"First Seat of the Fatui Harbingers—the Captain, Capitano!"
"Looks like the Tsaritsa hasn't lost her senses. She knows there's no way I'd fancy that big-chested, empty-headed La Signora!"
Rowan froze the moment he saw the visitor.
He hadn't expected to meet this one in Mondstadt—certainly not before heading to Natlan. Yet here he was.
Capitano. Many preferred to call him the Sky-Pillar Knight, Serein.
A righteous, noble soul, he used his own heart to harbor every spirit that fell in the war between Natlan and the Abyss—Khaenri'ahn like himself or native Natlan alike—so that, one day, those souls could be returned to the leylines and reenter the cycle.
All knew this much: in Teyvat, the dead do not fully disperse; they flow into the leylines and are reborn. But Natlan's leylines were peculiar—Shibarak had forged a Night-God's Kingdom there by bargaining for a share of Death's authority—and that "kingdom" could not withstand Abyssal corrosion, especially near the front. The erosion was worst where the fighting raged; Natlan's fallen could not enter the cycle.
Pure-blooded Khaenri'ahns, meanwhile, could not die at all—an undying curse laid by the Death-Sovereign. The Captain leveraged that "bug": a heart once meant to read the dead's memories for swift learning, repurposed to shelter Natlan's war-dead. Because of it, he constantly heard the whispers of the fallen and sensed what others could not—souls, states of mind.
That was the Captain—selfless, pure.
Five hundred years ago, when he saw Khaenri'ah's shadow fall upon Natlan, he remembered how he had once stood by and watched his homeland's tragedy. He swore that, whatever it cost, he would save Natlan—even at the price of everything.
A nation of heroes; a great nation. Compared to those Khaenri'ahns who betrayed their country, Natlan had not bred a single coward.
For five centuries, the Captain had shuttled between the Sea of Ashes and Natlan, aiding Natlan against the Abyss in secret. The land behind him was no longer the home he knew, but he had already taken Natlan as his second homeland.
So his sudden appearance in Mondstadt caught Rowan completely off guard.
By rights, even if the Tsaritsa wouldn't send La Signora—so brimming with malice for Mondstadt—to bargain, she shouldn't have sent the Captain either. He didn't seem the type to play lobbyist. Politics didn't suit him.
Just as in Natlan: he might have schemed for a Gnosis, but he spent far more effort helping Natlan fight the Abyss. A Gnosis meant little to him. If not for a plan that required one, he'd have had no interest in battling Mavuika at all.
"I thought Her Majesty was joking when she said you were well-versed in all things Teyvat," the Captain said. "I didn't expect you to know even me—and to be familiar with Rosalyne."
"Knight-King of Mondstadt, are you truly from another world?"
Behind the thick mask, his gaze was curious. Travelers from other worlds had arrived throughout the ages—but none had understood Teyvat as Rowan did. Curiosity was natural. And this was the man who'd made the high-seated Tsaritsa suffer a setback; how could the Captain not come see for himself?
The Tsaritsa had also noticed that Rowan seemed to hold no hostility toward the upright and noble. So she sent the Captain to Mondstadt, hoping he could trade for the Gnosis.
How could she tell? Simple: compare Rowan's attitudes toward Morax and toward her. However glib his words at times, his respect for Morax was obvious—especially beside his casual ease with Venti and his deference to Zhongli.
Most crucially, the Captain was First Seat—the Fatui's top combat power. If not him, then who? Pierro?
"A genuine outlander," Rowan said with a shrug. "You should have noticed there isn't a trace of a constellation on me. Doesn't that prove it?"
The Captain nodded. True—no constellation marks, not even a sense of elemental power. But Rowan was no ordinary man. That world-shaking sword strike had roused every god-level being and higher across Teyvat—everyone but the slumbering "Heaven."
The Captain included.
"In that case, there's no need to waste words," he said evenly. "I'm here for the Gnosis. Name your terms. So long as they aren't excessive, I can agree on the Fatui's behalf."
"You came for this?" Rowan drew out the verdant game piece Venti had tossed him before leaving and rolled it in his palm—the proof granted by Celestia to the Seven: the Gnosis, crafted from the remains of the Third Descender.
"That's right," the Captain said. "So the Anemo Archon has already entrusted it to you."
At the sight of the Gnosis, his tone shifted a fraction, then steadied.
"You want it? Fine. Catch."
Rowan flicked the Gnosis toward him as if tossing away trash.
The Captain—who had braced for hard bargaining—went blank for a beat. He had expected Rowan to make things difficult, perhaps refuse outright. He hadn't imagined it would be handed over so simply.
This was the "hard to deal with" man Her Majesty had warned him about?
(End of Chapter)
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