The eternal night of Snezhnaya was shrouded in frigid mist.
Upon the frozen plaza of the palace, an ebony coffin rested quietly atop a pedestal of ice crystals, dark purple irises woven along its rim.
Those were the flowers the deceased loved most when agreeing on a date of return with her lover, back before she became a witch.
Now, they had become the sole ornament of this empty casket.
“…For this chessboard, checkmate is not where the game ends.”
Pierro stood before the coffin, his raven-feather cloak falling around him, the gaze beneath his mask dark and cold as ice.
He raised a hand, and frost crept along the ground, half-enclosing the coffin.
Dying at the hands of that deity meant not even a cenotaph could be left behind.
“Every noble sacrifice shall be etched upon the unyielding ice, enduring with our nation forever.”
Columbina knelt beside the coffin, the corners of her lips curled in what looked like a faint smile.
Her fingertips brushed against the wood as her clear, ethereal song pierced through the wind and snow.
The airy melody echoed through the cavernous hall, striking an intensely eerie chord.
Dottore leaned against a pillar.
His youthful face bore no trace of grief; hearing these words, he even chuckled, the eyes hidden behind his mask filled with playful intrigue.
He simply looked down at the experiment log in his palm, the rustle of his pen across paper the only distraction in the solemn atmosphere.
When Columbina’s singing washed over him, he cast a brief glance at the coffin before lowering his head once more, his indifferent demeanor clashing harshly with the surrounding gloom.
Pulcinella raised a hand to request silence, his gilded medals gleaming coldly in the freezing night.
“Today we gather here to remember our dear companion.
Her sacrifice for all of Snezhnaya is worthy of a half-day of suspended work in mourning.”
His tone carried no grief whatsoever, sounding more as if he were announcing a minor administrative decree.
“Only half a day?”
Before his words could fade, Pantalone’s cold chuckle followed immediately.
He rubbed a gem set into his cuff, sarcasm dripping from his voice:
“They say the Northland Bank runs on tears and agony, but your sense of values, Lord Mayor, is even more twisted than mine, a banker.”
Even so, there was not a shred of respect for the deceased in his voice.
Arlecchino’s crimson eyes swept over the gathered merchants and dignitaries like blades quenched in ice.
“Rosalyne fell in a foreign land.”
“For faint-hearted cowards like you, who lack empathy and only know how to hide away in Snezhnaya making excuses, it must be impossible to comprehend.
“If that’s the case, keep your mouths shut—lest the children start crying.”
Pantalone smiled insincerely without so much as glancing at Arlecchino, though he held his tongue.
“Hey now, even I think this isn’t the right place for an argument,” Tartaglia said, his hand tightening slightly on his sword hilt.
His youthful face hardened into a stern expression as he tried to defuse the tension.
“Utterly ridiculous,” Sandrone said, her voice cold and curt, every word heavy.
It was unclear whether she was passing judgment on the quarrel or the mourning service as a whole.
“Though her methods tarnished her honor, Lohefalter’s sacrifice remains a matter of regret.”
Capitano stepped forward, his armor clanking with a heavy thud as he turned his gaze toward Dottore by the pillar.
“Her passing will not stall our progress.
Though Dottore, what of Scaramouche and the Gnosis from Inazuma?”
Dottore remained leaned against the pillar, his young face free of sorrow and his eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses gleaming with intrigue.
Faced with the questioning, he responded casually:
“Conventional wisdom holds divine knowledge to be a sacred truth beyond rational comprehension.
After conquering a divine gaze, he will take a new step forward…”
…
Unmelted snow drifted around the cathedral in Snezhnaya; beyond the stained glass lay a leaden sky.
As the Sixth Seat, Scaramouche had long since defected and was absent.
Though almost everyone else was present, few offered any genuine mourning.
The howling cold wind battered the windows.
Silence fell, and gradually, the killing intent inside the frigid hall dissipated.
Tartaglia leaned against a pillar, spinning a throwing knife on his fingertips, something inscrutable hidden in his gaze.
Dottore wore a faint, ambiguous smile, plotting something unknown.
Sandrone stood in the shadows, her lifeless glass eyes void of all emotion.
Just then, the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral were pushed open, letting in a gust of freezing wind laden with snow.
Another Harbinger stood at the doorway.
Dust from thousands of miles away clung to his cloak, and his iron sword struck the doorframe with a dull thud.
He had just rushed back from the depths of The Chasm, where swarms of monsters roamed, only to be forcibly recalled by this unskippable “internal meeting.”
The Harbingers’ eyes turned toward him in unison, all carrying a hint of surprise.
Here he comes again—that guy.
The Harbingers were already distant from one another, but he took solitary living to the absolute extreme.
He sought neither authority nor salary, not even bothering to glance up when running into them on daily business.
Yet strangely enough, he attended every single meeting on time, as if bound by some invisible rule.
To think Signora’s funeral could compel him to trek back across thousands of leagues was truly baffling.
“How unusual,” Pantalone sneered softly, fingering his pocket watch.
This man was likely the only person in all of Teyvat who had zero interest in money.
“If I recall, isn’t Mr.
Daikan supposed to be at The Chasm in Liyue?”
The late-arriving Harbinger stared straight at him with dark eyes.
He didn’t even walk toward the center of the cathedral, merely taking up a spot in a corner near the entrance.
Standing straight as a rod, his gaze remained fixed directly on Pantalone.
“Tch…”
That eerie stare again.
Pantalone could barely maintain his fake smile; under those eyes, he felt entirely seen through.
This Harbinger, who had joined quite early, never missed a meeting.
Yet he was perhaps even worse than his research-obsessed colleague.
To him, the frozen coffin, the eulogy, and the gazes of others were no different from pebbles along the road.
Having no desire for money rendered him completely invulnerable to Pantalone.
After Pantalone turned back, no one else initiated a conversation.
Clearly, none of them held any affection for this Harbinger.
Seeing that no one asked further questions, Daikan picked a spot and stepped into the line.
Only the sound of wind and snow beating against the windows remained in the cathedral, along with Pulcinella’s intermittent eulogy now that everyone was accounted for—recounting Signora’s deeds and the perils of Inazuma.
Just as the eulogy was nearing its end,
Suddenly, everyone felt a bone-chilling coldness.
It was not a cold brought by the blizzard, but a pressure emanating from the depths of their souls.
In the shadows deep within the cathedral, the Tsaritsa’s figure slowly manifested.
Shards of an ice crystal throne condensed behind her, and the frost swirling around her instantly froze the ground into a layer of thin ice.
The Harbingers immediately composed themselves, bowing their heads in unison.
Even the most arrogant, Dottore, put away his casual posture and respectfully lowered his head.
Yet Daikan’s gaze snapped upward, pinning itself precisely onto the Tsaritsa’s face through the icy veil.
The silhouette behind the veil paused slightly, and even the freezing wind outside the hall came to an uncanny standstill.
“Rosalyne fell in Inazuma, in a duel before the throne, defeated by the Musou no Hitotachi.”
The Tsaritsa’s voice was frigid, cutting through the silence of the hall.
“The Gnosis was not obtained.
Someone must settle this matter.”
The Harbingers lowered their heads respectfully, awaiting her command.
Her gaze swept across the crowd, finally landing on Daikan.
“You go.”
Her voice fell, and a stillness descended upon the cathedral.
No one spoke.
After an unknown length of time, the Tsaritsa had once again taken the initiative to assign a task to this “strangest Harbinger.”
Pierro glanced up slightly, looking toward the unseated Harbinger standing on the outermost edge.
“Alright,” Daikan agreed.