my other take on scheming/manipulative!creator again
welp here it is, i wasn't able to finish my scheming!creator AU, i think the last chapter was chap 4 and i'm still adjusting when it comes to writing serious stuff again after 2 years---? so this one might be a practice,,,, more like my self indulgence of psychological manipulation
They stripped you of divinity, spat the word “impostor,” and dragged you through the mud.
And yet, you never hated them.
You never forgave them, either.
Instead, you let them destroy themselves—
with every guilty glance, every desperate prayer, every whispered plea for forgiveness that would never come.
Not in the way mortals do— not bone breaking on stone, not flesh yielding to earth. No, you fall as though the heavens themselves can no longer hold you. The sky tears open, scattering faint shimmers across the firmament, trailing behind you like the remnants of a forgotten constellation.
When you strike the ground, dust surges upward in a choking cloud. The crater smolders, stones cracked and glowing faintly from the force. Shapes blur through the haze— soldiers, knights, hunters— their voices a chorus of suspicion.
“The Creator’s likeness.”
You try to rise, but rough hands seize you, forcing you down against the fractured earth. Shackles are clasped to your wrists, chains biting against raw skin. Iron presses into your ankles.
You bow your head instead, trembling but composed, and let their curses wash over you like waves against an unyielding shore.
The faint shimmer clinging to your wounds is dismissed— moonlight, dust, an illusion cast by the fire of your descent. None look closely enough. None dare.
They will not see it yet.
As if you would never blame them for this cruelty.
The first seed is planted.
They expect you to thrash against your bonds, to spit, to rage— to prove yourself monstrous in desperation. Instead, you fold your hands neatly in your lap, posture straight despite the ache of chains. Your silence is more unnerving than any denial.
Dragged through the streets of Mondstadt, you do not curse them. You do not plead. You only incline your head to each who recoils, as if you accept their hatred as your due.
By the time you are hauled before the Acting Grand Master, the whispers swell.
Jean sits stiff-backed behind her desk, exhaustion etched into her every line. The Archons stand in shadowed corners— Venti slouched against a column, Zhongli observing with unreadable eyes, Ei rigid and cold, arms folded across her chest.
And the Traveler is there, standing at the center of it all, gaze sharp. Paimon hovers nervously at their shoulder.
You kneel when pushed forward, chains rattling softly against stone. You lower your head. Not in defeat. But in acceptance.
Venti speaks first, his voice slurred only slightly, like he had drunk himself steady enough to stand. “You wear the face of the Creator. Do you know the crime of that?”
You lift your gaze slowly, lashes heavy, and smile.
“It must be terrifying,” you murmur, voice quiet, steady. “To think your god has returned, only to find it may be a lie.”
No denial. No claim. Only understanding.
And that— that is what twists the knife.
If you were false, wouldn’t you rage? Wouldn’t you deny or curse? Instead, you look at them with sympathy. As though you pity them.
Jean stiffens. Zhongli’s hands tighten faintly where they rest behind his back.
The Traveler studies you in silence.
You bow your head again, voice soft. “Do with me what you must. If my presence troubles your peace, I will not resist. I would rather suffer chains than see Mondstadt divided by suspicion.”
Too kind. Too good. Too merciful.
It rattles them more than wrath ever could.
They confine you beneath the cathedral, in a cold stone cell meant for heretics and zealots. Bars keep the faithful out as much as they keep you in. The walls smell of damp and dust.
You kneel on the floor, hands folded, head bowed. You hum sometimes, soft and low, melodies long forgotten. No one taught you those songs— they are remnants of nights when you held the world in your hands, commanding silence or joy with a touch of your finger.
Now, those songs return to them like ghosts.
The guards falter outside your cell. They try to ignore the sound, but the words echo from memory— lullabies they muttered in prayer as children, never expecting an answer.
When Jean visits, you do not rise. You incline your head as though she were the one deserving reverence.
