It seemed to be raining.
Drizzle pattered against the eaves of Yuehai Pavilion, making broken, intermittent sounds. Outside the window, the parasol-wutong dropped its withered leaves—one by one, drip by drip.
Rotting branches let out hoarse creaks; the pale-yellow outline of the wutong upset the whole rainy night.
Ganyu could not sleep soundly.
These past days she kept dreaming—dreaming of many things.
She dreamed of The Chasm—gory blood splashed among jagged rocks; dreamed of those purple-verbena eyes growing dull, carrying a shiver-inducing sorrow and stillness.
In the dream she lowered her head and found decayed, gloomy blood flowing from her hands. The blood trickled down her fingertips—more and more—until it formed a river. The turbid, gray emotions seemed about to drown her.
She did not know what that was.
She had never seen it.
Yet it followed like a shadow.
Ganyu woke, opened her eyes—but still saw those verbena-purple eyes, as if rooted deep in her heart.
A chill wind flayed layer after layer of dead leaves; the slender wutong branches flailed in wind and rain, shadows spilling in—like countless lank ghosts dancing eerie steps.
She slowly sat up. Pale-blue, silky hair fell down, spread over the bedding. Ganyu glanced instinctively at the bronze mirror: her once golden eyes seemed sedimented; a slightly dark red sunk within.
Strange yet familiar.
"You have done nothing wrong."
The self in the mirror parted gentle lips and said so.
"You are in the right."
You have done nothing wrong.
She blinked lightly; the odd color vanished.
"I have done nothing wrong."
Dim, rainy gloom pressed the Sea of Clouds very low. In the lofts of Yuehai Pavilion the west wind was already full. The wind darted, banging the doors—sharp, piercing creaks, thunk-creak, thunk-creak—echoing in her ears.
Ganyu shook her head, rose from the bed. Bare feet touched the floorboards. She opened the lattice window; wind laced with silver rainlines poured in—Liyue Harbor was a vast white blur.
She had done nothing wrong—so it had been for more than two thousand years: she had done nothing wrong.
But whether she truly had not erred, or merely refused to err… Ganyu did not know.
She would not think about it.
She would not even try—would not mention it. She refused to return to Mt. Aozang, lost herself in Yuehai Pavilion's work, would not even taste "Jewelry Soup" again.
Those dark, shaded feelings brewed in her heart, gradually becoming another existence.
Karma.
Qilin are gentle, docile spirit-beasts, yet Ganyu felt she was no longer a qilin.
Master said she had grown; Ningguang, as a friend, said her nature had changed. But was it growth, or change— or had something gone wrong with her?
That man, in his last years, had likewise grown more shaded, more unsettling.
Ganyu shook her head, brushed away those inexplicable thoughts.
She had done nothing wrong.
For Liyue she must press forward. To protect its people, she had to kill him.
She was now secretary of Yuehai Pavilion, secretary of the Liyue Qixing, the link between adepti and mortals. Much awaited her completion. She could not be bound by memory; she must forget, then advance—
For the sake of their dream.
Thus the problem was not hers.
The madness had never been hers.
Never.
Ganyu bit her lip; nails dug into flesh. She lifted her gaze—gloomy karma crouched deep within; golden eyes stained a dark crimson. Phantoms surged like tidewater.
She exhaled slowly, lowered her eyes, muttered a calming mantra; her gaze gradually cleared.
The rain fell harder—tonight long and somber. Ganyu could no longer sleep. Sitting on the bed, she suddenly felt Yuehai Pavilion unbearably cold and lonely.
As if remembering something, she paused—then struck a tinder and lit the desk candle. Bright flame spread. Ganyu took a soft-textured letter, unsealed it, and by the firelight reread it.
The letter came from a friend far abroad. It had been sent over half a month before, but Inazuma was locked by thunder, mail slow; it reached her only yesterday.
The signature read: Yae Miko.
