Mondstadt's readers jolted upright, eyes sparking with electric anticipation.
The war was coming—a clash to topple tyranny and seize freedom.
Old Mond's brutal reign, a suffocating shroud, begged to be shredded.
Karlafian, the Gale Demon God, loomed as the root of it all.
His title as Storm King carried an aura of dread and awe.
His power roared unmatched, a tempest no mortal could defy.
Even the Northwind Wolf King bowed before his gale-wrought might.
Residents, though hazy on demon god lore, felt his weight.
Karlafian ranked among the fiercest, a pinnacle of divine fury.
Humans shrank to ants beside such forces, dust in the wind.
Numbers meant nothing—mere insects against a storm's wrath.
The aftermath alone could erase them, no clash required.
They'd read Windhaven Detective, glimpsing demon god relics.
Even faint traces of that power humbled Vision bearers.
Only the tale's wind-treasure knights could stand against it.
Barbatos' gusts versus an evil god's shadow—fiction or not, it chilled them.
The demon gods' terror branded itself deep in their minds.
Yet that dread only sharpened their craving for this war's tale.
Victory was history—they yearned for the how, the why.
Those who fought mirrored their ancestors—bold, unyielding souls.
For freedom, for tomorrow, they'd defied the impossible.
What unfolded in those shadows? Curiosity burned bright.
Rebels first flickered among the masses, their defiance veiled.
Karlafian's might wasn't his alone—loyalists amplified it.
Fanatics worshipped his gales, eager hounds of the Storm King.
They were plenty, a grim testament to human frailty.
The Gale Lord ignored them, lost in his windy dominion.
But his lackeys gripped the city's reins—swords, bows, order.
They crushed the weak, deepening Old Mond's misery.
Rebels hid, fearing the tyrant's tower of isolation.
Karlafian wouldn't stir, but his dogs would flay them alive.
Armed enforcers—brutes with steel—outmatched bare hands.
They were butchers, hyenas gorging on the downtrodden.
They bled the poor dry, fattening their own wretched lives.
No new god of mercy rose—oppression festered unchecked.
So the rebels whispered, linking hands in secret hollows.
They hoarded blades and shields, strength swelling in silence.
To fight, they'd need steel—bare fists wouldn't topple kings.
"Windflower" became their code, a bloom of quiet revolt.
A free force coalesced, roots digging into the storm.
They birthed Night Raid—a shadow squad for silent kills.
High-ranking lackeys fell to poison, falls, staged mishaps.
Discovery loomed, but chaos bought them precious time.
Time was their gold, scarce and fiercely guarded.
Ye Ruo grinned—Night Raid was his cheeky flourish.
History skipped this grit; he'd fleshed it out himself.
Fiction let him stretch the gaps, paint the unseen war.
Readers craved this meat—he'd serve it thick and raw.
Old Mond: Tower King's Eye demanded such shadows.
He'd teased that title from the start—now it crept in.
No one could call him out—freedom was his quill's law.
The boy from the sprite's side emerged among the leaders.
No frail dreamer, he burned with valor and sunlight.
Companions rallied to him, a core of rebel steel.
Ragnvindr, red-haired and resolute, hefted a greatsword.
Amos, a seasoned huntress, strung her bow with lethal grace.
Gunnhild, snow-forged chieftain, joined with tribal kin.
The sprite returned, falcon feather in tow, and froze.
The city had shifted—the boy now bore a warrior's gleam.
"Come with me," he urged, voice steady and bright.
"The real sky, songs unshackled—it's worth the fight," he pressed.
"Smash the tyrant—free us all," he declared, eyes alight.
Resolve blazed in him, a beacon the sprite couldn't deny.
It felt their pain, their hope—humanity seeped into its gusts.
The wind sprite pledged its power, for boy and city alike.
The system purred, Ye Ruo's fame a rising gale.
His tale forged heroes, a war Mondstadt would sing.
***
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