Work Text:
Date: XX-XXXX
Entry: #034
I am a man of science.
As anyone endowed with two functional eyes could readily deduce from my previous annotations—what would constitute my fourth field journal—my intellect operates exclusively within the bounds of demonstrable fact, reaffirmed through a meticulous regimen of hypothesis, trial, and error.
My more libertine colleagues once amused themselves by jesting that my Fontish lineage would inevitably resurface, transforming me into a prodigious wagging tongue the very moment I set foot upon the so-called Nation of Justice, particularly now that I have secured a key appointment there.
But, as any erudite of the venerable Akademiya, I swore before my peers and under its sacred statutes that I would not so easily succumb to unsustainable, meaningless myths and legends. Crude fabrications—irrational, subjective, and unprovable—would never catch me unprepared.
Pure, adulterated gossip.
Otherworldly visiting entities? Vishaps capable of assuming human form? Archons—non-human deities—who overpower mortals and bestow Visions at their own caprice? Bullshit.
There is no such thing as aliens, nor are there credible records of anthropomorphic Vishaps. Least of all does there exist a heaven-imposed god ruling over any nation. Mondstadt’s alleged libertine deity has been conspicuously absent for years; Liyue’s fell dead before the very eyes of its devotees. Inazuma’s Archon appears to derive authority less from divinity and more from endocrinology and the ancestral fear of what only our predecessors claim to have witnessed. And I myself have never laid eyes upon my Archon—be it Sumeru’s or my homeland’s—beyond exactly that which I refuse to acknowledge. Mere speculation. Need I continue?
Irrevocably skeptical. An absolute man of science.
However—perhaps they were right all along—for tonight, my eyes appear to have finally betrayed me.
Not even I could have anticipated that such a banal miscalculation would precipitate a turning point so absolute, leaving no margin for reversal or amendment.
Even now, mere hours after the incident, I find myself debating whether I regret having entrusted my arrival in Fontaine to third parties. Had I disembarked at Romaritime Harbor rather than Lumidouce Harbor, I might never have encountered the final pebble that destabilized my carefully constructed persona.
My primary—and sole—hypothesis is that, following a two-day scam-ridden journey to Fontaine, compounded by an hour-long trek toward Marcotte Station, the exhaustion my body experienced caught me unannounced. Combined with the enchanting beauty of the Fountain of Lucine, my mortal brain produced what we hastily label a hallucination.
A hallucination precisely because there exists no hell nor heaven in which anything terrestrial could rival the alluring sight of her.
In Sumeru one encounters no shortage of dancers and entertainers, some even incorporating their Vision-granted abilities into their performances—but such displays do not even begin to compare.
There—twirling within the waters of the fountain in what could only be described as a mystic ritual—the shimmering currents themselves responding to her movements, producing a sweetly sorrowful melody like that of a lone siren from ancient folklore, was her.
Staging an entirely otherworldly performance for no spectators to bear witness.
And when she finally concluded—kneeling at the heart of the fountain, hands pressed to her chest in an expression of sorrow so profound it bordered on the inhuman—I found my throat parched, my body rooted from head to toe, utterly enthralled. In that instant, this anti-theist finally understood why men so abruptly turn religious.
At last, when the divine mirage became aware of her impromptu observer and her otherworldly, two-toned eyes graced my own, she appeared genuinely surprised. I would wager that, much like myself, she had just experienced a revelation—perhaps of a promised destiny.
How could it be destiny?! I recall thinking at the time. Yet for all my logic and studies, no alternative justification presents itself. How else could one explain why a rational erudite such as myself would feel compelled to become an irrevocable devotee to an enigmatic deity from a homeland I have never known—after but a single glimpse of her face?
Still, a part of me remains feverishly rational, laboring to systematize this aberrant behavior, refusing to yield to the unverifiable.
From this moment forward, I shall subject myself to my own most judicious and severe scrutiny. I will be my own test subject.
Date: XX-XXXX
Entry: #042
My first arrival in Fontaine will, it seems, haunt me forever.
Dreams—of which I usually have very few—were meant to be nothing more than surrealist byproducts: distorted faces, fragmented shapes, fleeting scenery and places wandering aimlessly through memory.
Yet mine have become something else entirely—an ambiguous amalgam of delight and torture.
Every time I close my eyes, visions of oceanic irises and porcelain skin torment me. Every time, I hear that wickedly sweet voice murmuring ideas into my thoughts. And with each passing night, I feel myself losing more—piece by piece—yielding to her cause.
It does not help that I see her everywhere. Every day.
For she is not merely ever-present among her people; she is their adored spectacle, a celebrated figure. There exists no corner of the Court that has not been touched—if only by name—by her presence.
