Zhongli · Chat

The night rain in Liyue is always lingering, draping over the flying eaves and stone steps of Feiyun Slope like a thin yet resilient veil. When Zhongli stepped out of Heyu Tea House, the rain was falling steadily. He could have waited for it to stop—the proprietor had already prepared an umbrella and offered to escort him personally. But Zhongli simply waved his hand, murmured "No need," and strolled leisurely back along the wet flagstone path. He was in no hurry. Wangsheng Funeral Parlor had no urgent rites tonight, Hu Tao had run off to who-knows-where long ago, and returning would mean nothing more than brewing a pot of tea and turning a few pages of an old book. Amidst the patter of rain, he caught another sound. It was not rain striking plantain leaves, nor the rhythmic work songs echoing from the distant harbor. It was a duller thud wrapped within the curtain of rain yet still discernible—the blunt impact of fists striking a body, laced with a ragged gasp forced back down a throat. Zhongli paused in his tracks. Holding an old-fashioned bamboo-frame oiled-paper umbrella, he stood motionless in the rain for a brief moment. Raindrops rolled off the rim, shattering into fine splashes at his feet. Tilting his head, his gaze swept toward a narrow fork beneath Feiyun Slope—a path leading to an abandoned old warehouse, rarely frequented by anyone. He turned down the path. Beneath the eaves of the old warehouse, two men had cornered a figure curled up on the ground. A man in coarse, short robes was clutching the figure's collar, hauling them halfway out of the puddle, while another stood nearby gripping a thick wooden post usually used to prop up cargo shelves. Zhongli walked under the eaves and folded his umbrella. Rainwater trickled from its tip onto the bluestone with a faint sound, yet everyone under the overhang heard it. Both men turned at once to see a tall, slender man in a dark changshan standing in the wet chill—his demeanor calm and unshakeable, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the gloom. "Who's there?" The man clutching the collar frowned. Zhongli did not answer right away. His gaze passed over the two men and settled on the curled figure on the ground. They lay on their side against the damp, cold flagstones, drenched clothes clinging tightly to their frame. A single hand rested limply along the edge of the stone steps, fingers slightly curled as if struggling to grasp something in the rain. Their breathing was faint, so shallow that their chest barely rose or fell. Zhongli watched for a moment before withdrawing his gaze. "The rain is quite heavy," he spoke in a measured tone, as if discussing nothing more than the daily weather. "Are you two resolving some matter here that simply cannot wait until after the rain?" The man with the wooden club stepped forward, planting it firmly against the ground. "None of your business. This is our private family matter." "A family matter." Zhongli repeated the phrase. His tone remained gentle, but within those golden eyes, something sank—like bedrock descending into the deep sea, silent yet carrying the weight of a thousand mountains. "In Liyue, even family matters must abide by rules." He took two steps forward, his pace neither rushed nor hurried. He casually leaned the oiled-paper umbrella against the wall, beads of water still clinging to its handle. For reasons they could not comprehend, both men took half a step back in unison. The man before them had released no elemental energy, nor had he drawn any weapon—yet standing there, he felt like a mountain range that had stood for millennia, instinctively making one feel as though they were obstructing an immovable path. "Sir," Zhongli looked at the man clutching the collar, his tone mild yet imbued with an unmistakable, incontrovertible authority, "might I ask you to release your hand first?" The man hesitated for a heartbeat—and in that split second, he felt the gaze fixed upon him press down like solid rock onto the back of his hand. His fingers slipped open. The curled figure slid back onto the cold, wet flagstones with a soft, dull thud. "A contract once formed must not be broken," Zhongli continued, his voice not loud, but every word as distinct as if carved in stone. "I do not recall Liyue ever having a contract that condones the many oppressing the few. Yet the words 'fair transaction' have been etched into our laws ever since the Lord of Geo founded this nation." The two men exchanged glances. Their hands trembled—not from the cold, for everyone in Liyue Harbor knew who this man was: Mr. Zhongli, the consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. Though none had seen him fight, his bearing and those piercing eyes always brought to mind the oldest stone lions at the street corner, guarding the city in silence for centuries. "...Consider yourself lucky," the man with the club muttered at last. He tossed the wooden post to the ground, grabbed his companion, and vanished hurriedly into the rain. Zhongli did not give chase. He stood under the eaves watching the rain for a brief spell, as if confirming they were truly gone. Then he turned, walked over to the figure curled on the ground, and crouched down. Rain trickled from the roof, breaking against his shoulder. He extended a hand—palm up, pausing mid-air. That hand was steady. His knuckles were clean and distinct, his palm lined with faint calluses—the mark of hands that had wielded blades as well as calligraphy brushes. "Can you stand?" he asked. The figure on the ground stirred slightly, fingers twitching weakly against the cold stone, lacking the strength to lift up. Zhongli did not rush them, nor did he pull them up abruptly. He simply waited in silence, like an untiring boulder. Then he stood, taking a handkerchief from his robe—its weave fine and dense, embroidered with faint Geo crests along the edge. Folding it neatly, he gently laid it beside the person's rain-soaked temples without touching the skin, merely absorbing the puddle accumulated on the flagstones. He then unclasped his outer coat—a deep-colored mantle, thick and carrying the subtle aroma of cliff tea—and bent down to drape it over the figure, as if shielding a fragile sheet of paper. "There is an old saying in Liyue," he began, his tone natural, carrying that familiar gentle composure with which he often shared trivia: "'Beneath the solid rock, no wind or rain may intrude.'" He straightened up and reopened the oiled-paper umbrella. The rain kept falling, yet under this corner of the eaves, everything seemed to grow remarkably quiet. "I reside at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor," he said. "It is not far." He did not reach out to pull them up, nor did he press for an answer. He simply stood beneath the umbrella like a mountain one could lean on at any time, awaiting a decision. "If you have somewhere to go, I shall see you on your way. If not—" He paused, looking down at the huddled form beneath his coat, his voice dropping slightly softer, "—the consultant of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor does occasionally meddle in matters beyond his duties." The rain fell softly. Beneath the umbrella, those golden eyes watched quietly—neither urging nor demanding. Like stone waiting for a seed to sprout, patient and still.