Life in Liyue Harbor settled into a golden, peaceful rhythm. The adventures in Mondstadt, with their storms and their Harbingers, began to feel like a distant, half-remembered dream. Ren's days were a comfortable tapestry woven from familiar, beloved threads.
His mornings were for training. Ganyu, now a dedicated and proud mentor, would help him hone his unique, defensive Cryo abilities in the quiet seclusion of their garden. He was not learning new attacks, but refining his art. His shields became faster, more complex, able to form in overlapping, angled layers to deflect even the most powerful theoretical blows. His flash-freezing technique, which he used on training dummies, became a thing of precision and art, able to immobilize a target's hand without freezing their arm, a perfect, non-lethal tool of control.
His afternoons were for his Liyue family. He would spend hours with Madam Ping, listening to her endless, gentle stories of old Liyue. He would visit Xiangling at Wanmin Restaurant, bravely taste-testing her newest, often explosive, culinary experiments.
And surprisingly, he found himself spending a great deal of time in the company of Zhongli. The consultant from the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor seemed to have a knack for appearing wherever Ren was enjoying a quiet moment, be it at a stone table on Yujing Terrace or a quiet teahouse in Chihu Rock. Their conversations were never about grand, divine affairs anymore. They were simple, quiet talks. Zhongli would speak of the history of a particular type of jade, of the proper way to brew a certain kind of tea, of the ancient folklore behind the carvings on a nearby building. Ren, in turn, would speak of his inventions, of his observations of the city, of the simple, everyday wonders he encountered.
It was during one of these quiet, sun-drenched afternoons at a teahouse that the conversation took a turn, a subtle, profound shift that Ren would remember for the rest of his life.
Zhongli was staring into his teacup, the fragrant steam swirling around his calm, thoughtful face. "It is a remarkable thing to witness," he began, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. "I find myself walking through the streets of the Harbor in the evenings. I look into the windows of the homes."
He paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his tea. "And I see them. I see a family gathered in the soft, violet glow of a heater, their faces warm and full of a comfortable peace, no longer needing to worry about the dangerous embers of a hearth. I see a mother placing fresh produce into a refrigerator, secure in the knowledge that her family's food will not spoil, that her hard-earned mora will not be wasted."
He placed his cup down, and his luminous, ancient amber eyes met Ren's. There was a look in them that was both deeply proud and profoundly melancholic. It was the look of a parent watching their child finally, confidently, take their own steps into the world.
"When I see these things," Zhongli continued, his voice barely a whisper, "I see a Liyue that is… thriving. I see a humanity that is not just surviving, but innovating. I see mortals who are beginning to walk their own path, solving their own problems with their own ingenuity, their own hands."
He looked out at the bustling street, at the endless, vibrant flow of human life. "I see people who, perhaps, no longer require the constant, watchful gaze of an Archon to guide their every step."
The words, so casually spoken, so deeply philosophical, struck Ren with the force of a physical blow. He stared at the man opposite him, the god who had guided this nation for thousands of years, and he understood.
This wasn't just a philosophical musing. This was a confession. This was a farewell.
Zhongli was alluding to his plan, to the grand, final contract he was preparing to enact. He was speaking of his own obsolescence, of his desire to see if his children, the people of Liyue, were truly ready to stand on their own. The fake death at the coming Rite of Descension, the test with the recreated Osial, the handing over of his Gnosis—it was all there, hidden in the quiet, wistful words of a god contemplating retirement.
Ren's heart ached with a sudden, profound empathy for the being sitting before him. He saw not a powerful, all-knowing god, but a tired, ancient father, grappling with the monumental, bittersweet decision to finally let his children go, to trust that the lessons he had taught them had been enough.
Ren didn't offer any grand words of wisdom. He didn't try to dissuade him. He simply looked at the god of contracts, the founder and guardian of this nation, and gave him a small, quiet, and deeply understanding smile.
"The tea is very good today, isn't it, Mr. Zhongli?" he said softly.
Zhongli looked at the small boy, at the impossible, calm wisdom that sometimes shone in his glowing azure eyes, and he knew that the child had understood. A slow, gentle, and profoundly grateful smile touched his lips.
"Yes, Ren," he replied, picking up his teacup once more. "It is."
In the quiet, shared understanding of that sunlit afternoon, a god had silently confessed his intention to leave the world, and a boy from another world had silently offered his support.