Neuvillette walked into the council chamber, gazing at the rows of officials for a long moment before slowly taking his seat.
The dim space was suddenly illuminated, the abrupt brightness forcing some officials to shield their faces.
Amid the silence, no one dared to break the oppressive atmosphere.
"All thirteen rescue routes dispatched today have lost contact. Everyone, regarding whether we should continue sending Vision bearers on rescue missions—I believe you've all already reached an answer before this meeting even began."
Still, no one spoke. The polished table reflected a harsh light, laying bare every expression in the room.
"Abandon the rescue efforts. All we can do now is trust in them."
One official finally voiced the only opinion in the room. Silence sometimes meant agreement, but the one who spoke first bore immense courage—for they would shoulder all consequences of this decision.
Neuvillette wasn't surprised. He scanned the room, then stood up. In that moment, everyone let out a sigh of relief.
Because this meant Neuvillette had accepted the proposal.
...
The gloomy sky made it impossible to tell the time, leaving only clocks to mark its passage.
Outside a heavily guarded building, Neuvillette waved his hand, and the guards quickly dispersed.
Pushing the door open, Hydro Archon Furina glanced at the visitor and shrank back slightly, watching Neuvillette with cautious eyes.
"Furina, are you still unwilling to tell me?"
Neuvillette sat directly across from Furina. Over the past half-month, countless citizens had suggested that Furina atone for her sins by joining the battle. But Neuvillette knew—Furina had no power at all.
In these two weeks, Neuvillette had pieced together all of Furina's actions over the years. One thing was certain: Furina knew the prophecy was real.
The weight of his unspoken pressure continued to bear down on her, demanding an answer. Yet, like a stubborn beast, her fragile exterior hid an unyielding resolve.
What was she hiding?
A sigh finally escaped him. Just as Neuvillette stepped across the threshold, he paused.
"I can no longer delay your execution. In the face of disaster, the people's pent-up emotions must be released—and they've directed their anger at you. If you won't tell me what you know... I can't save you."
The door closed softly behind him. In the dim light, a single tear traced its way down her cheek.
...
Outside the underground shelter of Poisson, rainwater washed away the bloodstains. Amid the collapsed ruins, only the lingering echoes of Tacet Discords remained, trudging through the mire.
Before the Tacet Discord wave arrived, the townsfolk near the coast had noticed the sea's abnormal tides. But no one paid attention—until one quiet night, a single surge silently swallowed half of Poisson's residents. Only then did they realize the truth.
The calamity lurking in the sea was their natural enemy. The Tacet Discord waves had already ravaged the land, and now the emergence of Primordial Seawater pushed Fontaine—already on the brink—past its limit.
Now, the ocean's tides slowly consumed Fontaine's territory, silently eroding the land they depended on for survival.
Humankind, once the dominant inhabitants of Teyvat, now clung to life, hiding underground, in the skies, or beneath the sea—praying for tomorrow to come.
Poisson Underground Shelter
The townspeople looked up as the rusted iron door creaked open. The sound instantly silenced the murmurs, and hopeful eyes turned toward the entrance.
It had been dozens of days since the last rescue. Had it not been for the Spina di Rosula distributing their surplus supplies, they would have starved long ago.
But everyone knew—even those with Visions who ventured outside the safety of the shelter to search for supplies faced near-certain death. For ordinary people, it was hopeless.
"Where are the supplies? Why has it taken so long?"
One resident couldn't hold back. Beneath his filthy clothes, festering wounds covered his body. He tried to grab his neighbor's collar, but the pain forced him back into his corner.
"Who knows? Another failure, it seems."
Another resident sneered, clutching a microphone he'd brought when he first came to Poisson. Invited here to perform, he'd taken nothing when disaster struck—only the tool he knew best.
Now, it seemed like a foolish choice. It couldn't be eaten or drunk. But he didn't regret it, stroking the microphone to calm his frayed nerves.
"Tch, singing at a time like this. If you'd brought something useful, we wouldn't be in this state."
The sharp retort made the man with the microphone glare at his critic.
"What? Can you fight those demons? Can I? If I'm not singing, should I bash you with it instead?"
With that, he began humming, his trembling hands lifting the microphone to his lips. The song became the final spark to ignite their fraying tempers.
"We should've left Fontaine when we had the chance!"
The sudden shout made Navia, who was tending to the sick, look up. She exchanged a glance with Melus, who immediately understood and stepped forward to defuse the tension.
"Enough, enough. We still have supplies. There's no need to worry."
Melus tried to soothe them, but the enraged resident shoved his hand away.
"Still have supplies?! Three meals cut to two, portions halved—and you call that 'enough'? I should've listened to my wife and left this cursed place!"
A man in a suit and sunglasses grabbed his flailing arm, sternly snapping:
"Sir, if you continue causing a disturbance, I won't hesitate to throw you outside!"
The threat silenced the man. He glanced around—only exhausted faces met his gaze, too weary to argue. Defeated, he slumped back into his corner.
"I... I just want to live..."
His voice cracked. Sensing his despair, Navia sighed and walked over, placing a hand on the suited man's shoulder.
"Silver, let him vent. We've been holding it in for too long."
As if proving her point, the young man began sobbing, his shattered mind long past reason, lost in the abyss of fear.
Another resident scoffed:
"If you've got the energy to scream, give me your rations tomorrow."
Navia turned and pushed the speaker back onto his sickbed, glaring.
"You want your leg amputated? Stay down."
The patient shrank under the covers.
"Navia... my head... hurts..."
Another critically ill patient groaned, lifting heavy eyelids—but his clouded eyes stared blankly, lost in fog.
"Coming, coming."
Navia hurriedly opened the medicine box. Seeing the dwindling supplies, she clenched her fist briefly before carrying it to the patient's side.
"How much longer... until this suffering ends?"
The whisper dissolved into the clamor of the crowd. No one heard it. No one answered.