Sal Terrae was drenched by heavy rain yesterday.
Under the azure sky where gentle breezes occasionally stirred the clouds, the summer day resembled a still painting. Dappled sunlight danced in the young man's eyes as he gazed toward the cerulean sea. Waves crashed against jagged rocks, shattering into countless crystalline droplets.
A translucent glass bottle reflected the shimmering sea light. Fine grains of sand clung to its rim as the youth buried it in the soil. His flaxen hair cascaded to pale ankles, his celadon eyes clear and gentle. Warm sunlight bathed his slender frame while his delicate fingertips tapped the bottle, producing crisp notes.
[Name: Unnamed]
[Element: Dendro]
[Talent: A Fleeting Moment (Archon-Level)]
[Your next destination: Sumeru]
The Human Principles System whispered:
[Your recklessness today will exact a price]
[What you've lost isn't merely lifespan—your remaining days shall be filled with agony]
"I know," the youth replied calmly. "However bitter the pain," his voice softened, "I'll bear it. Having chosen this path, I'll accept its consequences."
[Future you might curse present you—he may not consent]
"Nonsense. Future me remains me. Suffering is mine to endure."
After a pause, the youth stated solemnly:
"She's a benevolent god. Thus I must save her."
Pride tinged his words.
"Every version of me... would make this choice without regret. Through countless lives and names, only my essence persists. This inherited spirit defines my 'self' - what philosophy terms the 'Id'."
"If ever I lose this," the youth said, "then truly I shall perish."
[So foolish stubbornness constitutes your 'Id'?]
The System retorted.
"You're unusually combative today," the youth lamented sadly.
Sunlight shimmered in his celadon eyes, rendering his frail form increasingly translucent. He smiled faintly.
The salt grains in the bottle were Havria's remains—or rather, the primordial form of the God of Salt. Just as the Stove God was born from the first spark struck from stone, and Morax from the steadfastness of rock, Havria was born from Teyvat's first grain of salt.
Havria might have died, but gods are exceedingly difficult to kill outright—least of all by a mortal hand. Even salt could be restored, and she had never been wholly extinguished. Bosacius had gathered the authority released at her death and buried every last trace of it in the glass bottle.
Dendro was a gentle element, and the youth possessed perhaps the gentlest gift in this world: [A Fleeting Moment]. It was the most precious legacy of Bosacius's eight hundred years, his entire life given form.
Bios brachys; omnia sacrificata.
All his life, Bosacius had relinquished things—his reason, his lifespan, his name, his very existence—in exchange for the ending he sought. Now that life had become a talent and passed on to another body.
"Havria," he whispered, "Can you hear me?"
"I am Bosacius."
Planting a seed beside the salt grains, it swiftly sprouted, emanating vital essence that made the salt glitter. Whether illusion or truth, the salt grew brighter.
"You can hear me, but you can't answer," he said mockingly. "A foolish god like you still being alive would be the real surprise. There—now you can't hop around anymore."
[Your wisdom scarcely surpasses hers]
The System remarked unusually bitterly.
A cough wracked the youth's paling frame. "You heard my words earlier?"
"Thus... fret not." Tenderness softened his voice. "I'm unharmed, though I must depart. Grow well - this seed shall accompany you."
Salt grains rasped against glass as sea winds tousled his flaxen hair. "You loved your people. I'll care for them."
This wasn't an empty promise. After Havria's death, Sal Terrae neared collapse. Taking the infamy of deicide upon himself, Bosacius had written to Morax with detailed plans—securing refuge for the saltfolk and punishing the rebels until blood pooled like seas.
Now he stood as utter sinner.
"Sardines and salt," he murmured. "This vow I may fail to keep."
"You once urged me: 'Persevere, though alone. Never yield.' Now I return these words."
"Havria, henceforth persist - though abandoned by beloved people, never surrender."
"Never capitulate to this world."
"For I yearn to meet you again."
As crimson sunset kissed the horizon, the youth straightened. His once-luminous eyes had dulled to ashen jade, entire being steeped in autumn's desolation.
"Friend, if we could meet again today, I would bring the freshest sardines."
"Friend, if we could meet again today, remember to bring your salt."
His form began dissipating, rationality and spirit fading. Purest malice coalesced in Bosacius's eyes, every fiber now demonic. Yet this demon whispered gently:
"Friend, if we could meet again today, I would make us a fine meal of sardines and salt—and I would like to hear you sing once more."
These were Bosacius's final words.
He walked heavily into the distance. The scattered sunset drew his shadow out like a great crimson vessel—magnificent as a general on the march. He would return to Liyue and perform one final Nuo Exorcism before his reason vanished, bringing every remaining thread of fate to its end.
Then die like a stray cat, far from home.
But salt cannot speak.
Though grains rasped against glass, they remained powerless. Those sounds were merely salt's whisperings.
——————
Years passed in the blink of an eye.
The salt could not speak. But one year later, the seed beside it had grown into a small blade of grass with deep blue-green leaves. The leaves drooped gently over the grains of salt, sheltering them.