“I hope my presence has not caused unrest,” you murmur. “If it does, then I accept confinement. Better me alone than Mondstadt troubled.”
Her lips part, close, press into a line. She cannot look at you for long.
When Venti visits, half-drunk, you smile faintly.
“You must miss them,” you whisper, as though confiding in him. “The god you knew. If my face pains you, I am sorry. It is cruel, I think, to carry a likeness that wounds the faithful.”
His laugh cracks. He stumbles out before dawn, bottle shattering against the stones as he flees.
Zhongli visits in silence. He does not speak, only kneels near the bars, brushing a trembling hand across the dust where you sit. When you bow your head toward him, his amber eyes avert, his mask of calm nearly fractured.
Ei does not visit. Not yet.
Because silence and patience are sharper blades than wrath. Because martyrdom corrodes faith far more swiftly than proof.
It is the Traveler who lingers longest.
They crouch before your cell, Paimon hovering uneasily, tugging at their sleeve. Amber eyes cut into you, sharp and searching.
“Who are you really?” they ask.
You tilt your head. Your expression serene, your voice quiet.
“I am no one worth your fear,” you say. “Only… someone who loves this world too much to blame it for its cruelty.”
It is not an answer. It is worse.
Because it is not denial, not claim. Only martyrdom. Only silence.
The Traveler swallows hard, their throat dry. Something in your words echoes with memory— of prayers whispered into empty air, of a hand unseen guiding them across Teyvat, choices shaped not by chance but by presence.
It happens one evening, when a guard shoves you too roughly into the corner of your cell. Your temple strikes stone.
Blood beads, red and human. At least, to their eyes.
The Traveler is there to see it. Their jaw clenches at the sound of your skull meeting stone. They half-step forward, halted only by Paimon’s tug.
And you smile at them through the ache, voice steady: “Do not scold them. They did what they thought was right. How could I fault them for that?”
The Traveler still chokes on guilt.
Because it is not proof that binds them to doubt. Not yet.
It is your gentleness. Your refusal to hate.
Your silence damns them more than deceiving them ever could.
They expect you to protest your innocence. They wait for you to rage, to cry, to break. Days pass, weeks blur— and still you remain kneeling in the cell, folded neatly as though you are content to spend eternity chained.
Knights begin to whisper in the barracks, uneasy. Some swear you are false, some claim impostors would have cursed by now, would have demanded freedom. The uncertainty infects them more efficiently than a plague.
Even Jean, ever-steady, avoids your eyes when she delivers orders.
You watch it happen. Quiet, patient. The cracks forming.
Zhongli comes again. Always at night, always in silence. He kneels just outside the bars, amber gaze fixed on the stone at his feet, as though looking at you directly would shatter something fragile within him.
“It is… unsettling, to see one wear the visage of divinity.”
You tilt your head, expression soft, voice low.
“I can imagine. To see a shadow of your god, and yet… not know if it is truth or deceit.”
He stills, shoulders tightening.
You smile faintly. “I do not blame you for doubting me. To believe too easily would be dangerous.”
And it is there, in the subtle tremor of his hands, that you see it: guilt gnawing at the edges of his stone-hard mask. He remembers every prayer spoken into silence, every hymn unanswered, every sacrifice wasted to nothing.
And now, here you kneel— understanding him. Forgiving him.
Zhongli leaves with his jaw clenched and his hands shaking.
You hum a lullaby as his footsteps echo away.
When Venti returns, he reeks of wine. His gaze is unfocused, but the tremble in his hands betrays him.
“I don’t like this,” he says, voice higher than usual, too tight to be careless. “You sit there, smiling, saying nothing… It’s cruel.”
You tilt your head, expression tender.
“Yes!” he snaps, then falters, looking away. His fists clench at his sides. “You should be cursing us, should be— should be demanding, raging, something. Anything.”
You fold your hands neatly in your lap.
“If I were to rage,” you murmur, “would it comfort you?”
