The walk from the shattered ruins to the gates of Mondstadt was a journey through a landscape that seemed to be at war with its own beauty. To the left, the Cider Lake sparkled with a crystalline blue that defied the gloom of the sky; to the right, the Whispering Woods stood thick and ancient, their leaves silvered by a wind that tasted of cedar and approaching rain.
Reinhardt van Astrea walked with a measured, rhythmic grace. His crimson cloak, a stark splash of color against the muted greens of the Teyvat wild, did not flutter so much as it swayed, moving in perfect synchronization with his stride. He walked exactly three paces behind Jean, the blonde commander whose posture was a testament to a lifetime of carrying the sky on her shoulders.
Beside him, the girl in red—Amber—was a whirlwind of nervous energy. She kept glancing back at him, her amber eyes wide with a mixture of hero-worship and profound confusion. Every time she caught his eye, she would quickly look away, her face flushing as she muttered to herself. On his other side walked the deaconess, Barbara. She clutched her Catalyst with both hands, her knuckles white, her lips moving in a silent prayer that Reinhardt could not yet understand.
The world was still a cacophony of meaningless sounds to him. The voices of these women were melodic, filled with intent and emotion, but the words themselves were like water sliding off a polished stone.
Then, as his boots struck the first weathered paving stones of the great bridge leading to the city, the sensation arrived.
It was not a roar or a flash. It was a quiet, internal click. It felt as though a master clockmaker had reached into the gears of his soul and adjusted a single, tiny escapement. The air around his ears shimmered with a heatless vibration, and the weight of the world shifted, ever so slightly, to accommodate his need.
—Divine Protection of Languages.
The blessing didn't merely translate; it rewrote his reality. The "noise" coming from Amber's mouth suddenly crystallized. It wasn't just that he understood the words; he understood the weight of them, the cultural nuances of the Mondstadtian dialect, the archaic roots of their greetings, and the specific cadence of a city that valued song above all else.
"—and then the missiles just... they just curved! Like they were afraid to touch him!" Amber was saying, her voice pitched high with excitement. "Master Jean, I've seen Ruin Guards level entire hillsides. I've never seen one just... give up."
Jean's voice was a cool contrast, though it was threaded with a tension that Reinhardt could now perceive as bone-deep exhaustion. "I saw it too, Amber. But focus. We are approaching the gate. We cannot have the citizens panicked further. Keep your voice down."
Reinhardt didn't let his expression change. He didn't blink or startle. He simply accepted the gift of understanding as he accepted the air into his lungs. He continued to walk, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, looking for all the world like a tourist enjoying a pleasant afternoon stroll rather than a trans-dimensional anomaly.
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The Crown of the Lake
As they crossed the bridge, Mondstadt rose to meet them.
From a distance, it had looked like a fairytale illustration—a city of white stone and red clay roofs perched upon an island in the center of a vast lake. But as they drew closer, the fairy tale began to show its scars.
Reinhardt's eyes, sharpened by the Sword Saint Correction, cataloged the damage with cold precision. The massive stone walls were pockmarked with gouges that looked like claw marks. Sections of the battlements had been hastily repaired with fresh mortar that didn't quite match the weathered original stone. The great windmills, the crowning glory of the city, turned slowly, their wooden blades groaning with a mechanical sorrow that suggested they hadn't been oiled in weeks.
But it was the atmosphere that struck him most. In Lugunica, a city was a living, breathing thing. Here, Mondstadt felt like it was holding its breath.
As they passed through the massive gates, the guards—clad in blue and silver livery—straightened their backs, their eyes snapping to Jean with a desperate sort of hope. But then their gazes drifted to Reinhardt, and that hope was replaced by a sharp, jagged suspicion.
The streets were not empty, but they were quiet. Merchants stood by their stalls, but they weren't shouting their wares; they were whispering to one another, their eyes constantly flicking toward the churning, dark green clouds that sat like a bruise on the horizon. Children played in doorways rather than in the squares, their laughter short-lived and fragile.
