Under Diluc's steady, puzzled gaze, Venti (Barbatos) dissolved into a ribbon of azure wind and vanished from Angel's Share. Diluc didn't flinch. He wiped the rim of a glass until it shone and assumed the obvious: the Anemo Archon had failed—again—to charm a free vintage from the top shelf and had left in theatrical defeat.
Mondstadt had survived a dragon's fury only days ago. The Fatui stirred under the watch of the Knights of Favonius. Even if disasters circled like hawks, Diluc did not believe the Anemo Archon was truly weak. The bard wore mischief like a mask. Beneath it, there was iron.
…
High above, wind sang around a green figure racing the clouds. Venti held one thought that cut through the music of the sky: six words carved into his mind like a seal—"Come to Sky Island for a meeting."
Sky Island. A summons. After more than a millennium of silence.
Only one will could touch the Archons through their Thrones with such immediacy—the will seated in the heavens.
After the Khaenri'ah cataclysm, contact had dwindled to a whisper. Many had believed the one above to be fading, perhaps already gone. Now the silence was broken, not by rumor, but by command.
"If the one above has returned… I'm in trouble," Venti muttered, a wry edge frosting the words. Yesterday, he had let the Tsaritsa take the Heart of God. He coughed and looked anywhere but up. Technically, he had never directly colluded. Technically, he had been "overwhelmed by events."
If the heavens investigated, he'd say: the Tsaritsa's envoy struck while he was sustaining the Thousand-Year Wind, keeping Mondstadt's climate stable for its people; he was stretched thin; the Heart was torn from him. Dereliction, not treason. A scolding, not obliteration.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty of Ice," he sighed to the north. "But if Heaven asks… the wind will have an answer it prefers."
Still, the six words pressed into him like fate. He would go. And he would listen.
…
Liyue. The lanterns of Third-Round Knockout cast warm islands of gold across polished tables. The storyteller's corner thrummed with laughter.
"At that time," intoned the resident raconteur, "a dream-drunk demon god bent the Yakshas to his rage. We all thought Guili would be swept from the map—until who stood at Dihua Marsh?" He spread his arms, inviting the chorus.
"Lord of Geo!" came the delighted shout. "He saved the Yakshas, broke the demon, and—"
"—and we've heard this since we had baby teeth," another grinned. "Give us a new jewel, not the same old stone."
All eyes drifted to the quiet scholar with the posture of a king and the patience of mountains: a gentleman they knew only as a guest adviser to the Funeral Parlor, a man whose calm could steady storms.
He set down his tea with infinite care. "History buries itself," he said mildly. "Even those who read its bones cannot claim certainty."
Before the audience could press for more, the porcelain almost slipped in his hand. He went very still.
"My apologies," he said, standing with a bow. "Something urgent calls me. Another day, I will share what I can."
He left behind a wake of puzzled murmurs—and a handful of unpaid receipts the Parlor would undoubtedly discover.
On the streets, the scholar's composure cracked. He was no mere advisor now, no name scrawled upon a bill. He was Morax, Geo Archon, weighing a message no mortal should receive:
Heaven summons.
In six thousand years, he had glimpsed the One Above only a few times, never to be addressed personally. Now the bond between the Geo Throne and the sky thrummed with a closeness he had not felt even when the heavens were victorious. Had the one above returned in full strength? And if so—was this good for Liyue?
Every intervention from the heavens had engraved an era in scars: the war with the Second Throne that split continents; the Demon God War that burned the land clean; Khaenri'ah smoldering beneath a divine verdict. Power from above never arrived for peace.
"Let the mountains judge, then," Morax murmured, and turned his steps toward duty.
He crossed the threshold of the Funeral Parlor into a wall of cheerful exasperation.
"Why the long face?" asked the Parlor Master, hands on hips, mischief and management rolled into one. "Did your favorite bird get spirited away? Also—leave slips, receipts, ledgers—ring any bells? You drink tea, you watch operas, you promise talks, and somehow the bills end up in my hands."
She slapped a stack of invoices against his chest. "Pop."
Morax inclined his head. "I must request a leave of several days."
"You're always on leave," she huffed, producing yet another sheet of paper, this one festooned with an ambitious advertising sketch. "Fine—**five days. But when you come back, you're distributing flyers. I have a brilliant plan—listen—"
She glanced up. The doorway framed only air and drifting dust motes. "Huh?"
From somewhere in the hall: "Docked wages!" The threat, as always, was ninety percent affection.
Venti and Morax accepted the summons with gravity tinted by habit. Hydro, however, felt fear.
In Fontaine, the Court of Fontaine emptied like a shell. Focalors had fled its chambers the instant the message burned across her mind. She had never once been contacted from Sky Island. Her crown and her chains had been passed down by Egeria, the previous Hydro goddess. She had never met the Four Shades. She had never met Heaven.
"Is it possible," she whispered, staring up into the pallid brightness, "that Heaven already knows what I intend?"
If they knew, the response would be simple: cold nails from the firmament to pin civilizations shut; floods turned to verdicts; judgments that cracked the sea. Everything she had built with Fontaine could be unmade with a gesture.
Her hands shook. "If I go, I may be unmade. If I don't… Fontaine will be."
