"Just like that? You're giving it to me?"
"No conditions at all?"
Remembering the Tsaritsa's warning before he set out, the Captain couldn't help but ask. It seemed impossible. This was a Gnosis—the proof of a seat among the Seven. Not some trinket. Look at Scaramouche, obsessed to madness with the Raiden Gnosis—that tells you enough. A Gnosis might not be as coveted as a divine throne, but it's leagues above the common, dime-a-dozen Vision.
In truth, a Gnosis is fashioned from the remains of the Third Descender—no doubt concealing secrets unknown to most. Yet to the Archons, it's more burden than boon: it can't amplify their power, it keeps Celestia's eye on them at all times, and it comes with a leash—answer when called.
Rowan wasn't a native of this world; it did nothing for him. Worse, it was made from someone's remains—keeping it was more revolting than useful.
Granted, when he received the Gnosis, Rowan's system had rewarded him with a lottery draw. That part was nice. Maybe he'd pick up more Gnoses in the future—just to touch and pass along. They were useless to him anyway.
"Right. Useless in my hands," Rowan said. "Better to give it to you. If the Fatui hadn't been leaning on Mondstadt and bullying the people, I wouldn't be so cold to the Tsaritsa."
He did have a soft spot for the "Big Sis." But her organization's actions were another matter entirely—especially letting Il Dottore meddle and scheme across the other six nations. Most of Teyvat's messes had their fingerprints on them. In the first four nations alone, the Fatui played villains so black even soap wouldn't wash them clean. Even Tartaglia, whatever his personal charm, stood on a line he couldn't move.
With every buff stacked, Rowan saw no reason to be polite to the Tsaritsa—and he felt more than a little disgusted by Il Dottore's crimes.
The Captain, though, inspired no such dislike. "Heroes shouldn't be homeless"—that line alone set his blood alight. Rowan was a hot-blooded youth at heart; how could he not admire what the Captain had done?
"Still," Rowan went on, "before you leave Mondstadt, there's something I want your help with."
"Say it," the Captain replied without hesitation. "If it's within my power, I'll do it."
Rowan's easy handover deserved an easy answer. If a Gnosis were so simple to seize, the Fatui wouldn't have schemed for years and still fallen short, waiting on the Traveler as a catalyst. They were hard to get—hence the plodding timelines. Rowan had simply tossed the Anemo Gnosis to him. Gratitude was the least he could offer.
"It's simple—for you," Rowan said, smiling. "Five years from now, before I set foot on Natlan's soil, preserve as much of Natlan's fighting strength as you can."
"You've been doing exactly that all along. Not so hard, is it?"
"No, it isn't," the Captain admitted. "But why do you care so much about Natlan? Aren't you the Knight-King of Mondstadt?"
It was true that he'd do it regardless—he'd been waging a quiet war between Natlan and the Sea of Ashes for centuries. But why should Mondstadt's Knight-King fret over a faraway land?
"Captain, if you know I'm well-versed in Teyvat, then you know I understand what's happening in Natlan," Rowan said. "If I were ignorant, I could enjoy a peaceful life with a clear conscience. Knowing the truth—who can stay unmoved? My military expansion isn't just to guard Mondstadt. It's to support Natlan when the time comes."
He wasn't joking. Guarding Mondstadt was one pillar. Reinforcing Natlan would be the other.
The Captain fell silent. Indeed—once you knew Natlan's plight, how could you do nothing? Yet even within the Fatui, there were voices sour about his constant battles in Natlan and the Sea of Ashes. No conscience at all, some of them.
Perhaps he shouldn't have accepted Pierro's invitation, he thought—not for the first time. The Fatui didn't suit him. But he had joined, and unless Snezhnaya itself fell, he would not betray it. He owed that to his own creed—and to the Snezhnayan soldiers under his command.
Entrusted with a task; fulfill it with honor.
He lived openly, acted uprightly, never stabbed backs. He would not betray his homeland.
"Understood," he said at last. "I'll await your arrival—in Natlan."
He turned and left the palace without another word.
Istaroth, who had been listening, tilted her head once the Captain was gone. "You seem to admire him. Is he that special?"
"Of course he is," Rowan answered, watching the Captain's silhouette fade.
For many in his homeland, the Captain meant something singular. Anyone who knew real history knew what had happened on that far eastern soil during the war: when invaders came, the people rose—no allies, no support, only their own resolve. In the end they drove the invaders out, and much followed after. Red is the color of that people—and the color of flame. Natlan's red is their red.
A child raised under a red banner couldn't help but respect a man like the Captain.
"I see," Istaroth murmured. "Enough about him. Are you sure you're following me next?"
"Of course. I'm already your queen consort—naturally I'll stay by your side. Why? Planning something you can't show people?"
(End of Chapter)
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