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Author Note:
[ ] = When Twilight is speaking.
{ } = When talking through Telepathy.
' ' = When thinking in your mind.
<< >> = When talking with your Pokémon or Tamed Beast.
--- --- = When describing a certain period OR Another place.
** ** = Point Of View, i.e., POV
/// /// = In Call
" " = System, and when talking to it.
「 」 = Thoughts being heard
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---Mondstadt---
Once, there was a city that danced with the wind.
Mondstadt — Crown of the North, jewel of the northeast of Teyvat — stood proud amidst the embrace of Starfell Valley, nestled like a dream on an island in the serene heart of Cider Lake. The scent of dandelions would drift across the waters, carried on gentle breezes — a divine gift from Barbatos, the Anemo Archon himself. Windmills turned lazily under the sun, cobbled streets teemed with laughter, and the great statue of Barbatos watched silently over the city, its stone face forever cast in calm serenity.
That... was several months ago.
That was "before".
Now? Now there is no laughter. No scent of dandelions. No wind that comforts.
From a distance, the towering stone walls of the old castle still rise against the horizon, an empty promise of safety. But step beyond them, and all illusions vanish. There is nothing. No homes. No bustling markets. No cozy taverns echoing with bard songs. No Favonius Cathedral to offer solace beneath stained-glass light. No statue of Barbatos. Not even rubble.
Only a vast, barren expanse — wrong in color, wrong in feeling.
The ground is red. Not rusted red. Not painted red.
It is red from blood — thick, old, but never dried. The soil has drunk too deep. It reeks of iron, rot, and grief. A stench so potent that even battle-hardened soldiers, men and women who've watched comrades fall by the dozens, have stumbled and retched. Some never stop.
And the silence... The silence screams.
Compared to Inazuma's storms and Liyue's tremors, Mondstadt suffered the worst. Not because of how they were attacked — but because of who they trusted. In the end, it wasn't war that consumed Mondstadt. It was betrayal.
They followed a name, a face, a voice they started to crown as Hero. And when Phase I of the war began — they paid in blood. Over 99.5% of the city's population — gone in a single, wretched act.
The betrayer is long dead. The wind wiped that name to never be heard in the history.
But what does it matter?
The city is still dead.
There is no rebuilding Mondstadt.
There is no forgiveness.
Only a haunted plain, where even the wind dares not blow.
And sometimes, if you listen closely on a moonless night...
You can hear it.
A single voice, carried on the cursed air:
???: Forgive me... for failing to protect you.
But the wind is silent now.
And it does not forgive.
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High above the scarred bones of a forgotten city, Primis hovered — motionless, expressionless — suspended between sky and silence. Below him stretched the remains of Mondstadt, or rather, the absence of it: a lifeless wound carved into the flesh of Teyvat. Where once cobblestones kissed the feet of joyous crowds, where windmills turned beneath golden sunrises and bard songs floated like perfume — now there was only ash-red earth, drenched in ancient blood and memories that refused to fade.
The wind howled.
Not in rage, but in mourning — an endless lament for a god who did not come, and for a people who died waiting.
Yet as the wind reached Primis, it changed.
Its fury softened. Its cry dimmed.
It curled around him with reverence, almost worship. Whispering, weaving through his long hair — darker than the deepest void, yet impossibly pure. It danced through his robe, a garment not stitched by mortal hands, but shaped from paradox itself: blacker than darkness, and brighter than the light that first broke the void.
The wind, though born of the Anemo God, sought him now.
Not as a master.
But as a witness.
Still, Primis's gaze did not lift from the city below. His eyes — Blue-Rinne stared unblinking at what remained of Mondstadt.
Nothing stirred.
No soul.
No sound.
Only the echo of betrayal, and the shadow of a god's silence.
And yet... in the end, he decided to give them, A Hope.
When the cycle was shattered — when death became oblivion and not rebirth — He who shaped a Cycle of Reincarnation, threading lost souls back into the loom of existence. He who ensured every fallen heart of Mondstadt would rise again, somewhere, someday.
The people remembered.
They praised him.
They knelt before him in prayer, in awe.
But beneath their reverence festered something raw — resentment. Not for him, but for Barbatos. For the god who once walked among them with songs and wine... and vanished when the skies bled.
That resentment, Primis could still feel. It clung to the soil, to the wind, to the very bones of the ruined city. Unspoken. Unreleased. Undying.
But he, he blamed neither.
He understood.
The people had been seduced by Yuuya — a voice wrapped in honeyed promises, a puppeteer of despair. They were deceived, yes, but they were also proud. In time, they convinced themselves they no longer needed gods. No longer needed divine guidance. This was their city, their freedom, their fate.
Until the moment came... when freedom crumbled beneath the weight of reality.
When war eclipsed hope.
And in that final breath, they reached upward — and found no hand to hold.
Barbatos… had not turned his back.
He had been broken. Crippled by the aftermath of Khaenri'ah, his essence splintered, his soul barely held together by song and sorrow. He wasn't absent from apathy — he was absent from agony. In healing. In hiding. In helplessness.
And even now, Primis knew, Barbatos bore the guilt of it like an eternal chain.
Primis understood both. But... he didn't care.
Because it was no longer his burden.
He had fulfilled his part. He had rewritten the laws of death, and in doing so, saved what could still be saved. That was more than any being — god or man — had ever done.
As the wind coiled softly around him, as if in gratitude, Primis closed his eyes. Just for a moment.
