The morning light pierced through the gaping hole in the church roof, falling squarely on the face of a god who was fast asleep on a hard wooden bench.
"Mmhh..."
Venti stretched, his spine popping softly. He blinked, staring up at a mossy stone ceiling instead of the canopy of the great oak at Windrise he was used to. Reality hit him in seconds: he wasn't in Mondstadt. He was in Orario, sleeping in an abandoned church where the dust lay as thick as a blanket, and—most tragically—he had no money for breakfast.
However, before his stomach could protest, Venti felt something else. A cold yet familiar sensation crept through his Ichor, his divine blood.
The world had finished "reading" him.
Last night, as he slept, the universal laws of DanMachi had classified his existence. Like a librarian arranging a new book on a shelf, the world had given him a label.
Arcanum (Authority):
Wind — Naturally.
Freedom — The essence of his soul.
Song — His form of expression.
Time.
Venti paused, his eyes widening as he stared at the dust particles floating in the air.
"Time?" he whispered, his fingers unconsciously tracing over the left side of his chest, the place where he had once felt a faint connection to Istaroth, the Mother of Time, one of the Four Shades of the Heavenly Principles.
In Teyvat, that connection was nothing more than fragments of legend and winds that never suffered erosion. But here, in a world that defined power literally, the shard of Istaroth's power carried within his soul had been crystallized into an Arcanum.
He could feel the ticking of seconds that he could slow down, speed up, or even... rewind on a small scale.
"Oho," a mischievous smile slowly returned to his face. "It seems the 'Weakest God' just got a rather cheat-like weapon upgrade."
Grrraaa.
The loud rumble of his stomach shattered the epic moment.
"Ah, right. You can't eat time," Venti sighed dramatically, hopping off the bench. "Time to get to work."
An hour later, Venti had settled into his new routine.
In the same run-down tavern as yesterday, he plucked the strings of Der Frühling. A cheerful melody filled the air that was usually thick with coarse curses and the clinking of cheap glasses.
Venti didn't sing of dragons or great heroes this time. He sang a simple song about warm wheat bread and cold beer in the afternoon—the little things that people missed in this Dark Age.
"Thanks, Kid! Here's your share," the tavern owner slid a plate of toast and a glass of goat milk toward him. Not a lavish meal, but enough to sustain life.
Venti had just taken a bite of his bread when the wind whispered in his ear.
It wasn't a metaphor. The gentle breeze drifting through the tavern's cracked window carried specific information, sending vibrations directly into Venti's consciousness.
Guests. At the church. Two people. One strong, one dying.
Venti stopped chewing. His eyebrows shot up. Who was crazy enough to visit a dilapidated church on the outskirts of town that even rats refused to inhabit? And furthermore... dying?
His curiosity, the natural trait of a bard always thirsty for new stories, was piqued. He downed his milk in one gulp, snatched the rest of his bread, and waved to the owner.
"Thanks for the food, Uncle! The wind is calling me home!"
"Home? You have a home?"
"Ehe!"
The old church seemed silent when Venti arrived, but the aura inside had changed completely.
If the place had previously held only emptiness, the air now felt heavy. There was a pressure of Mana so dense, yet compressed tightly to prevent an explosion. It was the pressure of someone immensely powerful, yet deeply grieving.
Venti stepped inside soundlessly, his footsteps dampened by cushions of wind.
Near the ruined altar, two women stood.
The first woman had long silver hair and wore a black gothic-style dress. Her body radiated an aura of intimidation as sharp as a drawn sword, yet there was a fragility behind her cold gaze.
The second woman, sitting on the front pew near the altar, was her opposite. She had soft platinum hair and a face very similar to the first woman's, but far paler. She wore simple, loose clothing that disguised her swelling belly.
Pregnant.
Venti hid for a moment behind a pillar, observing.
"It's quiet here, Alfia," said the woman sitting down. Her voice was weak, like a candle flame about to be snuffed out by the wind. "I like the light."
"It's just ruins, Meteria," the woman named Alfia replied, her voice flat but filled with hidden affection. "But if you like it... we can rest here for a while before leaving the city."
"Leaving the city, huh..." Meteria stroked her stomach. "I'm sorry, Alfia. Because of my condition, you have to..."
"Don't talk nonsense. There is no reason for us to stay in Orario anymore. I will take you to a quiet village. We will raise the child there."
Venti could hear the despair in Alfia's voice. He could also hear something else—the sound of cracks within both their bodies.
Alfia's body was like a musical instrument whose strings were pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping. Her own magic was consuming her. Meanwhile, Meteria... she was like a glass cup cracked everywhere. A congenital disease was eating away at her organs, exacerbated by the pregnancy siphoning her remaining vitality.
The gods of this world had given up on their afflictions.
But Venti was not a god of this world.
"It certainly is quiet," Venti stepped out from the shadows of the pillar, his cheerful voice breaking the tension. "But the ventilation is a bit too good, don't you think? The wind comes in from all directions."
"Who?!"
Alfia's reaction was instant. In the blink of an eye, she had spun around, shielding Meteria with her body. The air pressure in the church plummeted. Venti could feel Gospel—Alfia's sound magic—preparing to obliterate anyone threatening her sister.
Venti raised both hands, showing he was unarmed (except for a wooden lyre).
"Woah, easy there. I'm just the owner of this place. Well, 'owner' unilaterally, since I'm the one who dusted that bench last night," Venti smiled warmly, his teal eyes glowing softly.