Yae Miko of Inazuma—Guji of the Grand Narukami Shrine—and one of Ganyu's few friends, a "bestie" in modern slang.
For hundreds of years they had exchanged letters, sharing feelings. Though not often, over time there were two or three hundred.
The long night stretching, with nothing else, she took out the older letters and read them one by one from the beginning.
She read; yellowed pages turned, as though flipping through segments of sun-soaked time.
Miko's hand was neat and graceful.
"Seino Raimei"—this name appeared most in Miko's letters; whenever he was mentioned, her handwriting seemed to leap.
"Today I picked up a half-dead mortal at the shrine gate. This Guuji rewarded him with the dried fish I didn't want. He said his name is Seino Raimei—what a strange name."
"He says he'll never forget this in all his life—how laughable! This Guuji merely pitied a bored mortal. A human life passes like a dream; what talk is there of 'never forget'?"
That was the first time the name appeared.
…
In subsequent letters—indeed, in dozens—the name "Seino Raimei" turned up more and more.
"His tofu is barely edible—but only barely."
"He opened a shop at the foot of the shrine. Business is good. If Sister Ganyu comes to Inazuma, this Guuji will take you to taste it."
"He went to challenge Musou no Hitotachi… came back covered in blood. Foolish idiot—are all mortals so stupid? Saying 'I'll stay by Ei's side all my life'… Baka, why doesn't he just die!"
Ganyu read that letter. With time the paper had yellowed, yet she could still feel Miko's mood—the strokes quivered slightly.
Plainly just a mortal, yet Miko cared so; Ganyu had not understood then.
She kept reading.
"Summer Night was dull; the fireworks equally boring. Seino says we'll watch again next time. This Guuji, with nothing to do, will go with him next year."
The script somewhat tangled.
Ganyu could picture it: when Miss Kitsune wrote his name, the corner of her mouth must have held a faint smile, ears perked.
Writing, stopping, maybe flushing—perhaps penned at sunset, the golden hue spreading over the page, so the lines were stained with warm, joyful light.
"Seino Raimei went to war. He looked utterly ridiculous in uniform…"
"Another Summer Night."
"Seino Raimei quarreled with Ei…"
One letter, then the next… For centuries Miss Kitsune had shyly shared that man, shared her feelings.
What was that emotion called? Ganyu could no longer remember—only hazy images remained. She too had written such letters once, holding the same feelings—uneasy yet delighted—but all that was buried in a grave, buried in that blood-soaked abyss.
The former self.
Seeing Miss Kitsune's joyous strokes, Ganyu felt a faint pain, as if pricked by a needle; a slight sourness at the nose, her heart aching softly—
She did not know why.
Perhaps from then on a voice had begun repeating inside:
"You did nothing wrong."
Do not bond with mortals.
Because their lives are short; precisely because short, they betray easily.
"Winter is coming… Sister Ganyu, do you know how to knit a scarf?"
"Don't get me wrong—it's only fear that idiot will freeze."
The correspondence neared its end.
"Didn't send it out… never mind, there's always next time."
"There's still a next time; that guy won't freeze. It's been centuries; this time won't differ."
This was the second-to-last letter. Reading it, Ganyu felt helpless: the silly fox had finally knitted a scarf yet never delivered it—always thinking "next time." But how can "next time" last forever?
She must have wanted to tell Seino Raimei—had so much to share—yet believed devoutly in a next time, believed life unchanging; thus from early winter dragged to deep winter, from living dragged to death.
Yet as Ganyu read, she felt déjà vu.
Feelings never conveyed, promises made together, emotions buried—so alike.
But Ganyu knew she and Miss Kitsune, that man and Seino Raimei, were entirely different—utterly different.
Seino Raimei trusted Miss Kitsune; between them perhaps lay love or kinship.
But that person had never trusted her—use, lies—everything false.
The voice inside kept telling her: All of it was false.
Ganyu felt some dizziness, her head stabbing with pain.
The next letter—the final one from Miss Miko—had drifted ten days on ocean and storm before reaching her.
