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The wind above Liyue was always cold. Xiao preferred it that way.
The highest peaks were quiet, untouched by the laughter and warmth of humans below. From the edge of a cliff near Wangshu Inn, he could see the golden lights of Liyue Harbor glowing faintly in the distance. The sea reflected them like scattered stars. He had watched that harbor for centuries; Cities changed, buildings rose and fell, mortals lived brief, bright lives.
But Xiao remained.
The wind pulled at the ends of his hair and tugged at the fabric of his clothing. He did not move. The stillness of the mountains suited him. It made the noise in his mind quieter. Not silent, but quieter. There were nights when the memories returned. Those blood-soaked battlefields, Screaming gods, the weight of karmic debt pressing into his bones. Sometimes, on those nights, he remembered the moment everything had changed. He remembered the first time he saw the god that had sculpted his entire being as he is, the god who he thought was more beautifully made, to whom he was forever grateful to.
Morax.
At the time, Xiao belonged to another god, nor did he even possess the name Xiao yet. His master had fed on dreams and despair, forcing him to slaughter and devour the spirits of the innocent. He had been a tool—nothing more than a weapon bound by cruel commands and harsh treatment. But, Morax came. The battle was swift, violent. All Xiao could even do was watch. He remembered flashes of golden light and the sound of stone splitting apart. His master screamed once before the sound vanished entirely. When the dust settled, Xiao stood trembling among the ruins, the invisible chains around his soul suddenly… gone.
Freedom felt terrifying. Morax stepped before him, scanning his weak figure. Xiao had knelt before Morax without a word, without thinking. Instinct had driven him downward, head bowed.
“Command me,” Xiao said.
The god of stone looked down at him; for a long time, Morax did not speak. Xiao had expected another order. Another life of servitude. Another life of commands laid before him in his mind. Morax placed 2 fingers just beneath Xiao’s chin, directing him to look up at him. His hand moved to cup Xiao’s cheek, shaking his head.
“No,” Morax said, “You are free.”
The word meant nothing to him. Freedom was not something Xiao understood. Freedom was something Xiao had always imagined would be out of reach, destined to only be an afterthought. So he answered the only way he knew how.
“Then I will serve you.”
Morax studied him quietly. There was something unreadable in his golden eyes—something Xiao would later recognize as regret. “If you insist,” Morax said at last. “Then serve not as a slave, but as a guardian.”
That was when Morax gave him the name Xiao. The sound of it was simple and short, but it carried a strange weight. A name meant identity. Identity was something of a foreign concept to Xiao, and identity meant Xiao had become something more than a weapon. At least, that was what Morax believed. The wars of ancient Liyue did not allow for much peace. Gods clashed constantly in those days. Their hatred lingered long after their deaths, poisoning the land with resentment and madness. To protect the people, Morax gathered warriors capable of confronting those remnants.
The Yakshas.
Xiao remembered them clearly, even now. Bosacius was loud and fearless, always laughing too loudly after battles. Indarias burned with fierce pride and fiery temper. Bonanus rarely spoke, but her presence calmed the others. Menogias carried himself with quiet dignity. They fought endlessly throughout their time together. Wherever hatred gathered, the Yakshas went. Countless demons fell beneath their blades. Corrupted spirits dissipated into nothing. The people of Liyue lived safely because the Yakshas carried the burden of that darkness upon themselves.
Darkness never vanished without leaving a mark. Each and every battle left traces behind, both gradual and instant. Xiao could feel it slowly gnawing at the edges of his mind. He, at first, ignored it. Pain was normal to him, comforting even. Pain, to him, meant he was fulfilling his duty.
Sometimes, after particularly brutal battles, Morax would summon them to rest. The Yakshas would gather near the harbor or in the mountains. Bosacius would talk endlessly. Indarias would argue with him. Bonanus listened quietly. Menogias occasionally offered dry observations that made the others laugh. Xiao rarely joined them, as he usually sat alone.
Morax would often sit beside him. The god never forced conversation. He simply remained there, watching the horizon as if the silence itself held meaning. He knew that it did to Xiao, anyway. Xiao never understood why. Why him? Why offer this? One evening, he finally asked.
“Why do you tolerate me?”
Morax turned slightly toward him. “Tolerate?”
“I am only a weapon. It was what was agreed upon.”
The wind shifted across the mountains. Morax looked out toward the distant harbor. “No,” he said quietly. “You are a protector.”