The ruins of Mondstadt would never sing again. But from its ashes, souls would walk once more.
And that was enough.
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Time went by, and soon night came.
A beautiful moon loomed high above the world, cloaked in an eerie silver glow. Its cold light cascaded down like liquid frost, illuminating the shattered remains of the once-proud City of Freedom. The pale beams did not stop at the ruins—they spilled across all of Mondstadt, washing over the gentle hills, silent rivers, and sleeping forests. Every blade of grass, every whispering tree, every ancient stone was bathed in this ghostly luminance, as though the moon itself mourned what had become of the land.
But something moved in the darkness.
In the forgotten corners of the nation, where shadows clung stubbornly to the earth, things began to stir. At first, it was subtle—strange whispers on the wind, the rustle of something dragging itself through the underbrush, unseen but undeniably real. Then the signs grew bolder. Entire settlements were swallowed by silence. The winds changed direction, carrying not the scent of pine or mist, but the foul breath of something ancient and wrong.
And then they emerged.
The monsters did not walk as men do. They scuttled—enormous spider-like abominations, grotesque and unnatural. Their limbs were long and fractured, thin as tree branches but stronger than steel, moving with an insectoid grace that betrayed the weight of their bloated, horrifying bodies. Skeletal structures jutted from their frames like armor, the crown of each beast dominated by a cluster of warped skulls—some bestial, some eerily human, all horned and grinning with hollow malice. Fur, thick and rotting, hung in clumps from their mutilated flesh, and where their skin had torn, it revealed muscle that pulsed with a sickly red light.
One look was enough to steal the breath from a man's lungs.
In their presence, fear became a living thing. A primal, paralyzing dread crawled into the hearts of those unfortunate enough to behold them, a feeling so visceral it felt like being watched by something from the birth of nightmares—something that was never meant to crawl into the light. A single monster was a calamity. A dozen, a cataclysm. But now... they numbered in the millions.
From the Wolvendom to the Stormbearer Mountains, from the Whispering Woods to Springvale, the creatures poured out like a living plague, consuming the land in shadow. Yet two places remained untouched: Windrise, where the old winds still whispered to the Archon, and the ruined City of Freedom, now silent under the moonlight.
These creatures were not new to this world.
Primis had seen them before—in the future twisted by fate. Lumine had fought them amid the cursed blizzards of Dragonspine, alongside Jean and the remaining Knights of Favonius. And yet, even then, they were but a handful. Now, Mondstadt stood under siege by a legion of them.
Whatever had brought them here—whatever had kept them out—was no longer watching from the shadows.
It had begun to act.
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Pic: Spider-Monster
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The monsters—those wretched, crawling echoes of nightmare—continued their slow, unfeeling march. Their limbs clicked and scraped over stone and soil, their grotesque silhouettes cutting through the silvered haze that now blanketed Mondstadt. No birds sang, no wolves howled, no wind whispered anymore. Life had long fled. Not a single human breath stirred the air. The nation was dead.
But the creatures did not stop.
There was no purpose in their stride other than dominion. They sought to make the entire land theirs, to carve it from the bones of what once was. Even the stillness of Windrise and the shattered pride of the City of Freedom would not remain untouched. They would crawl, rot, and infest until nothing but their twisted kin remained.
Then the sky cracked.
BANG.
Seven pillars of radiant, elemental light tore through the sky like judgment itself, slamming into the earth with enough force to split the silence that had gripped Mondstadt like a noose.
Two of red and light blue flared to life on the left side of Cider Lake, erupting into swirling fire and frost.
Two more, light blue and yellow, scorched down on the right side, their brilliance searing into the earth like a divine brand.
Within the broken skeleton of the empty city, twin columns of red and purple howled down like twin meteors, setting ancient stone ablaze with primal fury.
And at the southern edge of Mondstadt, one final light, teal as the sky's first breath, descended in perfect silence—yet its arrival carried the weight of an ancient windstorm.
The entire land seemed to pause. Even the monstrous tide halted, their foul bodies quivering, reacting not out of fear but instinct. Something had changed.
The light began to fade—and from within each pillar stepped forth a figure.
Knights.
Not the Knights of Favonius that the people once saw parading through the city square in laughter and hope, but something reborn. Resurrected. Their armor gleamed like molten moonlight, forged not only of steel, but of memory and power. Sharp, angular plates wrapped around them, polished silver etched with forgotten sigils. Each helmet bore long, curved horns, twisted in elegant patterns that whispered of battles long passed and oaths never broken.
Cascading down their backs were vivid blue cloaks, flaring and rippling like living flame. Their presence was not warm, however—it was like the ghost of a storm, proud and righteous.
Each Knight held a sword, its jagged edge forged in a cruel, ceremonial style—deadly and beautiful. Though each blade appeared the same in form, something subtle, something ancient pulsed within each one. These were not mere weapons.
Primis had understood. He knew that a warrior's soul was often bonded to their blade. And so he did not ask them to forsake what they had become—he offered them armor, and forged new weapons as vessels, shells to house their true blades. Inside each one was their signature—Dawn, Song, Edge, Catalyst—merged into the steel like buried heartbeats. To wield them was to remember.
On the left, flanking Cider Lake, stood Diluc and Kaeya, shoulder to shoulder. One burned like fire, the other chilled like ice—but both now stood united, unflinching.
To the right, Eula stood cold as vengeance, while Albedo's gaze shimmered with quiet calculation, his hands steady with purpose and alchemy alike.
