The wind at Windrise always carried a distinct scent. A blend of ancient oak sap, morning dew that hadn't quite evaporated, and of course—the scent of freedom.
Or perhaps, it was just the smell of alcohol wafting from the god's own breath.
Venti, or Barbatos to those who offered prayers in the cathedral, leaned casually against the massive roots of Mondstadt's symbolic tree. In his hand, a bottle of top-quality Dandelion Wine—"subtly" pilfered from the Dawn Winery cellar—was already half empty. He tipped his head back, watching the Teyvat sunlight dance through the gaps in the foliage.
"Ah... the sweetness of peace," he murmured, letting the golden liquid wash down his throat. "Truly a taste worthy of closing a chapter."
As someone who had once lived in another world—a world called 'Earth,' filled with skyscrapers and the internet—being Venti was the second role he had played. However, he had embodied this role for so many thousands of years that the boundary between the 'old him' and the 'Anemo Archon' had completely dissolved.
He had done his duty well. Very well, in fact.
He recalled the events of just a few hours ago. Lumine, the Traveler, had departed for Liyue. Their parting hadn't been colored by the shameful drama of a stolen Gnosis like in the "original script" he knew from his past life.
In this world, Mondstadt was not a weak city.
Venti smiled faintly, his gaze drifting toward the city in the distance. There, the flags of the Knights of Favonius waved gallantly—not merely due to the protection of a dragon, but because of their leader.
Rostam the Wolf was still alive.
That was the greatest change he had made. During the cataclysm of Khaenri'ah five hundred years ago, when the darkness of the Abyss tried to swallow everything, Venti hadn't stayed silent, nor had he arrived too late. He ensured Rostam survived. He ensured the Grand Master didn't die a foolish death in a desolate valley.
The domino effect was truly extraordinary.
Because Rostam lived, Rosalyne-Kruzchka Lohefalter never drowned herself in the flames of hatred. There was no Crimson Witch of Flames. No bitter, cruel La Signora. The Rosalyne of today was a respected grand dame, the wife of the Grand Master, and the strongest pyro mage protecting Mondstadt, not destroying it.
"The Fatui..." Venti chuckled softly, swirling his wine bottle. "They even had to knock politely this time."
The Gnosis handover earlier? That was purely a business transaction. Venti had handed it to the Tsaritsa's envoy casually at Angel's Share, witnessed by Rostam, who glared sharply at the Fatui diplomat to ensure they didn't try any tricks. Even without the Gnosis, Venti remained the element of wind itself. And with a healthy Dvalin—since he had prevented Durin's poison from corrupting the dragon from the very start—Mondstadt was in its golden age.
"Mission accomplished. The Traveler is on her way. Mondstadt is safe. Rosalyne is happy," Venti counted off on his slender fingers. "Now, time for a long hibernation. Maybe a hundred years? Or until a new batch of wine matures?"
His eyelids felt heavy. Not from drunkenness—an Archon didn't go down that easily—but from the mental fatigue accumulated over thousands of years of keeping the scenario from falling apart. He had twisted a tragic fate, and that drained more energy than simply blowing a mountain flat.
A gentle breeze caressed his face, as if singing a lullaby.
"Sleep tight, Barbatos..." he whispered to himself.
The world slowly faded. The rustling of oak leaves in Windrise grew distant, replaced by a long, silent hum. Venti let his consciousness drift into the flow of the Ley Lines, intending to find a comfortable corner in a dream to rest.
But sleep did not come.
Instead of the empty calm he usually felt during hibernation, Venti felt a rough, jerking sensation. It was as if a giant fishing hook had snared his soul, dragging him forcibly from the flow of Teyvat's time.
Eh?
He tried to open his inner eye, tried to summon the wind to stabilize himself. But the wind here... was alien.
This wasn't Mondstadt's gentle breeze. It wasn't Liyue's wind carrying the scent of stone, or Inazuma's wind smelling of sea salt and lightning.
This wind smelled of dust, blood, and primal despair.
"Oi, how long are you planning to sleep there, Kid?"
The rough voice jolted Venti back to physical reality.
His eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw wasn't the soothing green canopy of the Windrise tree, but a grey sky choked with thick clouds. Raindrops fell slowly, cold and bone-chilling, vastly different from the spring rain in Mondstadt.