"The Stormterror incidents," Jean murmured, as if sensing Reinhardt's observation. She didn't look back at him, but her voice carried clearly. "The dragon's rage has choked the trade routes and poisoned the winds. Mondstadt is a city of freedom, but lately, we have forgotten what it feels like to breathe."
Reinhardt looked at a flower girl on the street corner. She was trying to weave a wreath of cecilias, but her hands were trembling so much the petals kept falling.
A wave of genuine, unadorned sadness washed over him. In his world, he was the deterrent, the ultimate shield that ensured the peace. Seeing a city in this state of quiet terror felt like a personal failure, even if he had only arrived moments ago.
"A city that fears the wind is a city in pain," Reinhardt said softly.
Jean stopped in her tracks. She turned, her blue eyes wide, her hand instinctively twitching toward the hilt of her sword. "You... you speak our tongue."
Reinhardt offered a small, apologetic bow. "I am a quick study, Acting Grand Master. Your language is quite beautiful; it would have been a shame not to learn it as quickly as possible."
Amber gaped at him. "As quickly as—we've been walking for twenty minutes! You didn't know a word when we started!"
"I find that when the need is great, the mind finds a way," Reinhardt replied, his voice a soothing baritone that seemed to momentarily dull the sharp edge of the city's anxiety.
Jean's gaze didn't soften. If anything, it became more analytical. "A quick study indeed. Come. We are at the headquarters."
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The Hall of the Falcon
The Knights of Favonius Headquarters was a fortress of pale stone and high arches. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, cold stone, and the ozone of elemental magic. Knights hurried through the corridors with sheaves of reports, their boots clicking on the polished floors.
Jean led him into her private office. It was a room that spoke of a person who had no time for luxury. Maps of the surrounding territories were pinned to every available surface, weighted down by daggers or inkpots. A heavy desk sat in the center, piled high with scrolls and petitions.
"Please, sit," Jean said, gesturing to a sturdy oak chair.
She did not sit herself. Instead, she stood behind her desk, silhouetted against the large window that overlooked the city. Amber stood by the door, and a new figure—a man with tanned skin, an eyepatch, and a smile that didn't reach his single visible eye—leaned against the bookshelf.
"I am Kaeya, the Cavalry Captain," the man said, his voice a silky purr. "And you, my friend, are the talk of the barracks. Breaking a Ruin Guard with your hands? That's quite a parlor trick."
Reinhardt remained standing. To sit while his host stood would be a breach of etiquette he could not allow. "It is an honor to meet you, Captain Kaeya. I am Reinhardt van Astrea. As for the machine, I simply addressed a mechanical instability."
Jean cut through the pleasantries. "Sir Reinhardt, let us be direct. You appeared in the middle of a restricted ruin during a high-level elemental disturbance. You possess no Vision, yet you moved with a speed that defies Anemo and a strength that mocks Geo. You walked through a barrage of homing missiles as if they were nothing more than autumn leaves."
Reinhardt inclined his head. "As I told the Outrider, I am very lucky. The wind seemed to favor me in that moment, and the missiles... well, they simply missed."
"Missed?" Kaeya chuckled, though the sound was sharp. "I've seen those machines track a sparrow through a thicket. They don't 'miss' twelve times in a row unless the laws of physics are taking a holiday."
Jean leaned forward, her palms flat on the desk. "And the dismantling. You claim it was 'skills and knowledge.' But Ruin Guards are relics of an age long past—five hundred years ago, from a civilization that no longer exists. Our best scholars in the Sumeru Akademiya spend lifetimes trying to understand their internal schematics. You walked up to one and took it apart in seconds as if it were a child's clockwork toy."
Reinhardt's expression remained one of mild, patient kindness. "Where I come from, maintenance of one's equipment is the first lesson of knighthood. While the machine was unfamiliar, the principles of joints, gears, and power conduits are universal. I merely looked for the seams."
"There are no 'seams' on a Ruin Guard's chassis," Jean countered, her voice rising slightly. "The plates are fused with ancient alchemy. You didn't just 'find a seam,' you sheared through reinforced abyssal steel with your fingertips."
She paced the length of the desk, her brow furrowed. "Who are you? Are you a Fatui harbinger playing a long game? An agent of the Abyss? Or perhaps a god from another land who has lost his way?"