Within the ruins of the city, Lisa's eyes sparked like thunderclouds, while Amber's resolve blazed with unyielding light.
And to the south, alone beneath the teal winds of Anemo, stood Jean—not as Grand Master, not as leader—but as the beating heart of Mondstadt, its last breath made manifest in silver and steel.
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Pic: Knight Armor
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The monsters watched. The Knights stared back.
No words were spoken.
There was only the weight of memory, the gravity of loss, and the promise of vengeance.
Then the earth trembled again—not from light, but from motion.
The monsters screamed, an ungodly, chittering cacophony that cracked the stillness like shattered glass. In unison, they surged.
The Knights answered—not with fear, but with resolve.
The charge began.
Steel met fang. Flame collided with shadow. Lightning carved through fur and bone. Ice froze even time itself. The land of Mondstadt, long silent, roared once more—not in joy or peace, but in war.
And under the watchful eye of the beautiful, merciless moon, the final battle for a fallen kingdom began.
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The battlefield was a black canvas of crawling nightmares—a sea of spider-like abominations, fanged, skeletal, grotesque. Their bodies twisted and towering, cloaked in matted fur, barbed limbs clicking as they swarmed forward in the tens of thousands. The earth trembled beneath their advance.
And then—he stepped forward.
Diluc Ragnvindr, the Crimson Knight, the Flame Incarnate.
The moment his foot touched the charred soil, the Pyro element surged—an eruption of red-gold light burst from his core, engulfing his entire body. A corona of flames whipped out in every direction, vaporizing the air itself with the sheer heat. His silhouette vanished into the blaze.
Then—it shifted.
From within that roaring inferno, a Fire Phoenix was born.
Massive. Blinding. Divine.
Its wings stretched across the horizon, its cry ripped through the sky like a god's roar. Its body, forged from molten flame and ancient fury, surged forward like a meteor of destruction. The monsters shrieked as their instincts screamed at them to flee—but it was too late.
The phoenix collided with the horde.
BOOOOM.
The impact was cataclysmic. A city-sized wave of fire exploded outward, swallowing the front lines of the monster army. The fire didn't burn from the outside in—it ignited the monsters from the inside, setting their marrow ablaze. Chitinous shells cracked like porcelain, demonic flesh bubbled and peeled, and their twisted bones exploded in bursts of superheated plasma.
Hundreds. Gone. In seconds.
The phoenix soared for miles, its path a trail of pure annihilation—forests incinerated, hills reduced to glass, the very air left scorched and still in its wake. And then, with a final echoing cry, it burst apart, vanishing into spiraling embers.
From the swirling ash—Diluc emerged again.
He stood tall in the center of the blackened battlefield, surrounded by thousands more monsters, his cloak trailing flames, his armor glowing with Pyro energy. Behind him, a trail of molten destruction stretched for miles, a permanent scar across the land.
The nearby monsters reeled back. Even they—creatures of death and terror—refused to step closer. Their instincts screamed of doom.
But there was no mercy.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Diluc raised his sword. The flame-wreathed weapon hissed in the air as it pulsed with destructive power, each ember glowing with intent.
Then—he swung.
SWUNG!!
And the world broke.
The blade tore through multiple monsters in a single arc, slicing through armor harder than steel like it was air. Limbs, heads, torsos—gone in a flash, reduced to chunks of molten slag before even hitting the ground. What once took the full might of the Knights of Favonius to fell even one… Diluc now cleaved through by the dozens. Effortlessly.
He moved like a force of nature. One slash. Then another. And another. With each step, another creature fell. Every strike painted the night with more fire, more screams, more ash.
He did not stop.
Surrounded. Outnumbered. It didn't matter.
Even as claws raked at his armor, even as grotesque limbs lashed out, he didn't flinch. His flame burned hotter than their hatred, and his blade danced faster than their hunger. He was the reaper, and this was his harvest.
And those he cut?
They didn't just die.
They erupted, their twisted corpses combusting into piles of black char and glowing embers, the flames clinging to their remains long after their souls had gone.
Then—
BAM!!
With a roar, Diluc drove his sword into the ground.
The land split apart, veins of lava-red light tearing through the battlefield in an instant. A surge of chain-reaction Pyro explosions raced outward—each one erasing dozens of enemies in a blink. The shockwave alone leveled monsters midair, their bodies eviscerated in the concussive heat.
He pulled his blade free—now wreathed in living flame, the fire forming a coiled serpent up the blade's edge.
Then he swung it overhead—
SCREEEECH!!
The air howled as a new phoenix formed from the blade's path. Bigger. Angrier. Hotter. It surged forward, engulfing everything in a tsunami of fire.
And again he swung.
Another phoenix.
And again.
Another.
BOOM.
BOOM.
BOOM.
A chorus of firebirds tore through the night. Dozens of them. Each explosion peeled the sky open, setting even the distant horizon ablaze. It wasn't just an attack anymore—it was apocalypse.
The battlefield became an open furnace.
The air was fire.
The earth was ash.
And Diluc didn't stop.
He moved forward—slowly, purposefully—through the inferno he created, sword still in hand, the battlefield behind him a hellscape of glass, magma, and silence.
The battle was far from over.
But so long as his flame still burned, not a single one of these monsters would live to see the next moon.
.Bottom of Form
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The battlefield was a storm of death, and at its center, Kaeya stood as an unstoppable force of nature.