But the best worst part is, undoubtedly, working for her.
Discovering that the sole palais within the Court was none other than the Palais Mermonia—the Hydro Archon’s residence and place of labor—could only be described as a pleasing troublesome revelation.
Her constant strutting. Her indulgence in desserts. Her incessant demands for progress. Her fondness for opera. Her bewitching humming. Her lingering perfume.
And, as though crowned with the final insult, I have begun to notice how she is—little by little—finally noticing me. Every praise, every fleeting glance, is addicting unnerving.
It is maddening.
Am I under a spell?
Is this what the most devout religious zealots experience perpetually—this urge to present oneself before a greater force, desperate for approval?
Or is it merely an infatuated delusion, provoked by desiring that which is forbidden?
Perhaps the only way to quell this… thirst is to indulge it—to take a sip, however small.
However, there exists a problem.
A—perhaps—six-foot-tall problem.
That man.
The current Chief Justice of Fontaine, whose mere presence is slowly, inexorably crystallizing into my greatest adversary.
At first, there were only rumors.
Rumor has it he is far older than he appears.
Rumor has it he is unforgiving and glacial when passing judgment upon sinners.
Rumor has it his presence is enervating, his expression so devoid of emotion that his entire aura screams danger.
Rumor has it the Hydro Archon harbors a strange fixation upon him. Bullshit.
As I have always maintained, rumors are but a pleasant pastime for unfortunate souls lacking the innate talent to secure even a respectable occupation. And—just as my peers predicted—Fontainians are astonishingly gullible. Where else would one find citizens chanting children’s lullabies at weeping dragons in a desperate attempt to stop the rain? Complete assholes.
I often wonder what they would believe if they knew that, outside the courtroom, the rare moments those two spend together are filled not with harmony but with disapproving frowns and low-voiced exchanges—discussions that, if one were to ask me, reek unmistakably of mutual distrust.
Yet no matter how strained that co-rulership appears, nothing seems capable of diminishing his ego. Always observing. Always vigilant. Like any well-trained guard dog, he appears perpetually tethered to the Archon’s side, as though restrained by a short leash.
How pathetic.
But he is not the only one permitted to observe. He is not the sole individual endowed with talent worthy of the Lady’s praise.
And I know—I know—that this fragile equilibrium, this unspoken tension of distrust, will become his Achilles’ heel.
And I will make certain of it.
Date: XX-XXX
Entry: #071
Fontaine’s idiotic fairest judge has just condemned an innocent man.
Well—not quite innocent.
But not quite guilty either.
His name was is Hubert—and for someone burdened with such a name, one might suspect his parents intended it as a cruel jest.
He worked only a few desks away from mine. A clueless young man who, at first glance, appeared utterly unremarkable: an enthusiast of fine food, mechanical contraptions, and—most egregiously—a big irritating devoted admirer of the Archon. Yet to a trained eye such as mine, there was always something more beneath that surface: a thin, fragile layer of questionable morals, dormant and waiting to be awakened… or exploited.
It began, as these things often do, with something trivial. A single letter left upon his desk. Anonymous, yet fervent—an equally deranged devotee of the Archon reaching out, offering coin in exchange for private information. Predictably, greed did what it always does. Sooner rather than later, the poor, corruptible fool took the bait.
The anonymous patron then grew bolder. Requests escalated—from information to small, tangible objects taken from the Archon’s belongings. Each demand accompanied by a condition: should Hubert refuse or attempt deception, he would be reported immediately to the insufferable Chief Justice.
At the very least, it all culminated with a final command.
Enter the Lady’s chambers. Bring me her secrets. Her deepest desires. Her most guarded treasures.
How he managed to reach a rooftop as high as the Palais’ without plummeting to his immediate death shocked the entire Opera.
What he saw—or heard—remains, regrettably, a mystery. Much to the disappointment of the more inquisitive among us.
Myself included.
Poor Lady Furina was a magnificent hurricane of fury and disdain upon discovering her employee’s audacity. For an entire week, the staff moved with the caution of prey, fearful that a single misstep might feed her wrath.
Everyone but me.
And truly—why would she direct her anger toward the man who exposed the traitor? The one who dutifully gathered every letter as evidence. The one who astutely connected the dots just in time to expose to her the danger lurking within her own walls. The one who stood as witness, offering every detail necessary for the Oratrice to deliver its verdict. The one who orchestrated—
If in recent weeks the Archon has appeared to favor me for my exemplary dedication and my scarcely subtle efforts to earn her attention, then this week she will surely be eating from the palm of my hand.