Alfia narrowed her eyes. Her instincts as a former executive of the Hera Familia, a feared Level 7 monster, screamed that the bard boy in front of her was... strange. There was no killing intent. No fluctuating Mana. He felt like... empty air.
And that made him all the more dangerous.
"A God," Alfia murmured, realizing the faint glow around Venti's body. "What is a god doing in a place like this?"
"My name is Venti. And as you can see, I'm a god who is currently broke," Venti walked closer casually, ignoring Alfia's death stare. He looked at Meteria. "And you, Miss, carry a new life, but your body disagrees with it."
Meteria smiled weakly. "Hello, God Venti. I apologize for our intrusion."
"No problem! Guests bring good fortune," Venti sat on the back of the pew in front of them, his legs swinging. "So, you want to leave Orario because no one can cure your illnesses? Even Hera threw up her hands?"
Alfia's face hardened. "Watch your tongue. That is none of your business."
"What if I told you it is my business now?"
Venti's tone shifted. The cheerfulness didn't leave his face, but his eyes turned old. Very old. A gaze that had watched civilizations rise and fall.
"I am looking for the first member of my Familia. And I need someone who can cook and clean. In exchange..." Venti pointed to Meteria's chest. "...I will fix what is broken."
Alfia laughed hollowly, a sound full of bitterness. "Fix? Don't bluff. The best God of Medicine, Dian Cecht, and even the Healer from the other family—they all said Meteria wouldn't last another year. And I..." She fell silent. Her own illness was the curse of her talent.
"They couldn't because they were only trying to 'heal'," Venti interrupted. He plucked a single string on his lyre. Ting. The sound echoed strangely, as if rewinding time around them for a split second. "I won't heal you with medicine. I will rewind the damage."
Alfia's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"
"Allow me to demonstrate on your sister. She is easier. Her illness is merely physical organ failure, not a magical curse like yours."
Without waiting for Alfia's permission, Venti snapped his fingers.
A soft green wind swirled around Meteria. It wasn't ordinary wind. It was a wind that carried the scent of time long past. Venti accessed his Time Arcanum, focusing his understanding of that concept onto Meteria's vital organs—her lungs, her heart.
Rewind. Return to the time before the damage occurred.
An imaginary clock ticked in the silent church. Meteria gasped. She felt the heavy weight on her chest lift. Her breath, usually shallow and painful, suddenly became deep and relieved. A pink hue slowly returned to her pale cheeks.
"Ah..." Meteria inhaled deeply, her eyes tearing up. "Alfia... I... it doesn't hurt. My chest doesn't hurt."
Venti lowered his hand, sweating slightly. Using Time on a living being drained more energy than he had anticipated.
Alfia froze. She looked at her sister, then at Venti with a look of horror mixed with painful hope. She could see it—Meteria's vitality had stabilized. It was no illusion.
"What... what did you do?" Alfia's voice trembled. "Who are you, really?"
"Barbatos. But just call me Venti," he answered with a wink. "Now, regarding your case..."
Venti looked at Alfia seriously.
"Your illness is different. It is bound to your magic. Your Gospel. Your Satanas Verion."
Alfia took a step back. "How do you know the name of my magic?"
"I am the God of Songs. I can hear the 'voice' of your soul," Venti tapped his chest. "Your problem is resonance. Your body isn't strong enough to withstand the frequency of your own power. You are destroying yourself from the inside every time you sing."
Venti hopped down from the pew, standing right in front of Alfia. He didn't even reach her chin in height, yet his presence felt gigantic.
"I cannot cure you as quickly as Meteria. Your damage is too deep. But... I can teach you harmony."
"Harmony?"
"Your magic is a song of death. I will teach you the song of life. I can use wind to purge the poison in your body—just as I once purged the poison from an old dragon—and use music to realign your Mana. It will take time. Maybe years. But you will live. You will get to see your nephew grow up."
Venti extended his hand. A small hand that looked fragile, yet offered an impossible promise.
"So, what do you say? Rather than dying in some village in the middle of nowhere and leaving this child an orphan... would you like to join the Barbatos Familia? The salary is zero, the facility is this dilapidated building, and the god is lazy. But I guarantee freedom and life for both of you."
Silence.
Only the sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the stone walls.
Meteria stood up, then gently held Alfia's arm. "Alfia... please. For Bell."
That name. Bell.
Alfia's defenses crumbled. The monster of the Hera Familia, the feared Silence, fell to her knees. The tears she had held back since the fall of her Familia finally spilled over. She looked at Venti, not as a strange god, but as the only lifeline left.
She took Venti's outstretched hand.
"If... if you can truly save Meteria... and let me watch Bell grow..." Alfia bowed her head, her forehead touching the back of Venti's hand.
"I, Alfia, swear loyalty to you, God Venti."
Venti beamed, a sincere smile as bright as the Mondstadt sun.
"Welcome to the family! Now, since we're agreed..." Venti clutched his stomach, which rumbled again. "Can one of you cook? That bread this morning wasn't enough."
Alfia lifted her face, staring at her new god with a look of amused disbelief. Tears still streamed down her face, but the corners of her lips lifted slightly.
"You recruited a Level 7 Monster just to cook?"
"Ehe!"
Venti glanced outside the church. The wind blew hard, sweeping the dust of Orario's streets into the air.
From his analysis, Venti knew this was about 14 or 15 years before the main story began. Bell Cranel was still in the womb. Zeus and Hera had just been destroyed. And he, Venti the Bard, had just secured two of the strongest entities in this world before anyone else noticed.
"This is going to be a very interesting story," Venti thought to himself. "Sorry, Zeus. Your grandson is going to be raised by a drunkard from now on."