Every step he took sent cold gusts spiraling out from him, thick with the power of cryo energy. The air around him crackled with the building chill, his every breath releasing freezing tendrils into the atmosphere. As the cold spread, the temperature plummeted, biting into the very bones of the monsters that dared to face him.
The first few beasts were easy—Kaeya's sword was a blur, slicing through them with practiced precision. But the true power was in the air itself. His presence was enough to shift the entire battlefield into a frozen wasteland. Monsters staggered as the frigid air sank deep into their lungs, slowing them, paralyzing their movements. Their once-violent thrashes became sluggish as the cold invaded their muscles, their movements becoming lethargic.
The ones farther away—about fifty meters or so—were barely able to move as a thick frost began to cover their bodies. Their limbs stiffened. They struggled, their breaths turning to mist, and soon, they were encased in ice, trapped in a freezing prison that held them fast, their bodies no longer their own. The closer monsters, those who ventured too near, found themselves covered in thick layers of frost, freezing over with every passing second until they too were transformed into statues of ice, their once-living forms now completely immobilized.
But the worst fate was reserved for those foolish enough to wander within twenty meters of him. Frozen solid, their organs preserved in the deepest freeze as they were extinguished from the inside out. No breath, no struggle, just an agonizing death as their bodies became nothing but ice-cold shells.
Then, the inevitable happened.
CRACK!
The crack of frozen monsters echoed like thunder as they shattered into a thousand pieces, their limbs and bodies breaking apart in a gruesome display. Kaeya didn't spare them a single glance. The monsters' slow reactions were their death sentence, and he continued his relentless slaughter, moving between them like a living storm, his movements effortless, as though each swing of his sword was nothing more than a casual gesture.
Then, without warning, he leapt.
The earth trembled as Kaeya propelled himself into the air with a force that defied the laws of gravity. His jump cleared hundreds of meters in a single bound, and just before his feet could touch the ground, the air itself seemed to freeze with the surge of his cryo power.
BANG!
Three enormous icicles materialized around him, spinning rapidly, their tips sharp enough to pierce through mountains. But then, they grew. One, two, three, four, five—until fifteen razor-sharp icicles hovered in the air around Kaeya. The monsters, now within his radius of destruction, tried to retreat, but it was too late.
These icicles weren't just barriers—they were weapons of pure destruction, spinning with incredible speed, cutting through the monsters with absolute precision. There was no time to dodge. No time to react. The ice speared through their bodies, tearing them apart in an instant. Shredded limbs, splintered bones, and bursting organs—the icicles didn't stop until they had reduced everything in their path to nothing more than frozen fragments.
The icicles didn't simply stop there. As they spun faster, they began to grow—their tips elongating, the ice becoming sharper, more deadly. The monsters that had survived thus far were now caught in the storm, unable to even scream as they were caught in a whirlwind of death.
Soon, the area around Kaeya, a full kilometer in radius, had transformed into his personal killing ground. Shards of ice, pools of frozen blood, and severed monster parts littered the frozen earth. The ground had been dyed red, a stark contrast to the pure white frost that blanketed everything around him.
Yet Kaeya didn't flinch. Not once did his gaze waver from the destruction. He remained calm, his expression unreadable beneath the cold, moonlit glow that seemed to pulse from his very being. There was no excitement. No anger. Just the chilling precision of a man who had become an extension of the very winter itself.
In the distance, the remaining monsters, once numerous and sure of their victory, were now hesitant. They stopped in their tracks, knowing the icy blades that swirled around Kaeya were not just weapons—they were death incarnate. Fear gripped them, and they hesitated, unwilling to face the cold fury that Kaeya exuded.
Kaeya turned his gaze toward them, the icy storm swirling around him in a perfect vortex. He didn't need to speak. His silent command was enough.
Kaeya: Come closer… and die.
There was no retreat in Kaeya's heart. If the monsters were unwilling to approach him, then he would bring their annihilation to them. The decision was already made in his mind—there was no other option but to end them.
With a single, fluid motion, he charged forward, his body a blur in the freezing wind. The icicles followed, cutting through the air like bladed whips, their deadly tips lashing out with terrifying speed and precision. His intent was clear: cold, unyielding death to anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
As Kaeya's icy fury engulfed the battlefield, it was clear that nothing—no one—could withstand the might of a being who could now erase entire towns with a single blow. The monsters who still dared to face him, now reduced to nothing more than a distant, trembling presence, would soon find themselves victims of Kaeya's unforgiving winter.
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The battlefield, on the other side, had become Eula's stage, a vast expanse of glistening ice, smooth and flawless, as though it had been sculpted by the very hands of the Frost itself. It was a battleground unlike any other. The thick, oppressive air buzzed with the frenzied energy of the Spider-Monsters, yet beneath their weight, the icy floor never cracked. Their massive legs, built for crushing, slid and stumbled on the surface, each stomp leaving them vulnerable and unbalanced as they slipped and collided with one another. The ice was perfectly unforgiving—and so was Eula.
Eula moved through the battlefield with an elegance that made it feel like a choreography rather than a battle. Her movements were fluid, a seamless dance as her ice-covered sword sliced through the air. Each step she took, every turn and leap, was a carefully crafted motion, a calculated pirouette of death. Her body was a blur, a shadow among the monsters, yet she moved with a precision that made it seem like time itself slowed when she struck.