“Would it be easier if I hated you? If I accused you? If I claimed what you would not believe?”
Venti swallows hard, throat tight. His eyes sting, though he does not know why.
You smile— gentle, forgiving. “I do not blame you. None of you. You did what you thought was right. That is all anyone can do.”
And it breaks him more than curses ever could.
He stumbles out, leaving silence in his wake.
The Shogun comes at last.
Her presence fills the hall with sharp ozone, every step deliberate, every gaze cold. She looks at you as one looks at a blade— with suspicion, with calculation, with the instinct to strike first.
You bow your head, posture still, voice steady.
“Archon of Eternity,” you murmur, reverent. “How heavy it must be to guard your nation against lies and shadows. If I am a burden to that vigilance, then I understand.”
Your tone does not hold mockery, no bite, no demand. Only recognition. Understanding.
And that is what unsettles her.
Because her eternity has been forged on silence and steel. Yet here you are, mirroring her devotion, offering patience instead of battle.
She leaves without speaking another word.
But her hands do not loosen on her blade for hours afterward.
The Traveler comes more often than any of them.
At first, they say nothing. Only stand at the bars, gaze sharp, as though they could cut through you with suspicion alone. You greet them always with a smile, soft and steady.
One night, they finally speak.
“Why don’t you defend yourself?”
You tilt your head. “Would it matter if I did?”
You continue, quiet. “Words are easily twisted. A liar can claim innocence as easily as truth. If my silence burdens you, I am sorry.”
They swallow hard, gaze breaking away.
You lean forward, hands folded delicately. “But know this. I do not hate you. Even if you doubt me. Even if you condemn me. I will not hate you for it.”
It cuts deeper than any accusation.
Because they remember your unseen presence— the way their path was guided, their victories shaped by choices that felt never wholly their own. A companion in silence. A hand beyond the screen.
And now you kneel before them, patient, unflinching, forgiving.
They leave without another word.
But Paimon glances back at you, wide-eyed, trembling.
The Knights whisper louder. The Qixing argue in Liyue halls. Even the Fatui, proud and vicious, hesitate. For every voice that condemns you, another falters— wondering why an impostor would remain so calm, so kind, so endlessly understanding.
Some begin to dream of you.
They wake at night to see your face, not accusing, not wrathful— but smiling. Forgiving. Silent.
And it haunts them more than fire or sword ever could.
Jean comes again. This time, she cannot hold your gaze.
“I… have failed you, if you are who you claim not to be,” she whispers. “If you are not, then I am still failing you by allowing such doubt to fester.”
You smile at her, weary, patient.
“You have done what you thought best for Mondstadt. I could never fault you for that.”
Her lips tremble. She turns away, shoulders stiff.
Outside, you hear her whisper to herself: Why does it feel worse, being forgiven?
And you lower your gaze, hiding your satisfaction.
Because guilt is a blade best driven inward.
And you have all the time in the world.
It begins quietly. A whisper here, a mutter there.
Mondstadt Knights argue in hushed tones at their posts:
“Impostors don’t sit quietly for weeks.”
“But it could be a trick.”
“Then why do I feel like we’re the ones in the wrong?”
In Liyue, the Qixing tear at one another behind locked doors:
“If this is false, we risk our nation’s faith.”
“If this is true, then every moment we delay is blasphemy.”
“Our hesitation alone may already condemn us.”
Even the Fatui falter. The Harbingers mutter in low voices, unnerved. Some claim to have dreamed of your voice, urging, forgiving, unshakably kind. Others snarl that such softness is a weapon. Yet still, they hesitate to strike.
The doubt is poison. And you feed it by doing nothing at all.
Zhongli returns again and again. Always silent, always kneeling just beyond the bars.
“I have lived long enough to see false idols rise and fall,” he murmurs, amber gaze heavy. “To see men claim divinity in the shadow of despair. I thought I had become immune to doubt.”
He looks at you, and the mask cracks.
