Several weeks passed. My life as a Knight of the 8th Company settled into a rhythm that was both mundane and intensely demanding. The heroic clashes and grand adventures I might have dreamed of were replaced by the quiet, meticulous work of intelligence gathering. I spent my days poring over patrol reports, my Tactics skill allowing me to spot inconsistencies and patterns that others missed. I shadowed low-level informants, my Instinct helping me discern truth from fabrication. I cross-referenced shipping manifests from the docks with caravan schedules from the Dawn Winery, building a mental map of Mondstadt's economic lifelines.
It was a slow, grinding process of learning the tradecraft of a spy and, more importantly, of earning Captain Kaeya's trust. I never used my Mana Burst. I used my Vision sparingly, and only for subtle, deniable feats—a gentle gust of wind to turn a page from across the room, a small updraft to help me scale a wall silently. I was proving myself to be exactly what I intended to be: a sharp, reliable, and discreet subordinate.
The mystery of Warehouse No. 7 remained a low hum in the background of our operations. My initial report had corroborated other vague suspicions, and Kaeya had placed the warehouse under periodic, covert surveillance. But the occupants were careful, and we learned little more. The Fatui were involved, that much was certain, but their purpose remained shrouded in speculation.
Then, one rain-slicked afternoon, everything changed. I was summoned to Kaeya's office. The usual organized chaos was gone. The maps had been cleared of all but one location: the city docks. Kaeya stood before the map, not with his usual lazy smile, but with an expression of cold, focused intensity. The air in the room was thick with the scent of Cryo and ozone, a sure sign that the Captain was agitated.
"Arthur," he said, his voice devoid of its usual lilting charm. "The situation has developed. One of my informants, a dockworker who has been feeding us information for years, missed his check-in this morning. He was last seen near the pier where Warehouse No. 7 is located. I fear the worst."
My stomach tightened. This was no longer a theoretical exercise.
"Our long-range surveillance has confirmed a significant increase in activity at the warehouse over the last two nights," Kaeya continued, tapping a finger on the map. "Snezhnayan crates, marked with the insignia of the Northland Bank, were unloaded under the cover of darkness. The men who unloaded them were not diplomats or merchants. They were Fatui Skirmishers."
He turned to face me, his single eye boring into mine. "The time for passive observation is over. I need to know what is inside that warehouse, who is running the operation, and what has become of my informant. Tonight, you will conduct a deep reconnaissance mission."
My heart began to beat a little faster. This was it. My first real mission.
"Your objectives are threefold," he stated, his voice sharp and clear as ice. "One: Infiltrate the warehouse undetected. Two: Gather actionable intelligence—personnel numbers, their objective, any documentation you can find. Three: Locate my informant if possible, but confirm his fate at the very least." He leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. "There is a fourth, overriding objective, Arthur. You are to avoid engagement at all costs. You are an agent of the 8th, not a vanguard. If you are compromised, you are to escape. Information is the prize. Do not throw your life away for a heroic battle. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Captain. Crystal clear," I replied, my voice steady despite the adrenaline beginning to course through me.
"Good." Kaeya walked over to a locked cabinet and opened it. He pulled out a small, black leather toolkit. "You'll need these." He laid them on the desk: a set of masterwork lockpicks, a compact spyglass with a lens that pierced low-light conditions, and a small, metallic object shaped like a cricket. "A signaling device. Press it once for a non-urgent status update, twice if you are in immediate danger and require extraction. A support team will be stationed nearby, but they are a last resort. Your greatest assets are the shadows and your own wits."
He paused, then looked at my Vision. "Your Anemo abilities… they are a powerful tool, but a loud one. A vortex or a powerful blast will alert the entire district. Think smaller. Use the wind to muffle the sound of your footsteps. Create a breeze to make a loose shutter rattle as a distraction. True mastery isn't about the size of the storm, but the precision of the whisper. Now go. Prepare yourself. You move out at midnight."
The hours leading up to the mission were a long, tense crawl. I spent the time in my room, not resting, but preparing. I familiarized myself with the weight and feel of the lockpicks, my nimble fingers practicing on the old, rusty lock of my father's footlocker until I could open it in seconds with my eyes closed.