Her sword—a stunning blade fully covered in ice—was no mere weapon. It was a manifestation of vengeance, gleaming coldly in the dim light of the battle. With every swing, a monster fell. Her strikes were not random, nor were they haphazard. Each monster's life was extinguished in a perfect arc, the blade cutting through their tough exteriors as if they were nothing but brittle twigs. No monster stood a chance. They could only attempt to regain their balance as the sword danced through the air, leaving a trail of frozen corpses in its wake.
But Eula's power was not just in her sword, but in her technique. She was not merely fighting; she was conducting a symphony of destruction. Suddenly, something strange happened.
Around her, visions of swords materialized—glowing, ethereal, incomplete at first. They circled her like an aura of death. Each one was a potential weapon—a manifestation of her deadly grace and command over ice. She swung her sword in a sweeping motion, and with a flash of light, two Spider-Monsters fell, their bodies encased in frost before they shattered into jagged ice. The moment she did, one of the incomplete swords materialized fully in front of her, a gleaming blade of frigid energy.
With a swift, fluid motion, Eula sent the sword crashing into the ground, and the world seemed to tremble with her fury.
BOOOM!!
The explosion was unlike anything the monsters had ever experienced. It spread outwards in a violent wave, freezing and shattering everything in its path. The blast radius was immense, stretching over a hundred meters, and in its wake, all monsters within the radius were reduced to nothing but frozen debris. Eula didn't flinch. She didn't even hesitate. As if it were part of a larger plan, she continued her dance of death, moving seamlessly toward her next victim.
Two more monsters fell beneath the weight of her frozen blade, and with that, another sword—another Lightfall Sword—materialized.
BOOM!!
Again, the world shattered in a brilliant explosion, the shockwave rippling outward, annihilating all life in its path. With each Lightfall Sword she summoned, the battlefield grew more and more chaotic, yet Eula remained untouched. The explosions erupted around her, but she moved as if she were immune to the destruction, her grace never faltering. Her eyes, hidden beneath her helmet, remained cold, like the ice she wielded so effortlessly.
It was a dance, a choreography of vengeance.
Her movements were flawless—each step a brushstroke of destruction. Each swing of her blade, each Lightfall Sword that fell, was another step in a ballet of annihilation. There was no hesitation, no mercy. The monsters were mere obstacles, pawns to be discarded as she executed her perfect, chilling dance.
To the untrained eye, it might have looked like a magnificent show—like fireworks exploding with every strike, a beautiful, rhythmic symphony of destruction. But to Eula, it was a dance of vengeance. A dance that would only stop once the last of her enemies lay crushed beneath her feet.
The Lightfall Swords continued to fall, one after another, without pause. And as the ground turned to ice, as the echoes of her explosions rang out across the battlefield, it became clear that Eula would never stop. Her mission was far too important, her rage far too cold.
With every slash of her sword, the dance continued, and the monsters fell—each of their deaths a note in her unyielding song of vengeance.
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Albedo stood calmly amidst the chaos, his piercing gaze sweeping over the battlefield. The monsters—twisted and grotesque, their eyes gleaming with hunger—poured into the once-pristine land, a wave of mindless destruction. But Albedo was anything but intimidated. He was prepared. Prepared in a way few others were, his mind a labyrinth of intricate plans and ingenious inventions.
As the chaos of battle raged around him, Albedo had long since come to terms with the fact that Mondstadt was no more, its once-vibrant streets now reduced to ash. And while his comrades—Diluc, Kaeya, and Eula—fought with all their might, bringing destruction and carnage, Albedo's battlefield was different. His approach was far more calculated, precise, and deadly.
He didn't fight with brute strength or explosive force; he fought with the full weight of his alchemical genius, honed through countless hours of research and experimentation. Primis, always a source of insight, had informed him of the monsters' coming, giving him plenty of time to prepare. And now, with Mondstadt lost, Albedo's creations—his vast collection of concoctions and traps—became his primary weapons.
The first strike came quietly. A thin, swirling powder was released into the air, drifting lazily toward the oncoming monsters. Albedo's hand, precise and deliberate, flicked the contents into the wind. The powder reacted upon contact, sinking into the monstrous creatures' hide and rapidly dissolving the natural armor that protected them. Their bodies, once impervious to most attacks, now softened as the powder broke down their defense. The monsters, realizing something was wrong, began to shift uneasily. They were far more vulnerable now, and their earlier invulnerability was quickly being undone.
But Albedo was only just getting started.
The ground beneath the monsters began to shift. A series of soft clicks echoed in the distance as hidden geo mines activated. Albedo's alchemy had turned the ground itself into a weapon. With an almost casual movement, he raised his hand, activating the mines. Upon contact, the mines didn't explode; instead, they released thick, binding vines that shot from the earth, winding around the monsters' legs and bodies like living chains. The creatures tried to fight, to break free, but they were trapped. Half-submerged in the ground, they struggled, causing a chaotic mess of thrashing limbs and roars. The vines only grew tighter, and the more they struggled, the more difficult it became for the other monsters to escape.
But it wasn't just about entangling his enemies—it was about making them compromise one another. The vines didn't just ensnare the monster closest to the mines; they grabbed the ones around it as well. The creatures collided with one another, their attempts to help their brethren only interfering with their own escape. This bottleneck slowed them down significantly, giving Albedo all the time he needed to continue his work.
Albedo was patient—far more patient than any of these beasts could have guessed. And while his traps were effective, he had more at his disposal. He wasn't just going to rely on nature's help; he had alchemy, his true craft.