“But you… I do not understand why you do not hate us.”
You tilt your head, smile faintly.
“What good would hatred do?” you ask softly. “Would it undo your suffering? Would it unmake your fears? No. It would only add weight to your burdens. I would not wish to do that to you.”
Zhongli’s chest tightens. His hands curl into fists against the floor.
Every sacrifice laid upon Liyue’s altars. Every life offered in prayer to a silent sky. Every unanswered hymn.
And now, here you sit— chains at your wrists, bruises on your skin— telling him you would rather ease his suffering than condemn him.
When he leaves, his eyes are wet, though no tears fall.
Not for long, not entirely— but long enough that the change is noticed.
He comes to you sober one night, steps faltering, eyes hollow.
“You’re too kind,” he says, voice breaking. “It feels like mockery.”
You smile gently. “Would you prefer cruelty?”
“Yes!” His shout echoes down the stone walls, desperate, shaking. “I wish you’d scream, or curse, or— or do something! Because this—” He gestures to you, to your folded hands, to your patient smile. “This hurts worse than anything else could.”
No bite. No sarcasm. No edge. Only sincerity.
And Venti nearly collapses, clutching his head as though the silence itself is suffocating him.
The Shogun returns. This time, she stands longer.
Her eyes sweep over you— unyielding, sharp. Yet her fingers twitch faintly on the hilt of her blade.
“You are dangerous,” she says.
You incline your head. “Perhaps. But only because I unsettle what you wish unmoved.”
“I do not blame you for your caution,” you murmur. “Eternity demands vigilance. To mistake shadows for truth is a sin too costly for Inazuma. If I burden you, I accept it.”
Ei’s throat tightens, though she masks it well.
Because she hears the echo of her own eternity in your words. A reflection of her vigilance. A mirror she cannot destroy without shattering herself.
She leaves without another word, but her steps are uneven as she goes.
The Traveler visits every day now.
At first they only stood silently. Now they sit at the bars, sometimes hours at a time, eyes never leaving you.
You never initiate. You only smile when they arrive, bow your head gently, hum softly under your breath.
One evening, their voice cuts through the stillness.
You tilt your head, patient.
“Voices. Guidance. When I was alone, when no one was there— something guided me. Choices I made, paths I walked. It was like… someone was with me.”
They swallow hard, voice breaking. “Was that you?”
You smile, faint, weary, kind.
“I would never demand you believe me,” you say. “If thinking it was only chance brings you peace, then let it be so. I do not wish to burden you with certainty.”
The Traveler grips the bars tightly, knuckles white.
Because your refusal to claim, your refusal to demand faith— it makes the suspicion worse.
They leave restless, haunted, unable to sleep.
Arguments spill into the open.
The Knights divide: some rally to Jean’s orders, some whisper that holding you chained is a sin.
In Liyue, merchants whisper prayers under their breath as they pass, while the Qixing argue louder, more violently, fearing rebellion.
Even the Fatui cannot remain unified. Half claim you are a threat that must be erased. Half kneel in silence at makeshift altars, terrified of what they may have done.
And through it all, you remain silent.
Patient. Kind. Forgiving.
It happens one night when two guards argue outside your cell.
“You’ve seen them. They’re too calm to be a fraud.”
“And you think that proves divinity?”
“I think it proves we’re wrong.”
The fight escalates. Voices rise.
You kneel quietly in the corner, watching them tear at each other, fists swinging, curses spilling.
When Jean arrives to stop them, she finds you sitting serenely in the middle of the chaos, expression soft, as though you mourn their pain more than your own chains.
Her voice falters as she orders the guards dragged away.
And you smile at her— weary, forgiving, endless.
She looks away, trembling.
By now, every Archon avoids each other’s eyes when your name is spoken. The Traveler walks with a haunted look, Paimon biting her lip in silence.
Nations are tense. Factions whisper rebellion.
You hum softly in your cell. You speak gently when spoken to. You forgive without being asked.
