In Liyue Harbor, stories about Mondstadt and its Anemo Archon were few.
People's knowledge of Mondstadt's history was limited to a few names: Barbatos, the Anemo Archon; Andrius, the Wolf of the North; and Decarabian, the God of Storms, the Lord of the Tower.
So when the audience heard Li Mo tell of the Wolf of the North and the Lord of the Tower vying for the position of Anemo Archon without mentioning Barbatos, they were puzzled.
Had the Anemo Archon not yet been born at that time?
The moment this thought crossed their minds, many dismissed it.
After all, what right would a newly born god have to compete with two powerful gods for the position of Anemo Archon? How could they possibly prevail?
"Storyteller, did you forget about Barbatos?"
"Surely, if Barbatos became the Anemo Archon, he must have been the strongest god of his era, right?"
"Is it possible that Barbatos was hiding in the shadows, waiting to swoop in at the end?"
"I doubt it. I've heard the Anemo Archon is a kind and generous soul."
"Storyteller, hurry up—finish the Mondstadt story quickly and get back to telling stories about Liyue."
The audience urged him on.
Compared to stories about Mondstadt, the people of Liyue preferred tales of the Conqueror of Demons fighting countless foes and Rex Lapis standing unrivaled.
It was not just the ordinary citizens.
Even Keqing, Shenhe, and Qiqi in the corner watched the stage with rapt attention.
In another corner of the inn, the Raiden Shogun looked coldly at Zhongli.
"This storyteller seems to know even the story of that Barbatos in great detail."
"I wonder where Barbatos is now…"
As one of the Seven Archons, the Raiden Shogun had little interaction with Barbatos. They had met only a handful of times; they were merely acquaintances.
So she knew very little about his past.
Zhongli smiled as he played with his bird.
"That fellow is even more carefree than we imagine."
"He goes by the name Venti now. Perhaps he is composing poetry on some street corner, drinking at some tavern, or singing songs of freedom."
Thinking of Barbatos's wine, Zhongli unconsciously licked his lips.
It had to be said—the wine of Mondstadt was among the finest in all Teyvat.
Now, not only the ordinary audience but even Zhongli, himself one of the Seven, had grown deeply curious about how Barbatos had become the Anemo Archon.
How had Barbatos defeated two gods to claim the title?
The Raiden Shogun said coldly, "What a pity Barbatos isn't here. Otherwise, we could verify the truth of these stories."
If Barbatos were here, perhaps he could provide clues about her brother's reincarnation.
Zhongli glanced toward Li Mo on stage and smiled.
"You underestimate Barbatos. He is the Anemo Archon, after all."
"Even from a thousand miles away, he can hear these stories carried on the wind. He might even come to Liyue himself."
"I do look forward to his wine."
...
Meanwhile, on stage, Li Mo heard the audience's urging.
He took a sip of tea to moisten his throat, set down his cup, and began recounting the experiences of his third reincarnated life.
"2,700 years ago—"
"The tyrant Decarabian summoned fierce storms that enveloped all of Old Mondstadt. The people who lived within the walls could not see the blue sky, the green earth, or the clear rivers."
"They lived in a daze, with only one path to survival: submitting to the Lord of the Tower."
"But among the crowd, there was a boy who longed for freedom."
"His name was a pleasant one—Venti."
"Every day after finishing his work, young Venti would go alone to the foot of the city walls. Carefully, from a gap between the bricks, he would retrieve an old, worn book."
"Following the illustrations in the book, Venti carved a simple instrument with his knife."
"It was called a harp."
"Facing the storms, young Venti crouched at the base of the walls and gently plucked the strings."
"Ding—the sound was beautiful."
"Then, facing the storms, young Venti imagined the flight of birds, imagined the endless sky, and began to play a song of freedom."
"Closing his eyes, young Venti was lost in his music, as if he himself had become a bird soaring through the heavens."
"He did not notice that as his music drifted into the storms, it stirred the elements."
"It merged with a sliver of yet-unawakened Anemo power, giving rise to a new life."
"Or rather—"
"It was the sound of young Venti's harp, yearning for freedom, that created a new god."
...
As Li Mo, with his own longing for freedom, told the story of young Venti playing his harp—
At that very moment, a thousand miles away, on a grassy hill outside Mondstadt, a bard draped in a green cape, his hair tied in two small braids, sat before an ancient tombstone.
After a thousand years of weathering, the grave had long since been worn flat. Only the stone marker remained, standing firm against the northern wind.
As if sitting beside an old friend, the bard rested by the tombstone.
He played his harp and sang old, "outdated" songs.
He told the tombstone stories of the world beyond.
"Venti, Mondstadt has grown into a great city now. There's the Dawn Winery, where they brew wine, and orchards filled with birdsong and blossoms—"
"Today, I was reciting poetry on a street corner in Mondstadt. That Jean—you know, the Acting Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius—she really liked my verses. She tipped me a whole thousand Mora! I was so happy—"
"That little knight, Klee, gave me a Jumpy Dumpty. If you were here, you'd probably give her a good scolding—"
"After that, I took the Mora and the Jumpy Dumpty to the tavern for a drink—"
"The Jumpy Dumpty nearly exploded, and the tavern owner nearly had a heart attack—"
The bard told the tombstone about his day.
When something amusing happened, the bard's lips would curl into a smile.
Even when nothing particularly interesting occurred, the bard would keep the tombstone company, playing his harp and recounting his ordinary day, never tiring.
This had been his routine for over 2,700 years.
But the bard never grew bored. To him, each day brought new delights.
When he grew tired of talking, he would pluck an apple from a nearby tree.
When hunger struck, he would pluck another apple.
A single tall apple tree was enough to sustain him through an entire summer.
Just as the bard was playing his harp, a gust of wind carried the sound of a storyteller's tales from a distant land to his ears.
Hearing these stories, the bard froze. His hands, which had been plucking the harp strings, instinctively stopped.
His eyes were filled with surprise.
A thousand miles away, someone on Morax's turf was telling stories about him—Barbatos.