Next came the potions—a concoction of his own design. This wasn't a simple attack; this was alchemy at its finest. He tossed the vials onto the battlefield, the contents splashing across the ground. As monsters approached, the potion released its volatile magic, imbued with the power to penetrate even the toughest hides. Albedo had designed this to bypass the creatures' thick exteriors, ensuring that the creatures wouldn't stand a chance once they made contact with it.
Then, as more monsters approached, he switched tactics. Albedo summoned his geo power, his hands glowing as the earth itself began to respond. Geo crystals surged from the ground, sharp and deadly, shooting upward like jagged spikes. Each one was laced with the same potion, ensuring that when they pierced the monsters, they didn't just shred the beasts—they pierced their hearts, taking them down in an instant. The monsters tried to charge, to break through, but they were impaled before they could even reach him.
The earth, under Albedo's command, responded without question, and as the geo crystals teared through monster after monster, Albedo's eyes never left the battlefield. He observed, calculated, and continued to shape the landscape into his own deadly design.
And then came the Solar Isotoma—another of Albedo's masterpieces. He hurled the geo construct onto the battlefield, the ground cracking as the Solar Isotoma embedded itself in the earth. As soon as the geo crystals hit, a surge of energy erupted, Fatal Blossoms blooming in every direction. The blossoms weren't just beautiful—they were lethal, unleashing devastating bursts of geo energy that consumed everything in their radius.
In mere moments, hundreds of monsters were obliterated, their bodies disintegrating as the Fatal Blossoms expanded outward. Each blossom was a symbol of Albedo's genius—a perfect fusion of art and destruction. The monsters never stood a chance.
As Albedo stood amidst the chaos, his movements precise, his creations unstoppable, it was clear that this was his domain. He wasn't fighting a battle. He was executing a flawless plan. His traps, his concoctions, and his geo power were so intertwined that there was no room for failure. The monsters could thrash all they wanted, but they were only dancing to the rhythm of his will.
With each move, Albedo continued to orchestrate the battlefield like a master composer, each of his creations adding to the symphony of destruction. And as the last of the creatures fell beneath the weight of his alchemy, Albedo looked over the field, his work now complete.
The battle had been like a walk in the park—an effortless execution of a plan that had been in the making for far longer than anyone knew. For Albedo, this was more than just a fight. It was an art form, and he had perfected it to an alarming degree.
The battlefield was his canvas. And it had been painted in the blood of his enemies.
.
.
The battle raged below, a cacophony of clashing steel, roaring monsters, and the grinding of the earth itself. Amidst the chaos, two figures stood high above, watching the scene unfold with cold precision and unmatched control. On the towering walls of the now-abandoned Mondstadt, Lisa and Amber were not merely spectators—they were the storm itself.
Their swords rested at their waist, but neither of them needed to draw their blades. Instead, they wielded their elements with a mastery that could only be described as divine.
Amber, the fierce archer, stood poised at the edge of the wall, her eyes scanning the battlefield. She then drew her hand to her side and in the blink of an eye, a bow made of fire materialized in her grip. The strings, seemingly made of flame, pulsed with vibrant heat. With a swift motion, Amber pulled back the bowstring, and in that moment, the tip of the arrow ignited into a blazing inferno. The intensity of the flame was so concentrated, it was as though the very tip of the arrow was a miniature sun.
She could feel the heat radiating from the arrow, the power crackling in her fingertips. One single shot from this weapon could reduce a whole town to nothing but ash, but Amber was far from reckless. She had control, and every bit of power was carefully focused and directed.
Beside her, Lisa, the quiet and calculating librarian, stood with an entirely different but equally dangerous weapon. Electricity crackled between her fingertips, and as she gathered the Electro element into her hand, a ball of pure, charged energy formed. The ball hovered, pulsating with enough power to level mountains, yet contained within a size that could fit comfortably in her palm. Her control over the storm was perfect—this wasn't just raw power, it was an art, an extension of her will.
Without a word exchanged between them, they both took their actions.
Amber raised her bow high, her stance graceful yet fierce. The flame arrow in her grasp shimmered with the heat of a thousand suns. She aimed at the sky, pulling back the bowstring until the arrow tip was practically screaming with the pent-up heat.
Lisa, on the other hand, gathered the energy with the utmost precision. Her fingers twitched, guiding the Electro ball to hover in the air for a moment before releasing it with a flick of her wrist.
Both projectiles shot toward the sky, heading for an intersection of sky and thunder. Amber's fiery arrow and Lisa's charged ball of energy soared in perfect harmony, their trajectories perfectly aligned, crossing the heavens like the two halves of a cosmic puzzle.
At the apex of their flight, they collided.
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted, expanding outward with a deafening roar. The very sky above Mondstadt seemed to tear open as the explosion rippled outward in every direction. Red and purple lightning danced across the sky, the fiery explosion splitting the clouds in two, creating a vast maelstrom of flame and lightning.
The monsters below, many of whom had been charging mindlessly forward, suddenly halted in confusion, their eyes rising to the sky as if drawn by an irresistible force. What they saw above was a terrifying sight—an explosion of fire and electricity that spread across the sky like a vast, radiant storm.
And then, the rain began.
Arrows—countless arrows—descended from the heavens like blazing meteors, each one coated in both fire and electricity. They fell in a steady downpour, scorching and searing the very air around them. The monsters on the battlefield found themselves overwhelmed by this fire-electricity shower, with each arrow that struck the ground causing a violent explosion of flame and lightning. The earth trembled beneath the shockwaves, and where the arrows struck, flames erupted, and electricity crackled, tearing through the monsters with savage efficiency. The explosions didn't just rip through the creatures; they scorched the very ground beneath them, ensuring no monster would escape unscathed.