Venti blinked, then sat up straight. His head spun slightly, a sensation of disorientation he rarely felt. He patted his surroundings. He was sitting on a pile of wooden crates in a damp, narrow alley. The street in front of him was paved with uneven cobblestones, slick with moss and rain.
"Where..."
Venti turned toward the source of the voice. A middle-aged man with a weary face and shabby clothes was staring at him. The man held a spear, its blade dull and rusted.
"Don't tell me you're so drunk you forgot your way home?" the man snorted, though there was a note of pity in his voice. "This isn't a safe place to sleep, Kid. Especially after... that incident."
Venti immediately slipped on his best mask—a cheerful, innocent smile. He stood up, brushing off his signature shorts, which were now slightly grimy.
"Ehe! Looks like last night's wine was a bit too strong for me," Venti laughed lightly, though his eyes sharply scanned the environment.
The buildings here were tall and dense, built from white and grey bricks that looked sturdy yet gloomy. The architecture reminded him of medieval Europe from his first life, but with a rougher, fantasy edge. No windmills. No statue of Barbatos.
And the most striking feature was the tower.
In the distance, piercing the grey sky, stood a gigantic tower whose peak was invisible, swallowed by the clouds. It was so massive that it made the Favonius Cathedral look like a child's toy.
Babel? Venti thought, his brain—still storing memories of his "Earth life"—working fast. Wait. A giant white tower in a circular city...
"That incident?" Venti tilted his head, feigning ignorance to fish for information. "Sorry, Uncle. I just arrived from... a very faraway village. I'm a bit behind on the news."
The man stared at Venti with a strange look, as if Venti had just asked if the sun rose in the east.
"You really don't know?" The man lowered his voice, his eyes darting anxiously toward the empty main street. "The Zeus Familia and Hera Familia... they lost."
Venti's heart skipped a beat.
The information hit him like a hurricane. Zeus and Hera Familia. Those terms. Those names.
This wasn't Teyvat. This was Orario. The Labyrinth City. And if they had just lost...
"Lost?" Venti repeated, his voice quiet, baiting for more details.
"Finished. Destroyed," the man spat on the ground, his expression a mix of anger and fear. "That One-Eyed Black Dragon... that cursed monster wiped out our strongest forces. Now, Orario is in chaos. Evilus is starting to move in the shadows, and people are losing hope. Without Zeus and Hera, who is left to protect us?"
The man sighed deeply, then patted Venti's shoulder. "You'd better find an inn or leave this city immediately if you value your life. This is the dark age, Kid. Cheerful songs won't be heard again for a long time."
The man walked away, dragging his feet through the rain, leaving Venti alone at the mouth of the alley.
Venti stood frozen. Rain soaked his green beret, dripping onto his cape. He reached out, trying to feel the elements in the air.
The mana here was dense, wild, and chaotic. It was different from Teyvat's ordered elements. There was no Gnosis in his chest—he had indeed given that away. But his power... his true power as an elemental wind spirit was still there, though it felt suppressed by the different "laws" of this world.
"Orario..." he murmured.
He knew the story of this world from his past life. But knowing the story and standing inside it were two very different things. The faint smell of blood in the air wasn't a special effect in an animation; it was real. The fear radiating from the aura of the few people passing by on the main street was real.
He had just left Mondstadt at its absolute peak. A Mondstadt he had painstakingly built into a paradise of freedom, where Rostam and Rosalyne could live happily, where Dvalin could fly freely.
And now, he was stranded here. At the lowest point of Orario's history.
A time where the strongest heroes had fallen. A time where hope was dying.
Venti stared up at the Tower of Babel looming arrogantly above him. A small smirk, thin but sharp, slowly carved its way onto his face. His teal eyes shone in the dim twilight, not with cheerfulness, but with the ancient glint he had possessed when leading the rebellion against Decarabian thousands of years ago.
"The dark age, he says?"
Venti plucked the strings of his lyre—Der Frühling—which, somehow, was already in his hands. The chime sounded clear, cutting through the patter of the rain, a beautiful anomaly in the midst of a grieving city.
"Well, looks like I won't be retiring early after all," he whispered to the alien wind swirling around him.
If this world had lost its heroes, if this city had lost its hope... then what they needed was the best bard in the entire universe to remind them how to dream again.
"Let's see just how interesting a song I can scatter in this labyrinth city."
Venti stepped out of the alley, his green cape fluttering defiantly against the gloomy wind of Orario, ready to begin his greatest performance on a brand-new stage.