I meditated, not for peace, but for control. I sat cross-legged on my floor, my Anemo Vision resting in my palm. I didn't try to summon a gale. I focused on the smallest, most delicate manipulations of the air. I made a single fallen leaf on my desk rise and dance, spinning silently in the air. I practiced creating a small pocket of absolute stillness around my hand, a cone of silence. It was draining, requiring immense concentration, far more than simply unleashing a blast of power. It was the difference between a sledgehammer and a scalpel.
As evening fell, I knew I had to see my friends. It felt like a necessary ritual, a reminder of what I was fighting for. I found them near the training yards, going through their own cool-down routines.
Eula was practicing her fluid, dance-like stances, her movements as sharp and beautiful as ever. Jean was meticulously cleaning her sword, her expression focused and serene. They both looked up as I approached.
"There you are," Jean said, her brow furrowing slightly as she studied my face. "You missed dinner. Is everything alright? You seem… tense."
"Hmph. He has that look in his eye," Eula added, stopping her practice. "The one he had before the admission test. The 'I'm about to do something far more interesting than either of you' look. Don't think I haven't noticed, Arthur. You vanish for hours on end. Your captain is a spymaster. What dull reports could possibly keep you so occupied?"
Her perception was as sharp as her blade. I felt a pang of guilt. This was the first secret I was actively keeping from them, a wall being built between my life and theirs. But it was a necessary one. Kaeya's trust, and the safety of his operations, depended on my discretion.
"It's nothing that exciting," I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Captain's orders. We're doing a full inventory of seized goods tonight. It's going to be a long, boring night of counting crates."
Jean's worried expression didn't fully fade, but she accepted the explanation. "Well, do be careful. And get some rest when you can."
Eula just snorted. "Counting crates. A waste of your talent. My vengeance upon your captain for assigning you such a menial task will be swift and terrible."
I managed a weak smile, said my goodbyes, and retreated, the weight of my first deception settling heavily on my shoulders.
Midnight found me clad in dark, non-reflective clothing, crouched in the shadows of a building across from the city docks. The moon was a sliver, veiled by clouds. The air was heavy with the smell of salt, damp wood, and fish. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of the waves against the pier and the distant, mournful creak of a ship's mast. It was the perfect night for shadows to come alive.
I observed my target: Warehouse No. 7. It was dark and silent, showing no signs of life. A single, bored-looking guard stood near the main door, leaning against a crate and trying to light his pipe against the damp wind.
My Instinct tingled, a low-level hum of caution. The guard was real, but he was also a decoy. Too obvious. The real security would be less visible.
I waited. Patience was a weapon. After ten long minutes, the guard grumbled, gave up on his pipe, and began a slow, predictable patrol around the building's perimeter. This was my window.
I summoned a whisper of Anemo, a current so faint it was indistinguishable from the natural sea breeze. It flowed across the pier and gently rattled a loose shutter on a window far to the guard's left. He grunted in annoyance and trudged over to investigate the sound.
I moved. My feet, cushioned by a thin layer of silent air, made no sound on the wet wood. I reached the side of the warehouse, pressing myself into the deep shadows of its wall. The lock on the side door was heavy and rusted. I pulled out Kaeya's picks. My hands were steady, my breathing controlled. I remembered my father's old footlocker. Click… click… The sound was deafening in the silence. My heart hammered against my ribs. …Click. The lock sprang open.
I slipped inside, closing the door silently behind me. The air was frigid, a deep, unnatural cold that had nothing to do with the night air. It felt like stepping into a tomb. My Instinct flared, confirming this was the source of the wrongness I had felt before. The warehouse was vast and cavernous, filled with towering stacks of crates. Most were standard Mondstadt goods, but in the center of the room was a large consignment of Snezhnayan crates, marked with the emblem of the Northland Bank.
I moved through the maze of crates, my senses on high alert. The main floor was empty of people. Too empty. I noticed scuff marks and scrapes on the floor leading to a large, unassuming pile of fishing nets in a far corner. A concealed entrance.
Pulling the nets aside revealed a heavy, reinforced trapdoor with a complex lock. This was beyond my lockpicking skills. I examined it, looking for a mechanism. My fingers brushed against a section of the floor that felt hollow. A pressure plate. I carefully placed a heavy coil of rope I found nearby onto the plate. There was a low groan of moving stone, and the trapdoor slid open, revealing a set of steep stone stairs descending into darkness.