AM I SAINT ENOUGH FOR YOU KNOW, MY LADY?
I can feel it—how this thirst of mine is being slowly, steadily appeased. And how, in its place, something else is forming. A hunger. Something parasitic, carving a hollow inside me and making itself at home.
And I know—once I achieve my goal—no matter how many disapproving glances that petulant excuse for a judge casts my way, I will ensure that each one stings.
Poor, dear Hubert.
It almost feels as though his doom had been meticulously planned—solely to ensure my success.
Date: XX-XXXX
Entry: #127
I am starting to believe that rumors are not born from nothing. That they originate from something real before mutating into an uncontrollable mess. Or perhaps they are attempts—clumsy, distorted—to warn of a forthcoming truth. NO. THAT IS NOT RIGHT.
These past months have been HELL—heaven on earth—for me. My hunger is so close to being satisfied I can almost taste it.
And it all began the day that OBNOXIOUS Monsieur Neuvillette brazenly decided to STALK—spy on—me and Lady Furina as we were cuddling on the couch in her private office.
You ADORED watching, didn’t you!?
It was clearly not intended for him to witness. He trespassed the very laws he so sanctimoniously claims to uphold, FUCKING MEDDLESOME, and like any other voyeuristic sinner, he lingered at the barely closed door after office hours.
GET OUT.
The moment I felt his aggravating gaze pierce my persona, something inside me ignited. An irrepressible HATRED—delight—watching his face contort into incandescent fury. Almost murderous.
Can a dog that only barks truly bite?
From that point onward, he became even more of a pest—if such a thing were possible. THAT’S NOT—
Every time we were sneakily holding hands in the gardens—NO.
Every time we murmured secrets into each other’s ears—NO.
Every time we silently poured our feelings into a warm embrace—NO NO.
Or shared our deepest emotions in HEATED, breathless moments hidden in forgotten corners—NO NO NO.
I could feel his gaze.
Even when I could not see him.
WHY ARE YOU HERE?!
No matter how carefully we hid, how measured our steps were, how quiet our laughter became—I knew. He was always watching. ARE YOU ENJOYING THE SPECTACLE!?
And yet—no matter how wicked it sounds—JUST STOP—I wanted him to see it.
I wanted him to feel it. To understand how another—more capable, more deserving, more DELUSIONAL—capable man could steal his treasure away. Like one of those princes from children’s stories, slaying a dragon to claim what lay beyond.
How fitting that would be—if only that man had the BALLS—guts—to defend what he so clearly considers his.
And of course I provoke him. Of course I do. I want him furious. Boiling. Unraveling. I want him to give me a reason—just one—to finally DESTROY, expose him before the world. To EXILE, DISMISS, erase him—and keep everything he once held dear.
LIKE WHAT HE DID TO—
NO
NO
NONONO
NONO
NO
Date: XX-XXXX
Entry: #128
WHAT DID YOU DO?!?
WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY
WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY
WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY
WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY
That WICKED MAN had to ONCE AGAIN ruin everything.
WHY CAN’T YOU KEEP YOUR HANDS AWAY FOR ONCE!!
WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY
AND I KNOW—I JUST KNOW—that the HEAVENS are enraged as well. They were OUTRAGED by what he did to the Archon. I BELIEVE IT. I FEEL IT.
That DAMNED FLOOD was never a PROPHECY.
It was a CONSEQUENCE.
A punishment for striking down the DIVINE.
No judge—no woman—no man—can CONVINCE me that that WOMAN was not an Archon. Or something FAR greater.
HAD I BEEN THERE, I WOULD HAVE VOUCHED FOR HER.
I WOULD HAVE VOUCHED FOR HER.
I WOULD HAVE VOUCHED FOR HER.
I WOULD HAVE VOUCHED FOR HER.
My poor, poor lady.
FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA FURINA
There is NOT A SINGLE DOUBT in me that this entire HORRIBLE CHARADE plan was orchestrated for one purpose only—to tear me away from her.
LEAVE US ALONE.
This WHOLE NATION is nothing but HYPOCRITES—foolish believers swallowing whatever THAT MAN hisses from his VIPER MOUTH.
Why would you TURN YOUR BACK on the ONLY PERSON—the only hands—that have been watching over you? Over ALL of you. EVEN FOR A SINNER LIKE ME
ALL OF THEM ARE SINNERS.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
YOU DON’T DESERVE TO BE SAVED.
But if I—a sinner like me—was spared. If I survived the IRE OF THE DIVINE despite never being a DEVOTEE, STILL NOT A BELIEVER—
Then it was FOR A REASON.
I need to FLEE this cursed NATION.