You do not raise your voice. You do not demand worship.
And guilt spreads like wildfire.
It doesn’t come during a grand trial, or a ceremony, or some scripted test.
Your body has been straining under the weight of starvation, sleeplessness, neglect. They do not harm you now, not physically— they wouldn’t dare. But they already have. The weeks of cold stone floors, the rations too sparse, the damp chains at your wrists.
And so one night, when the Traveler arrives again— restless, desperate, eyes bloodshot with obsession— your hand slips on the iron bars. The chain jerks cruelly.
The wound spills stars.
Moons, constellations, drifting fragments of galaxies unfurling in liquid light. The blood does not drip to the floor but ascends in glittering threads, fading into the air like a prayer answered.
The Traveler stares, breath caught, lips parted. Their hands tremble against the bars.
And then you look up at them.
Not angry. Not proud. Not vengeful.
“Why… why didn’t you say—”
The Traveler’s voice cracks. Their throat closes, tears gathering in their eyes.
You smile faintly, the wound still glowing at your wrist, galaxies pulsing from your veins.
“Because if I were false,” you murmur, voice gentle, “no words of mine would make me true. And if I were true… I would not need to prove it.”
The words are a knife, and they crumble under the weight.
The Traveler calls them all.
Zhongli arrives first, gaze falling upon your wound— and for the first time in millennia, the Archon of Contracts falters. His knees hit the floor before he realizes it, breath sharp in his chest.
Venti stumbles in soon after, his composure already shattered. At the sight, his voice breaks into sobs he cannot swallow, his lyre slipping from his fingers to clatter uselessly on the ground.
Ei comes silent, stiff, unyielding. But her blade lowers, and her hands shake. For eternity itself trembles before the sight of stars spilling from your body.
And when Nahida arrives, her tiny form quivers, tears streaking her cheeks before she even reaches you.
They kneel. Not out of ritual, but out of collapse.
The news spreads like wildfire. The guards who once struck you fall on their swords in shame. The Knights of Favonius weep openly. The Qixing convene in chaos, many resigning outright, unable to bear the guilt of chaining divinity. Even the Fatui fracture further— Harbingers silenced, some fleeing, some swearing vengeance upon themselves.
And the people— the ordinary, the faithful— they gather outside, their cries carried through the wind. Pleas for forgiveness. Laments. Hymns turned into wails.
You forgive none.
But you blame no one.
“Please — punish us—”
“Strike us down—”
“Spare us nothing, only don’t— don’t stay silent—”
You sit upon the cold stone, galaxies still shimmering faintly in your wound, and you look upon them with endless gentleness.
“I understand,” you say softly. “You were afraid. You protected yourselves, as you always have. It was… natural.”
Your voice breaks nothing and everything.
Because they realize— in your eyes, they are not guilty.
They are not forgiven.
They are understood.
And that is so much worse.
It happens when Venti crawls forward, hands bloody from stone, reaching, begging.
“Please— if you hate us, say it. Don’t— don’t be this kind—”
And you smile at him, weary.
Your eyes shimmer.
And then the tears fall.
The first are white— brilliant, pristine, stars that fall to the floor and burn like snow. They are joy, pure and aching: joy that they came, that they knelt, that they saw.
But then the second fall red. Deep crimson, glowing with the color of Khaenri’ah’s wrath, searing the ground where they land. They are sorrow— a sorrow so deep it has no end, a sorrow that devours.
The Archons weep openly. The Traveler grips the bars until their hands bleed. Factions shatter under the weight of the sight.
Because the tears are proof.
The tears are a verdict.
They all lurch forward, begging, pleading, voices breaking — “No, no, please—” —but you only smile, tender and infinite.
“It is not your fault,” you whisper. “And yet… it is not undone.”
The galaxies in your blood dim. The star-tears fade. Your body grows still.
And the world collapses around your silence.
The Knights no longer sing your hymns. They whisper them.
