at such display, so beneath him, how disgraceful. "You are supposedly ‘Divine.’ You do understand this. You know whatever we have, what they have been doing is futile."
The lunatic voice danced in the puppet’s ear like a child’s lullaby, coaxing the pain to go away and lulling him to sleep. "There is only one way to save this godforsaken land and its people. That is to possess and control that Divine Will."
The ringing in Scaramouche’s head festered his rationality to think. Control the fuck, what now? He winced at the sharp needle that seemed to puncture his brain.
That’s mad. You cannot control the Divine Will; the Divine Will controls you, and even Beelzebub’s magnum opus was not spared from it. He had seen it a few months ago—how Celestia moved threateningly on top of Inazuma, looming over to drop a nail whenever they liked it. It is still a mystery to him how Inazuma remained unscathed when an enactor was attacked and the Divine Will lost its host, yet Rex Lapis was given divine punishment for a mere rumor of forging a contract with the Tsaritsa; even an upper echelon of the Fatui such as himself did not even regard that hearsay. Whatever Dottore planned to do was outrageous, though. It should have already been given, but this wassimply gone
No. He wanted to contest, but it would be better if he kept it to himself. His body was already at its limits because of Dottore ripping the gnosis with his bare hands, he was absolutely sure that his chest plate was damaged– he cannot even control most of his joints anymore. He cannot take another round of madness from Dottore. He was done dealing with his mental gymnastics for the day. He does not want to be a part of whatever delirium that the Doctor had started to proposition him
The Puppet winced as he felt cold knuckles painting his hollowed cheek with red grease, the touch was layered with a twisted affection. In Dottore’s bloodied hand were the gnoses, their soft gleam slipped through his slender fingers as if trying to escape his grasp, much like Scaramoucheʼs desire to turn away from Dottore’s touch that feigned tenderness.
"Are you not tempted to prove that you're a well-functioning vessel? After this, no one can discard you." The venom on Dottore’s fangs dripped onto Scaramouche and continued to seep through his arteries, like poison coagulating his soundness. “Beelzebub will emerge from the Plane of Euthymia to find her bygone scrap is above her.”
No. I don't want that.
Scaramouche wanted to reply, but his throat was blocked by his blood. His pitiful attempt to speak caused his saliva and blood to foam in his mouth, making a disturbing gurgling sound. A trail of red burned from the side of his mouth, as if something inside of him was overflowing with corrosion.
Dottore only watched the lamb writhing in agonizing pain as the maggots dug wounds into his flesh. He remained unmoved, speaking only to cut the silence in the air.
The lamb was a reflection of the puppet’s former self. It was a backdrop to a tortuous display of decay, and Dottore was the puppeteer.
Scaramouche shouldʼve been made of flesh but nonetheless, he was meant to decay differently, not like the human flesh. He was meant to be corroded. He's only a patched pieces of metal. He is privy to corrosion, susceptible to rust and rot, and Scaramouche had been corrupted to the point of no return. Defiled, altered, and sullied. He was truly beyond salvation.
He was the Electro Archon’s masterpiece, untouched by time. The five hundred years of abandonment and neglect might not have had any visible effect on him, as he remained peerlessly and vividly beautiful when seen through the concealing mist by others.
But Dottore was different. He saw the world differently. In his own crude and dark lenses, behind that beautiful shell—is a rotten scallop of a dead man's remains, which felt disgustingly alien to the human touch. There are no bones to shatter but only soft tissues to squash.
The puppet on the metal board in front of Dottore is far from immaculate. This was exactly what Dottore wanted: for the puppet’s being to crumble from within, making it easier for him to break it down. Scaramouche could only view this as a twisted trial for his humanity to be proven.
“Not only having the ability to hold the Electro Gnosis but also the Dendro Gnosis, and being capable of—”. Dottore threw his head back as if about to pray. His eyes were not fixed on the ceiling but at something that transcended the concrete creations of humans.
A bored, manic breath softly escaped Dottore’s pipe as he said, “You are meant for this puppet.”
Scaramouche saw Dottore's unsettling smile, a chilling sight that preceded the madman's fist merging with his chest. The impact was accompanied by a sickening crunch as the Electro and Dendro gnosis were violently sowed within him.
The Puppet woke up in a pitch-black darkness expanding around him, like a black hole about to swallow him whole. There was no pain in his chest anymore. Wait. Scaramouche placed his hands, trying to feel his torso. His chest was unnaturally seamless, with a strange resounding emission of elemental energy from something within.