The silence that followed was heavy. Amber looked between Jean and Reinhardt, her breath hitched. Kaeya's hand had drifted, seemingly casually, to the hilt of his sword.
Reinhardt let the silence hang for a moment—not out of dramatic flair, but because he was genuinely saddened by the necessity of the question. He looked at Jean, his blue eyes clear and filled with a profound, quiet sincerity.
"Acting Grand Master," he said, his voice soft and resonant. "I understand your suspicion. You are the shield of this city, and a shield must be wary of any new blade. It is your duty to doubt me, and for that, I respect you immensely."
He took a half-step forward, his movement so fluid it didn't even trigger Kaeya's combat reflexes.
"However," Reinhardt continued, his voice dipping into a tone of gentle, wounded dignity. "I saw your people in danger. I saw a young woman—a deaconess of your church—threatened by a machine of war. I saw your knights struggling against a tide of monsters. I acted as any knight would. I expected no reward, and I sought no glory."
He looked at his hands, then back at Jean.
"I have offered you my name and my assistance. I have walked into your heart of power without a weapon drawn. If my presence is a burden, or if my aid is viewed as a threat..." He paused, a faint, rueful smile touching his lips. "Is this how Mondstadt treats those who stand by its side in the dark?"
The guilt hit the room like a physical shockwave.
Jean flinched. The words—simple, polite, and entirely true—stripped away her commander's armor and left her feeling like an ungrateful host. She remembered the sight of Barbara's face when she had been saved. She remembered the way the knights had cheered when the machine fell.
Amber looked at the floor, her ears burning. Even Kaeya's cynical smile wavered. There was something about Reinhardt's presence—an aura of absolute, unshakeable purity—that made any suspicion feel like a sin. It was like shouting at a sunrise.
"I... that was not my intention," Jean stammered, her voice losing its edge. "I apologize, Sir Reinhardt. We are... these are dark times. We have been betrayed before."
"And you will likely be betrayed again," Reinhardt said, his tone shifting back to one of supportive warmth. "Which is why your vigilance is a virtue, not a flaw. Please, do not apologize for doing your duty. If it would put your mind at ease, you may keep me under whatever watch you deem necessary. I have no secrets that the wind will not eventually carry to you."
Kaeya let out a long, slow breath, his hand falling away from his sword. "You're either the most dangerous man I've ever met, or the most honest. And frankly, I can't decide which is more terrifying."
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The Library of the Rose
After the tension of the office, Jean had insisted that Reinhardt be escorted to the library while his living quarters were prepared. She claimed it was to give him a chance to learn more of their history, but Reinhardt knew it was a polite way to keep him in a controlled environment.
The library was a cathedral of knowledge, three stories of oak shelves packed with leather-bound volumes. The air was heavy with the scent of dried ink and old magic.
"Oh? A new guest?"
A woman with a purple witch's hat and a dress of deep violet looked up from a desk. Lisa, the librarian, moved with a languid, feline grace. Her eyes hummed with the power of Electro, and as Reinhardt approached, she felt a jolt of static electricity jump from her Vision to the air around him.
"This is Sir Reinhardt," Amber introduced him, though she was still acting a bit sheepish. "Jean wants him to... uh... read."
Lisa stood up, her eyes narrowing as she scanned Reinhardt. As a mage of the Akademiya, she saw the world in flows of energy. Most people were like small streams; Archons were like oceans.
Reinhardt van Astrea was a void.
There was no elemental energy in him, but the space around him was behaving unnaturally. The air molecules were vibrating at a frequency that suggested they were being forced into a state of perfect order.
"A knight who doesn't use a Vision," Lisa murmured, her voice a low hum. "How very curious. You feel like a book written in a language that hasn't been invented yet."
"I have been told I am a difficult read," Reinhardt replied, offering her a polite bow. "I am interested in your history. Specifically, the machines I encountered earlier. The Acting Grand Master mentioned they have existed for five hundred years?"
