In the weeks that followed the grand announcement, Liyue Harbor was a city in the throes of a chaotic, exciting, and slightly clumsy, transformation. The first, official "Driving and Hovering Academies" opened their doors, their training grounds carefully cordoned-off, safe spaces on the outskirts of the city. And the public, their initial grumbling reluctantly giving way to an overwhelming, irresistible curiosity, began to sign up in droves.
Ren, his own, direct work on the project now complete, became a quiet, amused observer of this new, wobbly age. He would often accompany Keqing on her inspection tours of the new facilities, her sharp, pragmatic eye ensuring that the schools were running with the utmost efficiency and safety.
And what they saw was a beautiful, humbling, and often very funny, testament to the absolute, undeniable necessity of the rules they had created.
They watched a large, boisterous, and very confident, merchant, the same one who had loudly proclaimed his thirty years of cart-driving experience, step onto a hoverboard for the first time. He scoffed at the instructor's gentle advice to "find your center of balance."
"Nonsense!" he had declared. "It's just a floating plank!"
He had then immediately, and with a spectacular, pin-wheeling of his arms, shot backwards at an alarming speed, his balance completely non-existent, before tumbling off in a soft, undignified heap onto the padded safety mats. The merchant, his pride deeply, and very comically, wounded, had then spent the rest of the lesson listening to the instructor with the quiet, humble focus of a school student.
Then there was the proud, wealthy father who had been so insistent that his sixteen-year-old son, a supposed cart driving prodigy, be allowed to pilot a hovercar. He claimed to have taught his son himself.
Ren watched as the man, beaming with a proud, paternal pride, sat in the driver's seat himself, to "show the boy how it was done." He confidently pressed the start button. The car hummed to life and lifted to its default, three-foot hover. And then… nothing.
The man stared at the steering wheel, at the lever, at the pedals, a look of profound, and deeply confused, bewilderment on his face. He pushed the lever forward, and the car lurched forward. He turned the wheel, accidently turning it more than necessary, and the directional propellers whirred, but the car, having more than required turn, simply circled in place.
His son, watching from the sidelines, just buried his face in his hands, a look of pure, secondhand embarrassment on his face.
The stories were endless. People would forget to apply the brake, and would instead apply pressure on the accelerator. They would try to make sharp, aggressive turns at high speeds, only to be gently, automatically, corrected by the car's built-in, and very wise, safety protocols.
Slowly, day by day, a new, collective, and very humble, understanding began to dawn on the people of Liyue. The grumbling about the licenses, the complaints about the mandatory training, they all began to fade, replaced by a new, and deeply respectful, appreciation for the rules.
Flying, they were all learning, was not as simple as it looked. It required skill. It required practice. It required… a license.
Ren would watch it all, a quiet, knowing smile on his face. He saw the humbling of the arrogant, the confusion of the over-confident, and the slow, steady, and ultimately successful, learning of the patient. He was watching a city, and a culture, adapt to his new, wonderful, and slightly more complicated than they had expected, gift. And it was a beautiful and entertaining, sight to behold.