It felt like a heartbeat. His chest curled in warmth.
What the fuck did just happen? The Gnoses were planted in his chest, and a humiliating sight of Dottore being ejected from the impact and then—
There was a blinding white light.
He tried to search for something through the void but failed to see anything, gaining no answers from his senses. Where the hell is he? When he thought of it, an invisible sun broke through the clouds. It felt unnatural and wrong, like a fluorescent bulb illuminating a studio, yet despite its artificial luminescence, it revealed his surroundings.
An otherworldly tall golden tree was swaying against the hurling wind, yet he cannot feel any breeze on his skin. The branches of the tree were exquisite and expanded throughout the sky, as though holding the entire sky in its clutches. Its bark was like an obelisk that stretched like a wall radiating a golden, ethereal glow, shimmering with celestial energy. This was no mere tree but a living being— standing tall and proud in front of him. However, something was bugging the puppet beyond its expansive size and blinding light.
It was the lack of shadow that piqued his interest. The tree does not cast a shadow upon the ground.
Everything in this place defiled the natural law. Particularly that wind.
It would be logical for him to assume that the experiments Dottore had on his body had rendered his body unable to function sensibly, possibly dulled his brain too, but there was no breeze ruffling his hair and the long sleeves of his clothes remained untouched, unruffled
Yet, the tree before him was shedding several thousands of leaves, branches stubbornly cracking against the barbaric, unseen wind. He instinctively raised his arms to shield his face from the incoming whirl of wind as he stepped forward, but nothing welcomed his face.
Scaramouche frowned as he lowered his guard and continued his pursuit towards the gradually deteriorating tree. As he approached the tree, he started to hear a chaotic choir of voices that began to stir. It was discordant but harmonious. Loud yet soft, overlapping, but every word was perfectly enunciated. He heard thousands of voices arguing inside his skull. The voices sounded as if they were moving and tangible, as if the wind carried them, he could not feel or someone he could not, circling him as they talked. Maybe he had stuck too close to that lunatic, and he had gone mad himself.
"You must — him."
"You must not — him."
"You intruder!"
"NO. HE MUST NOT BE ??????"
"Save Teyvat from its impending doom."
"He is coming"
"He is coming"
"He is coming"
"WHAT IS OWED MUST BE REPAID. FOR WHAT WAS TAKEN MUST BE RETURNED"
"Do not trust what the ---- sqjs"
"He's here, he has come"
"It's him"
"I SWEAR UPON THE GODS ABOVE, I WILL NEVER REST IN PEACE UNTIL I-"
"Y#^ I WILL &@?d HIM."
"MY B24@SH_D"
"Convertimini ad me, et salvi eritis, omnes fines terræ, quia ego Deus, et non est alius"
His head buzzed with pain, unable to block out the voices—he can't hear them all, yet he could hear them all. He fell to his knees as the voices assaulted his eardrums. No, they weren't just assaulting—they were invading, slipping through his ear canal and burrowing straight into the center of his brain. It felt as though the voices were being injected directly into his mind, etching like a knife and carving words into his flesh.
"*** **** *** ***** ** **** **** world"
Scaramouche collapsed on the ground, unable to withstand the voices swirling into his head. His own voice, screaming along with the torrent of voices.
"I WILL **** YOU."
He clutched his head, curling into the ground. His fingers tilled the scorched earth. Was the earth always this scorched? The puppet felt the strings pulling the corners of his lips to whisper against the earth, “Convertimini ad me, et salvi eritis, omnes fines terræ, quia ego Deus, et non est alius.”
He repeatedly spoke.
"Convertimini ad me, et salvi eritis, omnes fines terræ, quia ego Deus, et non est alius."
"Convertimini ad me, et salvi eritis, omnes fines terræ, quia ego Deus, et non est alius."
"Convertimini ad me, et salvi eritis, omnes fines terræ, quia ego Deus, et non est alius."
"Convertimini ad me, et salvi eritis, omnes fines terræ, quia ego Deus, et non est alius"
Turn to me and be saved, all the ends of the earth, for I am God, and there is no other.
Scaramouche lifted his head with sheer will, casting one last, squinted glance at the tree before him. The wind had already stripped its branches of lush leaves, plucking away its divinity like vultures scavenging the remnants.
The Puppet then understood.
The rule of the seven Archons had ended, Teyvat must only have one God.