There was no winning against the sky. There was only obedience—or annihilation.
She straightened, breath shaky. "I will go."
…
Sky Island unfolded like an impossible palace of light. Asmodeus, the Maintainer, stood at my side, the two of us at the heart of a hall that had not seen such ceremony in ages. I—Mathew, Heaven's new Law—let the world's leylines resonate through my bones.
"Anemo moves," Asmodeus reported, eyes half-lidded, hearing what only a Maintainer could. "Geo considers, then obeys. Electro resists, then approaches. Hydro quivers, yet answers."
"Good." I raised my hand. Columns brightened; star-vaults opened. The hall became a river of soft brilliance. "Let's host properly."
She glanced sideways at me. "You favor spectacle."
"I favor clarity," I said. "Spectacle is a clear language."
We waited—not idly, but with purpose—reviewing the plan etched across the Human Realm Power System. Four would be enough for this first council: Anemo, Geo, Electro, Hydro. Sumeru was too rotten for a clean start; Natlan's fires burned too wild; Snezhnaya's knives were bared even when sheathed. I would not invite saboteurs to the first laying of cornerstone.
Threads of light speared the sky.
First came Wind. A boy in green and laughter and centuries, the liar who told the most important truths. He stepped from a gust that smelled of apples and old songs, and for once, did not smile. He bowed deeply.
Then Stone. A tall man with the weight of epochs in his gaze, politeness cut from granite. He inclined his head to Asmodeus first—soldier to sentinel—then to me, sovereign to sovereign.
Lightning stalked in a beat later, like a storm deciding to be person. Resistance sparked and died in her eyes; practicality remained. She looked at the hall, measured it, and sheathed her temper.
Water arrived last, breathless, regal, brittle with a fear she couldn't hide. She took one step forward and fought the urge to kneel—not from worship, but from terror.
"Welcome," I said, and let Heaven's voice carry—not a shout, but a resonance that made the pillars hum, that let the world itself convey the greeting. "You are called for an audience."
The moment crystallized—important enough to brand in stars.
The Heavens broke a millennium of silence and summoned the Archons.
Anemo and Geo answered with calm resolve; Electro with wary steel; Hydro with fear but obedience.
Sky Island opened its halls; Heaven stood revealed.
"Why now?" asked Geo, steady as bedrock. "For what purpose does Heaven convene us?"
"Because the world fractures," I answered plainly. "Teyvat has less than ten years unless we act. I will not watch it dissolve." I let them feel a sliver of what I saw daily: fault lines webbing the continents, the abyss gnawing, the old scaffolds failing. "We will mend it—and then we will do more than mend. We will elevate it."
Electro's gaze sharpened. "At what cost?"
"At costs I will carry," I said. "With help I will demand."
I outlined the first movements, not as theories, but as orders forged from strategy:
Demon Slayer world: We seed the Vision concept into myth, align destiny, harvest permission, and annex cleanly. This gives us multi-attribute evolution, primary immortality, and a public victory that unites our people.
Red Eyes world: We intervene to free the oppressed, gather belief until it surpasses 80%, tip authority, and annex to buttress Teyvat's barriers—extending the world's lifespan by 100,000 years at a stroke.
Inuyasha world: We establish reincarnation law and make abyssal power safe by normalizing Visions, weaving new Divine Thrones, and taking the keys to both mortal and nether domains.
"After all three, Teyvat gains five hundred thousand years," Asmodeus added softly, the numbers weighty as mountains.
Wind exhaled, relief and grief mingled. "A half-million lullabies," he said, almost to himself.
Hydro's hands clenched. "And if we refuse?"
I met her eyes. She flinched, then held. Courage, despite the tremor. I respected it.
"You won't," I said, not threatening, merely true. "But if an Archon attempts to leverage annexed power to oppose Heaven—" I glanced to Asmodeus.
"I will remove them," she finished, voice calm as a blade that already knows its target.
A beat of silence. Then Geo nodded, the decision settling like a keystone. "Very well. Tell us where to begin."
"Mondstadt," I said. "Wind will carry our first message to another world—gentle, visible, incontrovertible: a miracle without cruelty. Geo will build the anchor. Electro will guard the flank. Hydro will bear witness and judge fairness for the people. We win a heartland not by fear, but by benefit."
Electro's lips twitched. "So you do understand governance."
"I understand outcomes," I said.
Wind looked down, then up, then smiled at last—small, real. "We'll sing it right," he promised.
Geo bowed his head again. "I will prepare the anchor nails."
Hydro swallowed. "I will… come," she said. "And I will judge true."
"Good." I opened my hand. A map of stars unfurled above us—three foreign constellations gleaming beyond Teyvat's sky. "Heaven convenes not to dictate stories, but to ensure there is still a stage."
Important beats flared like comets across the vaulted ceiling:
Heaven declared the ten-year deadline and the plan to surpass it.
The four Archons accepted roles in the first annexation.
A line was spoken: betray the world with stolen power, and Heaven would cut you down.
"Then let's begin," I said, and the hall answered with light.
Far below, the winds rose over Mondstadt; the stones of Liyue stirred; a distant storm coiled and listened; and in Fontaine, a goddess pressed a trembling hand over a steadier heart.
The audience was over. The work had begun.