[Seino Raimei is dead]
No matter how many times she read that line, Ganyu felt unaccountable sorrow.
Seino Raimei is dead—as secretary of Yuehai Pavilion, she had known early on.
Because the man named Seino Raimei, Pillar General of Inazuma—the thunder of his life resounded not only in Inazuma; even distant Liyue faintly heard the clear, ringing echo after lightning died.
"I couldn't give it. Sister Ganyu, I couldn't give it."
"I couldn't give him the scarf."
"I tied it on his frozen neck, but receiving the gift he did not smile—because he was dying."
"I was too late. I saw only lightning's bright flash, not its wail. I believed what I wished to believe—arrogant and proud—so I missed him."
"Am I useless?"
"Perhaps there is no one more ridiculous than me in this world."
"Let Sister Ganyu laugh."
"I believed what I wished to believe, so I missed him."
Reading that, Ganyu paused; her eyes flickered. To miss lightning's cry because one saw only its sheen—why did that line stir her heart? She didn't know.
At one corner the ink blurred—water spread—the tear had dried; one could not tell tear-mark or ink-bleed.
The letter went on:
"…Honestly, I spilled water and smudged it. I write only… only to share this feeling. I sit in an empty house, seeing dead leaves outside the lattice, blank white snow. It is too quiet. If I write something, anything, it will be better—so I wrote this."
"Sister Ganyu, please never believe only what you wish to believe… It sounds contradictory, absurd, doesn't it? Take it as the raving of a mind gone astray."
"But this is the lesson I've drawn: Never believe only what you wish to believe."
"—Yae Miko"
"P.S. "Seino's Tofu Shop"—I reopened that guy's shop. If you can come to Inazuma, please visit. I want more people to taste his cooking. He often said flavor is memory; I want to share that flavor with more people—want more people… to remember him."
That was the end.
Never believe only what you wish to believe.
Ganyu murmured the line softly. After a while she shook her head, laid the letter aside, and stopped thinking on it.
…Indeed a strange, illogical saying.
Yet somehow, it lingered in her mind.
Outside, dawn had fully broken. Splendid light cloaked a washed-clear sky. After the heavy rain, everything scoured clean; thin rosy rays rose with warm spring day, and Liyue slowly woke.
Along streets and alleys rang the cries of vendors; fishing boats raised sails; cooking smoke curled over the port.
Another new day.
Gazing at the city she loved, Ganyu knew she must act.
She had to bury the past completely and move forward anew.
Ganyu breathed out, patted her cheeks; her eyes regained calm, resolute light.
The Chasm—that place of her constant dreams—perhaps she should return and see it, to bury the past once and for all.
[Sixth Covenant complete]
Reward: Bosacius' Sword Art (Lv. God)
[Seventh Covenant: Please head for The Charm…]
"Bosacius' Sword Art"—an ordinary phrase, yet with the parenthetical "Lv. God" it became wholly different.
This was Marshal Vritras Bosacius' lifetime insight into martial skill. Of course, inheriting it would not make Seino Yaku jump to Lv. God instantly—his body was far less tempered than Bosacius', lacking centuries of adeptal cultivation.
Even so, it was a generous reward.
The System's Contract Isshin, worthy of a Lv. Archon talent: such past-life skills, if a normal body tried to inherit them, would incur severe strain and danger. But under Contract Isshin, completing the covenant sufficed to inherit.
Like gacha, the skills could vary wildly; last covenant had given only the method of smoking sardines—now it was Lv. God.
With self-defense mastered, heading to that place would be surer.
"Seino Yaku, time to go."
The thought broke; he looked up. Lumine was staring at him. "Time to set out."
The Sal Terrae visit was over; time for the next journey.
"Time to leave."
The silver-haired girl shouldered a small pack; orange morning light brushed her profile. She glanced back. "Quit daydreaming."
So said Lia.
"…What."