Xiao frowned slightly. The difference felt insignificant to him. But Morax said it with such certainty and such grace that Xiao remembered those words for centuries afterward.
Years passed.
Then decades.
Then centuries.
One by one, the Yakshas began to fall.
The karmic debt they carried slowly devoured them. Indarias was the first. Her mind fractured beneath the weight of corruption until she turned her flames against friend and foe alike. Bonanus and Menogias were both slain by one another in a fit of insanity. And Bosacius… Xiao’s heart ached to think of him. Nobody knew where we went, and nobody heard from him ever again. When the battles finally ended, Xiao stood alone.
He was the last remaining Yaksha.
He returned to Morax after learning of Bosacius’s disappearance, extremely disoriented, gazing into the distance. He expected anger, disappointment. Instead, Morax simply poured tea, as steam rose slowly from the cup between them. Xiao observed every movement Zhongli made carefully, scanning the tea set in front of him. He bowed his head once Morax saw him scanning the scene. He couldn’t bear to look Morax in the eye.
“They are gone,” Xiao said.
“Yes,” Morax replied. “They are.”
“I failed them.”
For a brief moment, something in Morax’s expression shifted—something heavy and ancient. But it disappeared quickly. “The burden of hatred is cruel,” Morax said. “You have endured it longer than most.”
Xiao did not feel strong. He felt empty. This emptiness would be something he would learn to live with for the rest of his days.
Centuries passed after that. Liyue grew into a bustling nation of trade and prosperity. Humans built towering structures along the harbor and filled the streets with festivals, markets, and laughter. Xiao remained on the outskirts of that world. Watching. Guarding. Never participating. Then one day, the world believed Morax had died during Rex Lapis' Assassination. But Xiao knew the truth. Morax had not disappeared, he had simply chosen to live among mortals as Zhongli.
Xiao saw him occasionally in the harbor. He would be seen drinking tea, speaking with merchants, and walking calmly through crowds of humans who had no idea they were standing beside an ancient god. It felt… strange to watch. Xiao thought he could never get used to this version of his archon. For thousands of years, Xiao had stood beneath Morax as a warrior and servant. Now he observed Zhongli from rooftops and shadows like a distant guardian. The distance between them had grown enormous. Sometimes Xiao wondered if it had always been there… No. It was always there, Xiao knew that from the beginning.
One evening, Zhongli climbed the steps to Wangshu Inn. Xiao sensed him immediately, turning towards him. They stood facing each other in silence.
“You still guard this place,” Zhongli said after a moment.
“It is my duty that I have sworn to you as the last surviving ya–”
"Stop," Zhongli firmly interrupted. “You have served long enough."
Xiao did not answer, simply shifting his gaze to the side. The wind carried the scent of the harbor upward. “You could walk among them,” Zhongli continued. “The world has changed.”
“I have not.”
Zhongli studied Xiao quietly. “No,” he said softly. “You have not.”
Zhongli knew there was nothing he could do or say that would shake Xiao's firm belief. Xiao needed to find himself on his own. Zhongli only served as an aide to give him that opportunity.
Neither of them spoke about the Yakshas. Neither mentioned the centuries of battles. The silence between them felt heavier than any conversation. Eventually Zhongli turned to leave. “Please,” Zhongli pleaded.
“Take care of yourself, Xiao.”
The words lingered long after he disappeared down the mountain path. Years later, during Lantern Rite, the sky above Liyue filled once more with drifting lights. Xiao watched them from the mountains, just as he always had. Far below, Zhongli stood near the harbor pier. Among the countless lanterns rising into the sky, he released one of his own. The lantern drifted higher and higher until it reached the mountains. Until it reached Xiao.
Xiao caught it gently before the flame burned out. Inside was a small piece of paper. The handwriting was familiar.
“For the peace of a weary yaksha.”
Xiao stared at the words for a long time. He felt his eyes start to water, pushing it to the back of his head quickly. The lantern’s flame flickered weakly in the cold wind. He kept Morax’s paper in his hand, handling it with care. Below him, Liyue Harbor shimmered with warmth and life. Above him stretched an endless night sky Xiao had spent thousands of years protecting this land. He had fought gods. He had endured endless pain. But the distance between him and the world he protected had never truly shrunk. Once the lantern snuffed out, the darkness returned.
Xiao remained where he had always been—standing alone in the mountains, watching over Liyue; while the god who had once given him a name lived quietly among humans, and the bond between them lingered unspoken, like a wish that had never quite been released into the sky.