Yet, amidst the carnage, Amber and Lisa's control over their elements was flawless. Every arrow, every burst of flame and lightning, was directed with the utmost precision. None of their attacks touched their allies—no, Amber and Lisa were not just masters of their elements; they were the architects of destruction, each arrow and burst of electricity carefully designed to avoid their comrades in the melee below. Not a single explosion harmed Kaeya, Eula, Diluc, or Albedo. The fiery arrows rained down in perfect patterns, avoiding their targets while unleashing absolute devastation on the monsters.
The chaos on the battlefield escalated, the monsters' ranks thinning by the second, torn apart by this beautiful symphony of flame and thunder.
As the last of the arrows fell, and the flames began to die down, Amber didn't lower her bow. With a fierce grin on her face, she pulled the string back once more, summoning another flame arrow—this one even more intense than the last. Her eyes blazed with anticipation, knowing the storm had only just begun.
At the same moment, Lisa raised her hand again, gathering more Electro energy, the power swelling in her palm like a contained thunderstorm. She knew that the storm of fire and lightning would continue and would leave nothing in its wake but the ashes of the monsters.
And once again, the world above them would be bathed in flame and thunder, as Amber and Lisa unleashed the full fury of their elements, obliterating anything left standing.
The city walls might have been silent, but above the battlefield, the storm was eternal.
.
.
Finally, Jean.
She stood alone on the southern flank, the wind tugging at her cape like an omen of the storm to come. Unlike the eastern and western fronts—where two knights fought side by side, backed by the support from the city—Jean faced the tide alone.
The horde approached like a living sea, tens of thousands strong, a crawling, shrieking blanket of fangs and limbs. Yet not a hint of fear marred her expression. Her eyes were calm, her stance unshakable. Sword in hand, the air around her stirred unnaturally. The wind began to dance.
She exhaled. Then, she moved.
BOOM!
The sound split the battlefield as Jean charged, and when she met the front line of monsters, it was they who were thrown back like ragdolls. The wind around her howled into a spearhead, punching a hole straight through the horde. Spider-like beasts were cleaved in twain, their twisted exoskeletons crushed by invisible blades of compressed air. Limbs, ichor, and dust filled the sky.
One after another, she felled them—each stroke of her sword accompanied by a gale that tore through clusters of beasts like scythes through wheat. But the monsters were relentless. One leapt at her from above, fangs bared.
She didn't even look.
Her free hand shot up, snatching the creature from mid-air like plucking a leaf. It thrashed, shrieked, and drove its claws into her armored arm with all its might—only to find her grip unyielding, her armor unscratchable.
Jean pressed forward, dragging the struggling beast with her like it was weightless. She didn't spare it a glance. Her sword continued to carve, her will unwavering.
And then…
CRASH!
Without slowing, she smashed the creature into the earth. The impact was like a small meteor strike, sending cracks sprawling outward in a web pattern. The beast writhed, stunned—only to see Jean's shadow fall over it as she raised her foot.
BANG!
The stomp obliterated it. A geyser of red mist erupted as the monster was crushed beneath her boot, the sheer force fracturing the ground beneath. The resulting shockwave flattened several more monsters nearby, scattering their remains like autumn leaves in a hurricane.
For the first time, Jean halted.
She raised her hand.
The wind obeyed.
A storm erupted around her—furious, precise, controlled. Monsters were yanked from the earth as though gravity itself had forsaken them. They thrashed mid-air, trapped in a maelstrom they could not escape. Jean's fingers curled slowly into a fist.
CRUNCH.
The wind condensed. Pressure exploded inward. Dozens—no, hundreds—of monsters burst like overripe fruit. Chitin and bone turned to vapor, their screams silenced in an instant.
And Jean… she simply stood there, eyes cold, untouched, her cape fluttering in the whirlwind.
In minutes, she had slain thousands. But it was nothing—a drop in a monstrous ocean.
The earth still trembled beneath the advance of the remaining horde—millions strong, endless in number. Yet Jean turned to face them, sword rising once more, the wind circling her feet like a faithful hound.
No hesitation. No retreat. No mercy.
And then, without a word, she charged again—into the abyss of enemies, a living storm given form.
The battle was far from over. But neither Jean, nor the Knights, would stop—not until every last abomination was turned to dust.
The war raged on.
.
Time flowed like blood through the battlefield.
No partner. No support. Just her silver armor gleaming under the moonlight, and her silver sword—unstained by blood, untouched by hesitation.
Yet, Jean had pushed further than any other—so deep into the horde that Windrise now lay behind her, its sacred tree silhouetted in the distance, untouched thanks to her.
The monsters came in waves—an endless tide of claws, fangs, and writhing limbs. They lunged, crawled, flew, shrieked. But not one had made it past her.
The wind obeyed her every thought, every step. Each swing of her blade summoned blades of air, invisible yet deadly, cutting down swathes of enemies. Cyclones coiled at her feet, catching and flinging creatures skyward. A single downward slash split the ground, creating fissures so deep they swallowed entire clusters whole.
The land behind her was a ruin—scarred by elemental devastation. Craters, shattered terrain, and torn remains of the fallen littered the path she carved.
And still, they charged.