The cell where you once sat has become a shrine— not built by decree, but by the trembling hands of the same guards who chained you. They kneel there every morning, laying down their swords, pressing their foreheads to the cold stone as though it can forgive them.
Jean has not smiled since that day. Her hands shake when she signs orders. The banners of Barbatos still fly, but she cannot bear to look at them. She hears your voice in every prayer at the cathedral, sees your eyes in every star over Mondstadt’s sky.
He does not drink anymore. His lyre lies broken in a corner of Angel’s Share, strings cut. He wanders the city barefoot, silent, as though his songs would be an insult now. When the wind blows, people say it feels heavier— not because of storms, but because his archon’s soul is thick with remorse.
The harbor thrives as always, but there is an edge in every merchant’s eyes, an apology in every haggled deal. Offerings pile on your shrine at the edge of the docks: incense, talismans, jade cut to resemble stars.
Zhongli has not returned to his human guise since that night. He walks the streets in silence, bare-footed, robes dragging through puddles, amber eyes fixed on the ground. Children whisper that the old man who once told stories of contracts now kneels before the stars at dawn and dusk, lips moving without sound.
The Qixing are fractured. Many have resigned; the rest speak of nothing but atonement. They pass laws renaming districts, building monuments in your memory, but nothing feels like enough. They cannot undo the sound of chains on your wrists.
The Shogun has withdrawn to the Plane of Euthymia, leaving Ei to wander the empty halls of Tenshukaku alone. She carries no blade now.
At night, she stands at the shore and looks out at the horizon, watching the stars scatter across the waves. The constellations seem sharper these days, as though every point of light is a wound.
She whispers your name but receives no answer.
The eternity she once sought feels hollow now— an unending stretch of time without your presence. She understands, too late, that she built her eternity to protect a world that had already betrayed its own creator.
In Sumeru, Nahida tends a garden no one else may enter. She plants star-shaped flowers at the base of a tree, watering them with tears she cannot stop.
Scholars rewrite the Akademiya’s archives. Theories and treatises burn in the courtyards as they replace every “impostor” footnote with “the One Who Was.”
Nahida dreams of you every night. In her dreams you sit beneath the Irminsul and smile, and she always reaches for you— but before her fingers touch yours, you fade into motes of cosmic light.
She wakes with soil under her nails and cries without making a sound.
Nations have shifted. Old laws fallen. Shrines to you sprout everywhere— star-shaped altars, quiet prayers. Not because you demanded them, but because your silence is unbearable.
Your absence has done what no war could: it has stilled Teyvat.
No one dares crown a false god again. No one dares speak lightly of divinity.
Somewhere beyond the reach of mortals, you rest.
A garden stretches endlessly around you, woven from constellations. Galaxies drift like flowers on a cosmic river. The moons of your veins float lazily upward, gathering at the edges of the sky.
You sleep curled upon a bed of starlight, your chains dissolved into nothing.
Your hands are folded, your expression soft. The cosmos hums around you, like a lullaby.
You are not angry.
You are not vengeful.
You are simply tired.
And the world of Teyvat waits below, trembling, praying, hoping— but knowing deep down that their prayers will echo back unanswered for a long, long time.
When the night is clear, and the stars are bright, the people of Teyvat look up and whisper:
“Please wake. Please forgive. Please return.”
And though the stars seem to flicker in answer, they know:
No celestial rift, no quaking earth, no thunderous hymn.
One night, the stars pulse once— twice— like the echo of a heartbeat. Then silence. Then stillness.
And when dawn breaks, you are awake.
You rise from the bed of galaxies, your eyes heavy with ages of sleep. The stars shift around you, forming a veil that clings to your body like woven constellations.
The world feels different.
Not because it has changed. But because you have.
The Traveler is the first to find you. They stumble into the chamber, nearly falling to their knees in shock.
Their voice cracks. Tears bloom instantly, unbidden, as they rush closer.
