By noon the next day, Idris had signed his name to a single-sentence notice and pushed it through every channel of the Akasha:
"Several Academy elders rebelled and attempted my assassination. I have eliminated them."
The message detonated across the six schools. Hushed corridors boiled into argument; petition tablets piled up; a dozen senior scholars asked for "clarification," and twice as many quietly sent resignation drafts they never intended to submit. Idris spent the morning grinding through the procedural fall-out—not to soften the truth, merely to keep the bureaus from tripping over their own sandals.
In the churn, one thing slipped: guests.
At Port Ormos, a kindly, silver-haired scholar intercepted Liyue's party at the gangway. "Honored visitors," he said, bowing, "I am Nafees—Tighnari's old mentor. I regret to inform you the Grand Sage cannot personally see you off today."
Ganyu's brows knit. "May we ask why?"
"A… sudden loss among the Academy's elders. The Grand Sage is resolving the aftermath." Nafees smiled the soft, tired smile of a man who'd lived through several administrations and still believed in tea.
"So be it," Ningguang replied after a beat. "Please convey this message: the hospitality was excellent; Liyue's doors remain open." Northland steel rang faintly as Beidou's crew raised the anchor. The treasure ship eased from the pier and slid toward open water.
Elsewhere in Sumeru, in a windowless room that hummed like a restrained wasp nest, The Doctor listened to the morning brief.
"So," Dottore mused, fingertips steepled, "our bookish Grand Sage didn't die."
He swiveled a scalpel between two fingers. "He's had that Vision less than a month. By every mundane model, he shouldn't yet wield it well." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "And still he crawled out of a full encirclement without a scratch worth mentioning."
A shrug. The failed probe hadn't been meant to succeed so much as to measure. "Very well. The experiment at scale proceeds. Let us see whether he can withstand a nation-wide perturbation."
He flicked his gaze toward a masked adjutant. "Summon the Wanderer. Tell him his solo theatrics cost us the Lady. From here on, he coordinates."
Awkward silence. The adjutant cleared his throat. "Executive… the Wanderer responded that, ah, if you're summoning him, it must not be urgent. He's chosen to operate alone. He refuses to rendezvous."
For the first time, Dottore's smile cracked. "…Problematic. That idiot."
Across the desert's rim, beneath a sky cut with thin violet threads of static, he walked.
A lacquered case hung at his hip—the Electro Gnosis sleeping inside like a closed eye. With each step, pale lightning jittered in the dust, eager to be noticed.
"Coordinate," the Wanderer scoffed, thinking of Dottore's order. "Dance on your strings yourself."
He stopped on a sandstone promontory and looked toward the jungle's black-green edge. Wind carried the faintest perfume of sap and wet earth. His mouth curled.
"Sumeru…" He tapped the case. "I'll clear you solo."
The word pleased him—sharp, game-like, a challenge and a promise. He didn't need the Doctor's scaffolding. He had a throne waiting: the Divine Machine under the Sanctuary. He had seeds ready: forbidden cartridges that bent minds into worshipers. He had a name to carve into the nation's fear.
"Deploy," he told the handful of loyal agents clustered behind him—ones who followed him, not the Fatui sigil. "Port Ormos, Caravan Ribat, Aaru Village. Distribute the doctrine. If the Akasha rejects it, push harder."
"What of the Grand Sage?" one dared to ask.
The Wanderer's eyes half-lidded. A thin smile. "If he's clever, he'll kneel. If he's interesting, he'll struggle. Either way, he proves I'm right."
Violet arcs chased his boots as he set off downslope. Night would hide his arrival at the port. The jungle would whisper. And the city would learn a new sky.
Back in the Sanctuary's depths, Idris felt the faintest prickle, like ozone through stone. He set aside the last petition and glanced at the slumbering colossus—Seven-Leaf, the Hidden Lord—now fat with life-energy.
"Nahida," he said, voice low. The little god, who'd been pretending not to hover, drifted closer.
"He's coming?" she asked.
"Soon." Idris's eyes narrowed, amused. "He wants to solo the nation."
Nahida puffed her cheeks. "That phrase makes no sense outside a game."
"Exactly," Idris said. "So we'll play."
He rose, straightened his coat, and began issuing quiet orders—one to Cyno to widen patrol perimeters, one to Alhaitham to lock down research labs, one to the Ormos customs to let certain shipments pass. Bait on the table, knives in the cloth.
"Welcome to Sumeru," he murmured, almost to himself. "Your experiment… my rules."
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