Lisa gestured to a large, dusty volume on a nearby stand. "The Ruin Guards. The 'Field Tillers' of a fallen nation. They are relics of Khaenri'ah, a land without a god. They are cursed things, Sir Reinhardt. They wander the world like ghosts of a war that everyone wants to forget."
Reinhardt moved to the book. As he turned the pages, his Divine Protection of Ancient Machinery hummed. The diagrams, which Lisa and her scholars found nearly impenetrable, were as clear to him as a child's drawing. He saw the flaws in the leg actuators; he saw the inefficiency in the central ocular lens.
"They were built for endurance, not precision," Reinhardt noted, his finger tracing a diagram of a power core. "A fascinating design, but one that relies too heavily on brute force to compensate for poor weight distribution."
Lisa leaned over his shoulder, the scent of roses following her. "You say that as if you could build one yourself."
"I could certainly repair one," Reinhardt said absentmindedly. "Though I suspect the world would not thank me for it."
Lisa watched him for a long time. She saw the way he handled the book—with a reverence that was almost holy. She saw the way he stood, always ready, always perfect.
"You know, Sir Reinhardt," she said softly. "Mondstadt is the city of freedom. But freedom can be a very heavy thing when you have nowhere to go."
Reinhardt looked up from the book. He saw the pity in her eyes, and for a moment, the mask of the perfect knight flickered. He thought of Lugunica. He thought of the felt-haired girl he had sworn to protect, of the family he had left behind, and of the world that had ended quietly while he stood on a shattered plain.
"I have always found," Reinhardt said, his voice steady but colored with a faint, distant loneliness, "that freedom is not found in where one goes, but in why one stays."
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The Sunset over the Wind
As evening fell, Reinhardt was led to a balcony overlooking the main plaza. The red tiles of the city were glowing in the dying light, and the Great Cathedral's spires cast long, thin shadows over the cobblestones.
He stood alone for a moment, the Dragon Sword Reid heavy at his hip.
The city was beautiful. He could see the potential for joy here—the taverns that were starting to light their lanterns, the sound of a distant lute being tuned, the smell of fisherman's toast wafting from the kitchens.
But he also felt the shadow.
High above, in the dark green clouds, he felt a presence. It was a rhythmic, titanic beat of wings. It was a sorrow so large it had become a storm.
The dragon.
Reinhardt closed his eyes.
—Divine Protection of Wind Reading. —Divine Protection of Cloud Reading. —Divine Protection of Breath.
The world opened up to him. He felt the corruption in the air—a bitter, jagged energy that tasted of old blood and broken promises. He felt the dragon's heartbeat, erratic and pained. And he felt something else.
A presence. A pair of eyes, ancient and emerald, watching him from the shadows of the cathedral roof.
Reinhardt didn't turn around. He didn't reach for his sword. He simply stood there, a red-haired saint in a city of wind, a man who was too perfect for the world he had left and too powerful for the world he had found.
"It is a heavy burden you carry, bard," Reinhardt said to the empty air.
The wind swirled around him, carrying a faint, melodic chuckle.
"And it is a strange song you sing, outlander," a youthful voice replied from the shadows. "A song with no notes, yet it drowns out the storm."
Reinhardt opened his eyes. The clouds were shifting, and for a brief second, a shaft of moonlight broke through, illuminating his face.
"I am merely a guest," Reinhardt said. "And I would very much like to see this city breathe again."
The voice in the wind grew quiet. "Many have said that. But the wind remembers everything, Sir Knight. I hope your 'luck' is as strong as your heart."
Reinhardt looked out over the city. Below, he saw Jean leaving the headquarters, her shoulders still slumped with weight. He saw Amber practicing her archery by the flickering lamplight. He saw the people of Mondstadt, clinging to their freedom in the face of a nightmare.
He gripped the railing. The stone didn't crack, but the world around him seemed to tighten, preparing itself for his next move.
"I will do my duty," Reinhardt whispered.
The Dragon Sword Reid pulsed once, a low, golden thrum that echoed the heartbeat of the world. It was not a call to battle, but a promise of protection.
The Sword Saint was here. And for the first time , the fate of Mondstadt was no longer written in the stars, but in the hands of a man who refused to let them fall.