Even in their fear, the monsters sought to overwhelm her with numbers. They couldn't overpower her—they had tried. So now they gambled on sheer volume, hoping that something, anything, might slip through her storm of steel and wind.
But it was pointless.
Jean's face, hidden behind her helm, remained calm. Serene. Her breathing steady. Not a drop of sweat marred her brow, not a tremble in her limbs. She wasn't exhausted—she was in control.
Her eyes, cold as the mountain frost, watched their futile assault with emotionless precision.
'Jean: So reckless.'
She thought.
Jean: Then die quickly.
A dozen monsters leapt at her from every direction—some charging head-on, others flanking from the sides or pouncing from above.
Jean didn't move.
The wind moved for her.
In an instant, a barrier of rotating air compressed around her, forming a dome of razor-edged pressure. Every monster that touched it was ripped apart mid-air, their remains scattered like leaves in a storm.
The dome faded, and Jean strode forward.
Each step she took echoed with silent authority. Her blade moved in clean arcs, every motion efficient, refined, deadly. She was no berserker. She was a tactician, a master, a storm given human form.
She raised her sword skyward for a moment—only a moment.
The wind howled, spiraling into a vortex that reached high into the night sky. Then, at her silent command, it collapsed downward, becoming a massive descending spiral that crushed hundreds beneath its force, flattening the battlefield in a single strike.
BOOM!
A shockwave erupted outward, sending a rippling pulse through the battlefield. Even from the walls of Mondstadt, the tremor could be felt.
Still, in the heart of the dark tide, Jean walked forward through the wreckage, sword lowered, cape billowing, the wind at her side.
The monsters had not stopped.
But neither had she.
And she never would—not until her last breath.
.
.
.
.
A week later.
The battle was finally over.
The last scream had faded. The final blow had been struck. And silence now blanketed Mondstadt like a funeral shroud.
At the very edge of the ruined nation, the Knights stood—each one alone, scattered across the borders of the land they had sworn to protect.
Diluc stood on the far west-north, Stormterror's Lair looming behind him, now buried under a mountain of monster carcasses. The once-sacred place where dragons flew free was now a graveyard of blackened flesh and shattered dreams.
Kaeya was at the southwest edge, just below him, standing in the bloody snow of Dragonspine. The mountain—once so bitter and unforgiving—now felt numb, lifeless. Not even the cold could sting anymore.
Eula stood at the northeast point, atop the windswept cliffs of Stormbearer Point. The sea wind brushed against her helmet, carrying no salt, no life. Just the scent of ash and blood.
Albedo took his place to the east, just in front of the ruined Thousand Winds Temple. Once a place of worship, it now resembled a forgotten battlefield, its ruins buried beneath the corpses of twisted monsters.
On top of Mondstadt's broken wall, Lisa and Amber stood shoulder to shoulder. They no longer looked down at their home—they looked outwards, eyes hollow. The place behind them was not a city anymore. It was a tomb.
And finally, Jean, the Acting Grand Master, stood alone at the southeast edge, at the cliffs of Cape Oath. The sea stretched before her—wide, endless, dark. The wind was soft now, as if mourning alongside her. Her silver armor shimmered in the moonlight, battered and bloodstained, yet still standing. Just like her.
Behind each Knight lay a trail of devastation—millions of monsters felled by their hands. Their corpses covered the earth like a black tide that had finally broken. Stormterror's Lair, Dragonspine, the Temple, the cliffs, the forests… all buried beneath the weight of the fallen. From the sky, Mondstadt was no longer green and free—it was black and still.
All except the city.
Only the city remained untouched.
But there was no one inside.
No laughter. No warmth. No flicker of candlelight in the windows. No streets. No market stalls. No Cathedral. But only the soil ran red with the blood of the innocents who once lived there.
Mondstadt had died long before the monsters did.
And now, standing in the aftermath, the Knights could only feel the hollow victory ring in their bones.
They had done it. The impossible. Seven Knights had stood against a monstrous army—millions strong—and emerged alive. They had given everything. Mind, body, soul. And they had won.
But no cheers met their triumph. No voices called out their names. No children ran into their arms. No one was left to welcome them home.
Because there was no home to return to.
There was no history to write this down. No bard to sing of their valor. No festival to honor their sacrifice. The city they had sworn to protect had already turned to dust before they could save it.
This was never a war to defend Mondstadt.
It was a war of guilt. A war for vengeance.
They had failed once—failed to protect the people. And so they fought, not for glory, but to atone. To scream their rage at the heavens. To silence the memory of that failure, if only for a moment.
But now that the silence had come, the only thing left was pain.
Pain that sat heavy on their shoulders. Pain that clung to their hearts and dragged their souls deeper than any wound ever could.
As the wind whispered across the dead land, the Knights closed their eyes.
And behind their lids bloomed memories. Not of blood, not of battle—but of faces. Of smiles. Of voices. Of lives.
The old man who sold apples every morning at the plaza. The laughing siblings who raced each other through the alleys. The couple who danced under the lamplight every week. The choir from the cathedral. The laughter in the taverns. The music. The sunlight.
Gone. All of it.
They won.
But what was the point?
The land was reclaimed—but the heart of Mondstadt would never beat again.
And so, at the edge of the sea, Jean stood still, tears unseen behind her helmet. Her hand gripped her sword not out of readiness… but to stay standing.
Seven Knights. Seven lights in a sea of darkness.
The stars of a sky that no longer shone.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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