I need to abandon this CURSED PLACE and take with me the ONLY REASON I still believe.
And finally—finally—
satiate this famine that has hollowed me out—
ONCE.
AND FOR ALL.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Somewhere in Elynas, Beryl Region
“Seriously, how much longer is this going to take?” a young blonde guard complained, rubbing her arms vigorously. “No offense, but this place is giving me the chills.”
“Well, obviously, dumbhead, this is a crime scene—in case you hadn’t noticed,” snapped another guard, crouched near where the body had been found. His boots crunched softly against the damp ground as he adjusted his position to take more photographs. “Monsieur Neuvillette said someone would arrive shortly to help retrieve the evidence. Whether it goes straight to the Court or down to the Fortress depends on our fallen fellow.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” added a third guard, methodical and precise as he sealed items into labeled plastic bags. “That man was barely even… a man when we found him. It would take more than a miracle for him to have survived the ride to Meropide.”
“Do you really think it’s wise to keep this quiet?” the blonde asked, lowering her voice despite the emptiness of the clearing. Her eyes darted instinctively to the surrounding shadows. “If I were a citizen, I’d want to know if there’s a beast lurking out here.”
Straightening up after what felt like hours of crouching, the photographer slipped the camera strap from his neck and began reviewing the images. “Don’t be foolish, Marine. You heard the Chief Justice. We are not spreading misinformation. We’ve just lived through a cataclysm we barely survived. The last thing Fontaine needs is panic.”
“And we can’t even be sure it was a beast,” the third guard added, removing his gloves and wiping sweat from his brow. “As gruesome as the scene was, it could just as well have been treasure hunters—or hilichurls.” He glanced at the sealed bags. “I’m done here.”
“Did you find anything interesting?” the blonde asked, her unease momentarily replaced by curiosity.
“A few things,” the forensic replied, turning toward them and lifting a sealed evidence bag. “Several questionable newspaper clippings. A cocktail of heavy sedatives for horses. Rope. Photographs of our former Archon—of dubious origin. Pocket knives. Snacks.” He paused, holding up the last item. “And, in my professional opinion, the most incriminating piece: this journal.”
Inside the bag lay a small, worn notebook.
“Even accounting for the numerous crossed-out passages—many of them barely legible—and the missing final page, there are undeniably entire sections devoted to what I can only classify as lucid madness,” he continued. “A self-insert fantasy in which the author believed himself to be engaged in a secret, reciprocal relationship with Lady Furina. His primary antagonist appears to have been his own crisis of faith—and, for reasons I still fail to fully comprehend, Monsieur Neuvillette.”
“Pfft—sorry, but how is that incriminating?” the blonde scoffed, barely suppressing a laugh. “People have fantasies all the time.”
“Oh?” the forensic replied dryly. “And how would it sound if I told you the last two entries describe—in explicit terms—his intent to abduct Lady Furina and flee Fontaine? ‘Archons-know-where,’ to quote him directly.” He exhaled sharply. “And I would wager that if we had the missing final page, we’d find instructions for murder—or worse.”
Silence reclaimed the clearing.
After a long moment, the guard who had remained uncharacteristically quiet since the journal was mentioned finally spoke.
“Do you think it was… divine justice?”
The forensic looked up. “What do you mean?”
“First, as a nation, we tamper with Lady Furina’s throne and nearly drown for it,” the guard said slowly. “Now someone gets brutally mur—”
“Attempted,” Marine interrupted.
“—murdered for the same obsession,” he finished, voice subdued. “Don’t you think this feels like some kind of… curse?”
“So what?” the forensic replied, resealing the evidence container with practiced efficiency. “You’re suggesting the supposedly magnanimous Hydro Dragon resurfaced just to smite anyone who dared lay a finger on Lady Furina?” He scoffed. “If that were the case, Monsieur Neuvillette would have been executed already for putting her on trial.”
“That’s true,” Marine said, nodding. “For a moment there, you sounded just like the man from the journal.”
The other guard frowned. “I don’t know. I just think there’s something larger at work here—something beyond all of us.” He hesitated. “And if—no, when—that man dies, whatever he saw… whatever he lived through… it dies with him.”
Before anyone could respond, hurried footsteps cut through the clearing.
A fourth guard emerged from between the trees, breathing hard, a signed document clenched in his hand.
“Everyone,” he announced, voice tight, “I have orders from Monsieur Neuvillette. All evidence is to be transferred to the Fortress of Meropide for posthumous investigation and further inquiry.”
No one spoke as they gathered the evidence, for they had all reached the same, bitterly anticipated conclusion: the investigation would continue, but the truth—just as one of them had warned—had already gone cold.