The cold intensified as I descended. The air grew thick with the cloying-sweet smell of cryo mist and something else… something that smelled like ozone and trapped magic. The stairs opened into a large, torch-lit basement. And what I saw made my blood run cold.
The room was a makeshift laboratory and prison. Fatui Skirmishers—a Cryo Gunner and an Electrohammer Vanguard—stood guard near a table laden with alchemical equipment. In the center of the room were several large, reinforced cages. Inside them were not animals, but elemental life forms. Caged Anemo Slimes pulsed with a weak, frightened light. A Cryo Whopperflower was frozen into a block of ice within its enclosure. And in the largest cage, I saw him. The missing informant. He was slumped against the bars, unconscious, his body covered in a thin layer of frost.
Hiding behind a stack of crates, I strained to hear the conversation of two Fatui agents in lab coats.
"…The Doctor will be pleased with these specimens," one said, making a note on a clipboard. "Their elemental purity is remarkable. The energy we can extract will be more than enough for the next phase of the project."
"And the destabilizer?" the other asked. "Is it ready for deployment?"
"Almost. By channeling this extracted energy into the device and embedding it near a ley line confluence, we can create a cascading failure. It will disrupt Mondstadt's elemental balance. The local fauna will become aggressive, the weather erratic. The Knights will be so busy putting out fires they won't have time to notice our more… significant operations."
The Doctor. Il Dottore. One of the Fatui Harbingers. My mind reeled. This wasn't just smuggling. This was state-sponsored terrorism, a plan to cripple Mondstadt from within.
I had my information. I had to get out. As I began to retreat, my boot scraped against a loose stone. It was a tiny sound, but in the tense quiet of the lab, it was like a thunderclap.
The Electrohammer Vanguard's head snapped in my direction. "Who's there?!" he boomed, raising his massive hammer.
My heart leaped into my throat. Kaeya's words echoed in my head. Do not engage. Escape.
Fighting was suicide. I had to create a diversion. A big one.
I focused, drawing on a larger reserve of my Anemo power. I aimed not at the basement, but at the warehouse above. I unleashed a powerful Palm Vortex straight up at the wooden ceiling. The blast of wind slammed into the main floor, sending a stack of empty barrels crashing to the ground with a tremendous, splintering racket.
"What was that?!" the Cryo Gunner yelled. "Go! Check it out!"
As the Electrohammer Vanguard lumbered up the stairs to investigate the noise, the moment of distraction was all I needed. I didn't run for the stairs. I ran for the shadows along the far wall. Using the wind to mask my sound and propel my steps, I slipped past the remaining agents, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I scrambled up the stairs and out the side door, melting back into the damp, forgiving darkness of the pier.
I didn't stop running until I reached the designated meeting point—the roof of the Fishmonger's Stall, which offered a clear view of the docks. A dark figure detached itself from the shadow of a chimney. It was Kaeya.
Gasping for breath, I gave him my report. I left nothing out: the secret lab, the caged elemental life, the captured informant, the Skirmishers, and the horrifying plan to destabilize Mondstadt's ley lines under the orders of The Doctor.
Kaeya listened in absolute silence, his charming mask completely gone, replaced by the cold, hard face of a spymaster who had just had his worst fears confirmed. The temperature around him seemed to drop by ten degrees.
When I finished, he stared out at the silent, dark warehouse, his visible eye narrowed to a sliver. The implications of my intelligence were massive.
"The Fatui have grown arrogant," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "To set up a research lab of this nature right under our noses… they are testing us. Or they believe we are too weak to notice."
He turned to me, and in the dim moonlight, I saw a flicker of genuine respect in his eye. "You did well tonight, Arthur. Incredibly well. You followed your orders to the letter, gathered intelligence that could save our nation, and escaped a superior force using your wits. You have proven yourself a true Knight of the 8th."
He placed a hand on my shoulder. "This changes everything. This is no longer a matter for a small reconnaissance team. This is an act of war." He looked back toward the dark heart of the city. "Get some rest. You've earned it. Tomorrow, our real work begins."