The throne room was filled with the echo of La Signora's final, honeyed words. She stood, a picture of noble, deferential grace, her flawless performance complete. All that remained was for the silent god on the throne to acknowledge her service, to accept her beautifully crafted lies as truth.
The Raiden Shogun was silent for a long, profound moment. Her impassive, amethyst gaze was fixed on the Harbinger, but her true, divine attention was elsewhere. She was running a new, complex calculation. She had the data from her inner self's conversation with the child. She had the data from this Harbinger's grand, theatrical oration. The two data sets were in direct, diametric opposition.
One was a plea for compassion and a warning of internal corruption. The other was a declaration of perfect, eternal order, supported by a benevolent, foreign power.
It was time for the test.
The Shogun's gaze slowly, deliberately, shifted from the Harbinger to the small, silent boy sitting beside her throne.
"Anomaly," the Shogun's voice commanded, its divine, emotionless tone making both Signora and the assembled guards flinch. "You have heard the words of the Snezhnayan emissary. This one grants you leave to speak. Ask what you will. Comment as you see fit."
The entire room froze. The Shogun had not just acknowledged the child's presence; she had just, in front of a foreign dignitary of the highest possible rank, deferred to him. She had invited a ten-year-old boy to participate in a high-level diplomatic meeting, to question a Fatui Harbinger. The act was so unprecedented, so completely, utterly, and bafflingly insane, that for a moment, no one, not even the unflappable La Signora, knew how to react.
La Signora's visible, pale-blue eye narrowed, a flicker of genuine, surprised annoyance in its depths. This strange, favored child was being allowed to interrupt her carefully crafted audience? It was an insult.
Ren, however, did not seem to register the immense, political weight of the moment. He looked not at the fuming Harbinger, but at the impassive god on the throne. He understood. This was not a conversation. This was his part of the test. She was testing them both.
He hopped down from his chair and stood at the foot of the dais, a small, unassuming figure in a vast, dangerous hall. He looked at La Signora, his glowing azure eyes holding not fear, not anger, but a simple, profound, and deeply disarming curiosity.
"You have said," he began, his voice a clear, calm note in the tense silence, "that the Fatui have done all of these wonderful things for Inazuma. You have helped the Kanjou Commission, and the Tenryou Commission. You have helped to keep Inazuma safe and prosperous. But I was just wondering…"
He tilted his head, his expression one of pure, innocent confusion. "What do the Fatui get from all of this? It seems like you are giving, and giving, and giving, and Inazuma is only taking. A contract where only one side benefits is not a fair contract, is it? Surely, a nation as generous as Snezhnaya must be getting something in return for all of your wonderful help."
The question was a masterpiece of childish simplicity and devastating, surgical precision. He had not accused her of lying. He had not challenged her claims. He had simply, innocently, asked about the other side of the ledger.
La Signora, the master of political rhetoric, was momentarily thrown. But she recovered instantly, a cold, condescending smile on her lips. A question of political motive from a mere child? This was too easy.
"A child would not be expected to understand the complex, subtle dance of international diplomacy," she said, her voice a smooth, dismissive purr. "Our reward is not one of mora or of goods. It is the reward of friendship. Of a strong, stable, and prosperous Inazuma, which in turn creates a strong, stable, and prosperous Teyvat for us all. Our Queen, the Tsaritsa, desires only peace and order for the world. Our help to this glorious nation is merely a single step towards that noble, selfless goal."
It was a perfect, flawless, and utterly empty deflection, a cloud of beautiful, meaningless words.
Ren listened, his expression unchanging. And when she was finished, he simply nodded. "I see," he said. "Thank you for explaining."
And then, he turned his back on her, walked back to his chair, and sat down. "I have no more questions," he said to the Shogun.
La Signora was left standing in the middle of the room, her grand, eloquent deflection having been met not with a counter-argument, but with a simple, polite, and utterly dismissive acceptance. The child had not been trying to win a debate. He had just been… asking a question.
After the Shogun's dismissal, with a final, frustrated, and deeply confused curtsy, La Signora took her leave, her perfect, flawless audience having ended on a strange, unsatisfying, and deeply unsettling note.
When she was gone, the Shogun turned her gaze once more to Ren.
"This one was expecting you to be… hostile towards her," the Shogun's voice stated, a hint of genuine, analytical curiosity in its tone. "You have told this one's inner self that the Fatui are a threat. Yet, you showed no anger. No accusation."
Ren looked at the divine, unfeeling puppet, and he offered a small, tired smile. "I have no reason to be hostile towards the Fatui," he said, his voice quiet. "Because I do not care about them. One does not get angry about something they do not care about."
The statement, so full of a cold, profound indifference, especially from a child, was more chilling than any display of rage.
"I only asked my question," he continued, his glowing azure eyes meeting the Shogun's impassive, amethyst gaze, "because I wanted to show you something."
He paused, letting his final, crucial point land in the silent, empty throne room.
"I wanted to show you that she was lying."