A simple gesture. Not sharp, not cruel— merely firm.
The smile you wear is faint, almost sorrowful.
“Yes,” you say. Your voice is calm, even. “I am awake.”
They wait for more— for the warmth that once guided them, the gentle hand on their back, the unseen voice that carried them across worlds.
Your kindness is no longer personal.
It is vast. Cold. Like the sun that shines on all things but touches nothing.
Zhongli bows his head so low his forehead touches the ground. Venti trembles with hope that breaks into sobs. Ei kneels in silence, hands folded as though in prayer. Nahida cannot speak at all, her lips quivering.
They wait for you to scold, to embrace, to forgive.
You only incline your head, expression unreadable.
“You need not kneel,” you murmur. “You have nations to lead. People to protect. Rise, and continue your duty.”
Zhongli’s throat tightens. Venti’s fingers clutch at the floor as though it can anchor him. Ei’s heart feels hollow. Nahida’s tears fall silently.
Because this is not the voice they remember.
This is not the gentle presence that laughed and sang through the skies and through your screen.
This is the Creator they have shaped with their own hands, distant and unreachable.
At first, they tell themselves it is temporary. That your coldness is a wound, and wounds heal.
You walk the streets of Mondstadt, blessing the harvests with a brush of starlight— and ignore the desperate eyes that seek yours.
You stand upon the mountains of Liyue, raising fallen stone after earthquakes— and turn away from trembling merchants who whisper apologies.
You walk Inazuma’s shores, calming storms, guiding fleets— but when Ei approaches, you smile politely and step past her.
You tend Sumeru’s Irminsul, pruning corruption with a flick of your hand— and Nahida’s prayers hang unanswered in the air.
You save them. You protect them. You help.
Your kindness has become mechanical, impersonal. Like rain. Like sunlight. Like the stars that shine whether or not anyone prays for them.
And that hurts more than silence ever did.
They remember the way your voice once guided them— through screens, through prayers, through laughter that echoed like hymns. They remember your joy, your warmth, the way you lingered like a friend at their side.
But that presence is gone.
You are here, but you are not here.
The Traveler is the first to shatter.
They trail after you constantly, desperate. “Please— talk to me. The way you used to. Just once. Please—”
You only smile faintly, shake your head.
Their heart crumbles at the words.
Paimon sobs openly, clutching the Traveler’s sleeve, begging you for anything more than the chill in your eyes.
Venti sings again. But the songs are broken things, drunken slurs without wine, hymns that die in his throat.
He throws himself at your feet one night, hands clutching your robes, begging: “Please, mock me, curse me, hate me, anything but this— don’t be kind like this!”
You touch his hair gently.
Zhongli speaks less and less. He follows at a distance, watching, but never approaches. Because every time your eyes pass over him without recognition, he feels the weight of five thousand years collapse onto his shoulders.
He was supposed to know.
He was supposed to protect.
He failed.
And now you are here— but you are gone.
Ei kneels on the shore again, blade plunged into the sand before her. She whispers her apologies into the tide, but the waves only carry your reflection back to her: distant, starlit, unreachable.
Teyvat thrives. Famine fades, wars still, storms calm. Everywhere you walk, life flourishes.
But the world feels hollow.
Because though the Creator is here, the Player is gone.
The one who laughed, who sang, who guided— lost to time, to betrayal, to exhaustion.
And what remains is divinity: kind, eternal, unreachable.
The sun in the sky. The stars at night. The rain that falls.
Helpful. Merciful.
But never again warm.
And when the people pray now, their voices tremble.
Because they know their god listens.
They know their god answers.
But they also know their god is gone.
And all that remains is the echo of what they destroyed with their own hands.
A little experiment in quiet cruelty--- no knives, no battles, just guilt, devotion, and a god who never needed to lift a hand. Think slow-burn psychological manipulation, a smiling Creator, and Teyvat crumbling under the weight of its own condemnation.
