Night had settled over Mondstadt like a cool cloak. Lantern light pooled in the streets, crowd noise thinned to the soft clink of tankards and the rustle of cloaks. Kael Arclight felt it—the city's warmth, its ordinary heartbeat—yet the weight at the edge of the world tugged harder: whatever had been set in motion at Starfell and Cider lakes did not stop at spectacle. It left traces. It left questions.
He had a new tool in his hand and a new temper in his bones. The new blade at his side was ordinary in the market's lighting; the thing that made it dangerous was not steel but intention—what he could press into it. He'd learned how to bend that intention here, in this unfamiliar land. He'd paid a price for the lesson. He had the scars to prove it. And he was not the kind to be bullied at the city's edges.
Five figures blocked the lane ahead. Even before the moonlight hit their sigils, their uniforms read the same message: Fatui. The set of their shoulders, the cut of their jackets, a certainty in their step that had toppled smaller men.
"Kael Arclight?" the frontman asked. His voice was a blade wrapped in silk. "We have a proposition."
The word proposition carried the Fatui's usual sugar. A hand extended, the kind of gift that always had strings. "Join us," he said plainly. "Resources. Power. Names you want—granted."
Kael watched him, calm as winded glass. The offer smelled like a threat in a tailor-made suit. He let a slow smile ease at one corner of his mouth. "You can give me anything?" Kael asked, the tone casual enough to pass for bored. "Even a Gnosis?"
The silence snapped like a rope. The Fatui's smugness flickered.
"No," the leader returned, anger cooling into contempt. "But you could earn a Vision—if you prove yourself."
"Ah." Kael's smile tightened. "A Vision, then. And what does one have to do to collect an Archon's favor in your books? Rob a cathedral? Sell their name?"
The insult landed where they meant: beneath the Fatui pride. They bristled. It was precisely what they wanted—someone to blink first, to crack. Kael didn't blink. He didn't have to. He had something else.
His hand closed around the grip of the sword at his hip. Not steel alone but a conduit. He had a skill: Clara's shard trick, the ugly, useful power that let him graft destruction to objects. He had been careful since that first failing—careful enough not to lose a hand to the energy he wore like a fever. Careful enough to taste its edge and not get swallowed.
"Fine," he said. "If you want a demonstration of what I am, I'll show you."
The blade drank the faith in his thought. The dark-glow crawled across the metal like spilled ink meeting moonlight. The street air thickened; lanterns shuddered against the new tension. Kael did not shout. He did not roar. He tightened his grip and let the weapon speak.
When the first arc of the blade fell, it was precise as a surgeon's promise. The Fatui in front of him made a single tactical error: they moved to flank instead of retreat. That was all it took.
The blade sang. It cut with a noise that wasn't just metal against flesh but a ripping of quiet—an incision across the night. Flesh parted. Armor failed. One man's center split open like a seam, and blood flared in the moonlight. The others staggered, shock replacing their practiced arrogance. The leader's face folded, astonishment fighting fury.
It wasn't theatrics. It wasn't luck. The sword carried an element that exhausted itself at the point of impact: a small, concentrated hunger. It did what it was told. It did not ask ethics.
"Is that a relic?" one of the Fatui hissed, hands tightening on weapon hilts.
"Not a relic," Kael said quietly while sliding between attacks, steady as a metronome. "A tool. And tools remind people what choices cost." ( -_- )
They surged. Fatui precision was cruel—coordinated, practiced—but Kael had the advantage of surprise and, crucially, of knowing when to stop. His movements were not showy; they were economical and sharp—the kind of choreography that made opponents misread distance, timing, intent. Every parry left a mark, every counter left someone unsteady on their feet. The leather and steel rang; the street smelled of iron and salt. Kael did not gloat. He let each blow be a message: back off or be broken.
By the time the last blade clattered free of a gauntlet, the line that had wanted to coerce him lay scattered, wounded, or worse. The leader crawled back against a wall, eyes wide, the color drained from his face.
"You…" he breathed. "What are you?"
Kael crouched, hand on the hilt, breath steady. He felt the energy recede like tide. The sword cooled to ordinary metal in the dusky light. He looked at the man with the blandness of someone who'd seen worse and expected worse again. "I am someone who won't be bought," Kael said. "Not by threats. Not by promises."
Those words carried. The survivors looked at him differently now—not merely another gambler to be recruited, but a difficult variable. This night would be reported. The Fatui would carry home bruised pride and a new tally in their ledger: Kael Arclight, dangerous, not to be underestimated.
Kael straightened. Around him the city resumed: a cart rolled by, a dog barked far off, someone laughed and forgot they'd been tense a breath ago. He should walk away. He should let the signposts shift to whatever storm the Fatui brewed. But already, his chest felt the hollow curiosity that follows action. He had used destructive power and kept his skin. What would that mean in a week, in a month? Who else would take notice?
That question licked at his mind like a persistent ember. He couldn't answer it yet. He could only acknowledge the truth: he had fire in his palm and choices on his horizon. Both would cost him.
He left the lane quiet, the moon reflecting off the blade like a warning.
— boom!