The brief, unpleasant encounter with the Tenryou Commission guards had solidified a new purpose in Ren's mind. His mission was not just to observe Inazuma from the outside, from its streets and its shops. He needed to see the machine from within. He needed to understand how the government, the very engine of Eternity, actually operated.
The next morning, he made a decision. He put on a set of formal, but simple, Inazuman-style clothes that Ganyu had procured for him. He made sure the Shogun's pendant was hanging visibly, resting outside his tunic, a silent, undeniable declaration of his authority. And he walked, alone, to the Tenshukaku.
The guards at the grand, imposing gates saw him coming. They saw the small, determined child, and then their eyes fell upon the glowing, Electro-emblem pendant. They immediately snapped to attention, their backs ramrod straight, their faces a mask of pure, unadulterated, fearful respect. They did not stop him. They did not question him. They simply bowed, their heads held low, as he walked past them and into the seat of Inazuma's power.
He moved through the grand, silent halls, the few attendants and officials he passed stopping in their tracks, their eyes widening at the sight of the legendary pendant, before offering their own deep, respectful bows. He was an anomaly, a whisper of a rumor made real, a child who walked with the will of a god.
He made his way to the main throne room, the vast, imposing hall where he had been formally summoned. It was being prepared for a major meeting. Officials and ministers from all three of the Tri-Commissions—the Kanjou, the Tenryou, and the Yashiro—were filing in, their faces grim and serious, their voices a low, respectful murmur.
Ren surveyed the scene, his glowing azure eyes taking in every detail. He saw the strict, military bearing of the Tenryou Commission officers, the shrewd, calculating looks of the Kanjou Commission bureaucrats, and the quiet, elegant poise of the Yashiro Commission's cultural representatives.
He then walked over to one of the stoic, masked guards standing sentinel near the grand, empty throne.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice polite but firm.
The guard looked down, his expression unreadable behind his mask, but Ren could feel the man's sudden, nervous tension at being addressed by the bearer of the Shogun's pendant. "Yes, Young Lord?"
"Please place a chair for me," Ren instructed, pointing to a specific spot. "There. On the top dais, just to the left of the Shogun's throne, a few steps down."
It was a position of immense, symbolic power. It was not at the same level as the Shogun, a sign of his respect for her authority. But it was above everyone else, a clear, undeniable statement that he was not one of them, that he operated outside their hierarchy, on a level that was second only to the god herself.
The guard, without a word, immediately complied. A simple, elegant, but unadorned chair was brought and placed exactly where Ren had indicated.
Ren walked up the steps of the dais and sat down, his small legs dangling, his hands resting calmly on his knees. He became a silent, still, and utterly baffling presence in the heart of Inazuma's government.
The ministers and officials stared, their hushed conversations dying into a profound, stunned silence. They looked at the child, at the pendant, at the chair, and a thousand confused, panicked questions raced through their minds. Who was he? What was he doing there? And why was he being afforded an honor that was, by all rights, reserved for a figure of near-divine standing?
Their silent, collective bewilderment was interrupted by a familiar, oppressive crackle of Electro energy.
The Raiden Shogun materialized on her throne, as silent and as sudden as a lightning strike.
The entire assembly immediately bowed, their heads pressed to the floor.
The Shogun sat, her posture perfect, her amethyst gaze sweeping over her assembled subordinates. Her eyes then flicked to the side, to the small, quiet boy sitting a few feet away from her. She looked at him for a single, long, unreadable moment. And then, she ignored him.
She turned her attention to the meeting, her expression as cold and as impassive as ever, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a ten-year-old outlander to be sitting beside her throne during a top-level government assembly.
That single, deliberate act of non-acknowledgment was more powerful than any decree. It was a silent, absolute confirmation of his status. It told every single person in that room: He belongs here. His presence is by my will. You will not question it.
The meeting began. The ministers, their minds still reeling, tried to focus on the matters at hand—on trade reports, on military patrols, on the ongoing investigation into the Kanjou Commission. But their eyes kept darting nervously towards the small, silent figure on the dais.
Ren, for his part, simply watched and listened, a quiet, attentive observer. He was seeing the machine of Eternity in action, the gears of the Shogunate turning.
And as he watched, his sharp, observant eyes noticed something else. Something small, but deeply, chillingly significant. Pinned to the chests of several of the lower-ranking, but strategically placed, ministers from the Kanjou and Tenryou commissions, was a small, almost unnoticeable, silver insignia.
A Fatui badge.
The vipers were not just in the nest. They were a part of the nest's very structure. The infiltration of Inazuma was deeper, more insidious, than he had ever imagined. And he was now sitting at the very center of it all.