-
A light pierced through the dark clouds of Sumeru, cutting a violent path of white brilliance toward the Sumeru City. The sting of the light could be seen anchoring itself from miles away. The bustling village of Caravan Ribat came to a halt, its people captivated by the spectacle. The hum of divinity vibrated through the air, sending mental shockwaves rippling through the surrounding mortals. Normally, this place would be filled with eremites and foreigners, sharing drinks as the sound of drums and flutes orchestrated a lively festivity.
From the Cadavab Rivat, the General Mahamatra observed the Divine Light descending with narrowed eyes. He presumed it must have struck the Sanctuary of Surasthana, where the Lesser Lord Kusinali resided, nurtured for centuries to become the vessel for the Divine Will.
The situation required him to be near the Akademiya, ensuring the safe passage of divinity and preventing any malicious interruptions. But there was a problem preventing him from rendering his duty. He turned to the foreigners who had been interrogated just that afternoon—a malicious interruption that had caused him to stray from his post. "Halt the interrogation indefinitely. Take them with us. We must return to the Akademiya as soon as possible."
A group of mercenaries headed by Dehya arrived early enough to catch the Generalʼs orders. One of them spoke, his face was rowdy with sand and sweat. "As soon as possible? But we had only arrived." His tone was nearly aggressive, edging with frustration.
Then, a woman as fierce as the red cape that trailed behind her emerged from the jagged group. That woman was Dehya. Her expression was dreadful, the sharpness in her eyes crackling like flames. "Yes, we must. There's something wrong with this." As she said this, her gaze shifted to Cyno, the rest of her words being spoken with quietude.
When she heard that Cyno needed a team to escort some unauthorized individuals he caught this afternoon to be brought to the Akademiya,. Dehya immediately gathered her men without hesitation. Cyno had always been like that appearing out of nowhere and roping people into a tapestry of things. But above all the things said and done, Dehya was glad to help, of course. Her trust and faith in the general are unwavering, as is the bond of friendship they shared.
But on their way, the Divine Will descended. It was not a blessing but a beacon—an omen of calamity. And Cyno is needed to be there to stop it from unfolding, and here is the said general, several miles away from it. This is too much of a coincidence.
Cyno’s scarlet eyes met Dehya’s. He knew something was wrong—that was why he never truly left the Akademiya. His other half remained there, watching in his place with eyes sharper than any spear.
He could only hope that everything was all right on Tignari's side.
The Divine Will had finally descended upon Lesser Lord Kusanali, and he had been successfully lured out by the Resistance—drawn away from his post. It was a clear diversion. The Resistance had infiltrated Tenshukaku and, against all odds, confronted the Shogun head-on. There was no way an entire platoon could be compromised at such a critical juncture by coincidence.
The Akademiya hadn't exactly been subtle in preparing Lesser Lord Kusanali as a vessel. But for the Resistance to anticipate the exact moment the Divine Will would descend?
That was no accident. No coincidences.
Unless... the Akademiya had been withholding the information all along. There goes the missing piece of the General, completing the puzzles.
This was the line of thought that Cyno refused to acknowledge.
Did the Akademiya collude with the Resistance and willingly raise their God for slaughter? Have they thought of nothing in their God but a slaughterbait?
He had served under the God and witnessed how the Akademiya rejected Lesser Lord Kusinali as the Dendro Archon. That was why they kept her confined within the Sanctuary of Surasthana, under the pretense of 'preparing her for Higher Ascension.'
Cyno gripped his polearm tightly, speaking over his shoulder as he addressed the blonde samurai, still facing away from the captives. Though his back was turned, his gaze lingered on the intruders—not quite intimidating enough to unsettle this strange fellow.
"Kaedehara Kazuha, a wandering traveler, was it? How long can you keep up the farce now that the subject of your presence has arrived?"
Kazuha watched the growing light, his expression unreadable. The wind tousled his hair, moving in the direction of the descending Divine Will, as though it, too, was drawn to it.
"For as long as your loyalty to your God lasts, General," Kazuha replied, his voice steady.
Cyno did not reply and unspeakingly left in a haste, leaving a few sparks on electro that soon dissipated in the air.
Unfortunately it was not when Cyno had left the scene when a soldier arrived panting. He collapsed onto the cold ground, and his eyes briefly brushed with the samurai that the General had previously addressed, the connection was gone as soon as it appeared.
"The F-fatui! They are here! They have infiltrated the Sanctuary of the Surasthana." The soldier gasped, his voice thick with panic.
As Dehya’s men dragged his body away to deliver his head to the Matra. A subtle smile appeared on the blonde samurai's handsome face, as his fingers clenched around an empty husk of a dead's man dream in his bandaged hand.