Whether beneath the swaying heat of summer or a sky full of rain, the little plant stood green and unbowed. The salt watched it and answered with a soft rustle.
It felt safe.
By the second year, the plant had grown sturdier under the wind and sun of the coast. Salt and grass nestled against each other while the world changed around them. Sal Terrae, once prosperous, had fallen silent and gathered dust; no one lived in its ruined capital anymore.
The saltfolk abandoned salt that had lost its flavor and sought another god. The salt blessed them as they left.
In the third year, flavor seemed to return to the salt, and more memories began to wake. Yet the little plant had grown dim. The salt did not understand why.
In the fourth year, she remembered more. She remembered Bosacius. She remembered the things he had said. A sudden sorrow overcame her, but she still could not speak. She could only rustle and sing.
In the fifth year, the grass began to yellow. Its leaves sagged weakly against the earth; their once-clear blue-green had faded to a dull gray. At last, the salt understood.
She had been feeding on the plant's life. As she slowly awakened, it slowly withered. The grass was the life Bosacius had entrusted to the soil.
She did not want this. She wanted to return that life to him.
She could do nothing.
The sixth year.
Even if you are alone, you must endure.
At last, the salt understood what those words meant.
But she no longer wanted to endure.
She had a premonition—absurd, inexplicable, yet unshakable—that if she failed to return this life to Bosacius, he would spend this incarnation in pain.
There was still time. There had to be. She had to hurry.
The seventh year.
The salt struggled to stand again. She tried to gather the authority that had scattered at her death and shape herself anew, only to discover that every effort made the little plant dim further.
She wanted it to stop.
She could not even make it stop.
No.
The eighth year.
The little plant hung its head. It was no longer lovely, no longer fresh and vivid, but a faded yellow-gray from root to tip. One leaf had already died; the other was coated in dust.
No.
The twelfth year.
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard!
Idiot—don't do this, don't do this, don't do this…
Day after day, the salt hurled itself against the glass, making a hollow, ringing sound.
This was plainly her fault.
Whether she had yielded, retreated, or allowed her people to kill her—every part of it was her own fault. She had chosen not to resist. She had been weak and powerless.
Then why? Why, when even she had abandoned her own life, was there still an idiot who refused to abandon her?
Bastard. You bastard!
Hadn't he sounded so impressive when he spoke? Yet now—now he had become a complete fool.
They had agreed that she would be the one to save him. Why had it all turned around?
The little plant was dying.
The salt could not save it. The salt could not save Bosacius. The salt could not save even a blade of grass.
Salt was weak. Salt could do nothing.
For the first time, the salt hated her own weakness.
The fourteenth year.
This was her fault.
All of it was her fault.
Regret? Perhaps what the salt felt was regret.
She could have done more.
Her people need not have killed her. Had she chosen to resist, none of this would have happened.
Now the salt understood. She had not refused to fight because she was noble. She had done it because she was willful and afraid.
She had willfully chosen death.
The people she loved had abandoned her. Centuries of perseverance collapsed at once; her heart became an empty bed of ash, and so she did not resist.
She had chosen to leave because she lacked the courage to endure betrayal. She feared loneliness. She lacked the courage to face a world in which she stood alone. Once dead, she would no longer have to bear any responsibility.
Even if you are alone, you must endure. She had spoken those words, yet she herself had failed to live by them.
Because she had been weak. Because she had been willful.
Bosacius was different. Even if the world abandoned him, even if no one understood him, even if everyone hated and cursed him, he would fulfill every duty and every covenant before he allowed himself to die.
And one of Bosacius's duties was to save her.
In her place, Bosacius had gone out to face that cruel world.
Regret.
Perhaps it was regret. Regret upon regret, deepening with every year, taking root like a seed until it filled her entire heart.
It would remain with her forever.
If she could return to that day, perhaps she would make a stronger choice. Bosacius would never become the supposed "sinner" who destroyed Sal Terrae. Bosacius would never go mad. None of it would happen.
She could have prevented it.
But all of it had become the past.
Only afterward did she understand what she had lost.
The twenty-first year, at the end of spring.
The little plant died. Bosacius's next life had ended.
He had lived for twenty-one years.
The grass died on the day before summer, beside the coast, amid the sound of the tide.
The grass was dead, and the sea became its grave marker.
No little plant remained to shelter the salt from summer's scorching heat or winter's snow.
The salt had done nothing.
She watched the dead grass in silence, day and night, and never looked away.
Its leaves would rot. Its body would break down and sink into the soil until it had wholly become earth. And when summer came, new life would sprout where it had fallen.
The wanderer had died in the land he loved so deeply.
It was the image of Bosacius's entire life.
He had offered himself as a sacrifice and swallowed the karma, and Liyue endured upon the ground where his body fell.
The salt could do nothing.
The salt could only wait.
Wait.
Go on waiting.
Wait for the spring of sardines and salt.
——————
Kiyo Seigan exhaled slowly, clutching the Salt Jar and Salt Ruler, each holding a portion of the God of Salt's authority. Gazing at the undulating blue sea, he felt an inexplicable urge arise.
He wanted to catch fish.
Sardines preferably.