Miss Lumine glared warily at Lia. She clip-clopped over, seized the baffled Seino Yaku's hand and stepped back like a puffed porcupine:
"…Why are you following!"
Lumine and Lia did not get along—public fact. Had Mr. Zhongli not arrived in time last night, Seino Yaku feared for his life.
"You said—you promised you'd stay in Sal Terrae!" Lumine protested.
"…I never said that," Lia answered without looking up, mellow sunlight in her golden eyes. "I said I was staying for now; that doesn't mean I won't come along. I'll be there shortly, little blond."
She spoke teasingly.
"You…!"
"Havria," Mr. Zhongli interjected, "what do you intend?"
That the God of Salt yet lived surprised even him—yet also delighted.
His friend always had a strange power—he truly could save everyone.
Zhongli felt proud for Bosacius.
Seino Yaku had the same question, watching Lia quietly.
"Because…"
Dazzling sunshine stung the eyes. Lia tilted her head and smiled:
"Sal Terrae is destroyed, but it was once beautiful. I wish to rebuild it; that will take a week or two."
"Your old citizens have left; you want them back?"
"No." Lia shook her head calmly. "They've blended into Liyue, living well there."
"Then… why?"
"I once—" Lia looked at Seino Yaku. She tilted her head; silver hair scattered in the warm light; her smile was like summer sea-salt, cool with a faint brine, pure and immaculate:
"I once always wanted to invite a friend to see my city, but he refused each time.
"I want to introduce my city to him. It isn't large, nor prosperous; it has many flaws—but I want to show it to him.
"Sal Terrae's sunrise is beautiful: pale-blue salt water spreads like a starry lake; sunlight merges with the surface—I want to show him my sunrise.
"Nights are lovely too: sea breeze drifts through the streets with a whoosh—I want to show him my night.
"I want to take him to the market, to the highest valley; want to eat delicious things with him."
She turned those golden eyes on Seino Yaku:
"This is the place I love; I wish to share it with him.
"I want him to love this city too."
Hands behind her back, white skirt translucent and light, glimmering. "I want him to stay in my city."
I want him to stay in my city.
"But he died, and the city was ruined," Seino Yaku said.
"Yet now he's back, and so the city shall return." Lia's voice was gentle, glowing faintly—so beautiful, so bright.
"For its sole inhabitant, I will rebuild my city.
"—Seino Yaku, will you become that inhabitant?"
Seino Yaku froze.
He hesitated, dry-lipped, unsure how to reply. Truthfully he could do nothing.
Even the ever-bold Lumine fell silent, instinctively clutching his sleeve, uneasy.
Seino Yaku lowered his head.
After a while he only murmured:
"I… don't know…"
"…I see."
Lia smiled softly. "I see. Then, Seino Yaku—farewell."
Time to part; they walked toward Liyue. A grand sunset melted at the horizon; salt grains rustled. He was a traveler—travelers move on.
At that moment—
"Hey," Lia called.
Seino Yaku paused, turned back; the girl tossed something.
Instinctively he caught it—cold to the touch… the Salt Ruler.
"Take it."
"A move-in gift from the landlord to the resident."
Lia proclaimed boldly, proudly, sunlight blooming behind her: "Welcome to my city."
"Hey, I haven't agreed!" Seino Yaku shouted.
"He hasn't agreed!" Lumine echoed.
"Are you the God or am I? Must I seek a mortal's consent?"
She truly was forceful, unreasonable—like a devil out of a bottle, earnest and fervent, like this blazing midsummer:
"Gods do a god's work.
"Seino Yaku,"
Her smile was summer itself; bright sunshine just right, the white-skirted girl forming a lovely picture with the season.
"Keep that Salt Ruler: when I'm gone, pray to it—your God will come to save you. Our Covenant is sealed."
Within the ruler she had re-imbued nearly all her power as God of Salt.
With the ruler, the god would ever be with him.
The "Old Covenant" had ended.
This time, it was her turn to save him.
—Thus begins, New Covenant No. 1.