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Passionate sword dancing days died when Wanderer’s life as Kabukimono died, too.

The concept itself was idyllic for the period – pivotal, even, for the growth of Mikage Furnace’s little community. Like a baby in its first year of its life, Wanderer’s initial steps across the wet sands and rocky textures of Kannazuka were miscalculated and brimming with naivety. With a new chance at life came new beginnings. New memories. Every sliver of doubt and fear of unbelonging faded amongst the smiths and their kin. Monumental bonds with Niwa and Katsuragi were forged just like the swords forged out of their meticulously smelted metals.

And once the two died, the only time the puppet chose to ever dance with blades again was to overindulge in bloodshed and severed limbs. To sabotage the Raiden Gokaden, and rid Teyvat of humanity’s envoys that sought for a lofty illusion of peace.

The day the puppet rose from the ashes was but a guarantee that the waking world could (and would) loathe him for the rest of his days.

His last, most monumental spins and twirls of his favored blade came when he slaughtered every clan but the Kaedehara’s. The few times he ever felt peace from that point onward were when stunning shades of red soaked his fingertips while the smell of iron penetrated his nostrils. Such euphoria he felt when he smeared the clotted wine across his tongue and cheeks. It was the climactic swan song to a play he felt trapped in for ages—a final curtain call to the bright-eyed notion that he and humans could ever EVER befriend one another.

Wanderer found value like that; the illusion of idolatry by ghosts of the past and a quack of the future gave him the much-needed dopamine that solidified his place in the world. He was so sure nothing would ruin that ego boost of his – so absolute in his way of living the life he now led.

Ah, but how the mighty fall. He had hoped Irminsul would’ve done the job properly and let the world treat him like the experimental data he was doomed to forever be.

Fate had a funny way of pulling the rug under him. What better way for it to do so than for Kaedeharas to come back into a long-ended conversation?

Part of him wanted to detest the man—to denounce the descendant, Kazuha, of all his accolades and write him off as nothing more than a bad memory. And yet the more the Traveler spoke of the samurai to him, the harder it was to do so. After all, the man went toe-to-toe with his mother—with the Shogun herself. Humble as the man made himself out to be, no mere mortal could accomplish that grand feat.

Plus, the fact that he had become a household name in nearly every part of Sumeru for his unusually impeccable TCG skills…

Needless to say, Wanderer supposed such a meeting with the mysterious man was in destiny’s deck of cards, he just hadn’t expected for it to happen the way it had. Sure the discarding of Jnagarbha Day and its vice grip it had on the knowledge-hungry scholars was a process Buer found herself untangling every waking second, but it shouldn’t have involved the sudden interest of everyday people overseas. Disabling the Akasha System was all well and good, but only scholars and researchers should have had an interest. Not a… wayward simpleton.

What’s more, Buer was already in the planning stages of switching the old occasion with another new one. And while Wanderer fully anticipated her to honor the day with something not so easily exploited…nothing prepared him for her new ceremony to be spurred by childish whims and grandeur.

Put plainly, Jnagarbha Day was now to be repurposed as the Refulgent Kalpas Festival. It was a seven day cultural festival dedicated to celebration and dissemination of dance and other forms of arts cultivated within the seven major regions of Teyvat.

Opera, Wushou. Kabuki, Flamenco. Bandari, Dabke, Manipuri, and more. With the demise of the day of knowledge and the constant strife amongst the people wishing for a proper replacement, Wanderer watched as Buer attempted to assuage them the same way one assuages a condor’s impending overpopulation problem by swapping its eggs. She wanted them to treat it like it was any other day. Like knowledge was no longer a commodity, but a necessary accessibility.

The puppet thought it stupid—the whole idea nothing more than a useless farce. Buer, in turn, assigned him tasks she knew would “entice” him because it would force him to step away from his thesis for some time. He complained about it the entire time they brainstormed the festival’s operations and activities, but he still went along with her desires all the same.

A long, unanticipated visit from the Traveler was not going to support his research, nor would mingling with strangers finish his assignment for him. If this was her way of developing a fun and engaging desire to talk to people, then she had already failed at step one.

Perhaps that was the very reason as to why Kaedehara Kazuha came up in conversation in the first place. The mere sight of him signing up for one of the cultural dance slots strangled and squeezed that phantom heart of his. When had he gotten so close? When had he arrived? Wanderer liked to believe he had a better grip on those who entered his personal bubble nowadays, but Kazuha proved otherwise the second he picked up the clipboard with the sign-up sheet.

Wanderer wasn’t even sure of what to say to him outside of a “hello” and a brief “how do you do?”. He simply handed the samurai the clipboard just as he had everyone else. His indigo eyes scrutinized the mildly calculating crimson glossing over every other name on the paper, every open slot, and every region participating. Some time passed, and then Kazuha’s bandaged hand eloquently penned his own name and information into one of the form’s lines.

A satisfactory hum left him as he gave it one last looksee, then he nodded and handed it back to the puppet. Wanderer expected nothing more from the exchange after thanking him, but this drifting samurai’s words naturally proved otherwise.

“Cultural exchanges are fascinating, are they not? They not only tell stories of the people, but they tell tales of one’s heartfelt desires, too.”

The puppet frowned before he briefly glanced back down to the papers. He gawked at them for a time before he returned his gaze to the samurai.

“When I heard that Sumeru wished to hold a function dedicated to exchanging cultural practices across Teyvat, I found myself wanting to participate in such an opportunity that is often hard to come by. It is my main driver for returning to this nation much sooner than I had anticipated.”

Wanderer huffed. Did all Kaedeharas simply love talking someone’s ear off? Not only was his cadence as warm and inviting as Niwa of the past, but his mannerisms were just as familiar, too. Wanderer had grown far too used to his Akademiya fanbase begging for info from him. He grew used to everyday scholars dragging him around to ask him for thesis critiques.

How long had it been since he had a proper conversation that wasn’t with the Archon herself? If he wasn’t dragged to an event, he usually cooped himself up in the House of Daena until nightfall. He wasn’t used to casual engagement. He wasn’t sure if he ever could get used to it.

And yet, here he was in Sumeru City being acknowledged by the descendant. By an outlander who had no reason to speak to him – at least, not… right now, given his whole pseudo-suicide attempt and whatnot.

The puppet internally sighed. As much as he could simply ignore Kazuha and carry on, he knew the guilt that set in for even attempting to entertain that idea would never fade.

“You’re quite the risk taker, then, wanting to sign up to such an experimental event,” Wanderer said, his usual sharpness replaced with something softer – though still just as curt. “You are aware this is our first time hosting such a thing, right?”

Kazuha smiled and nodded, his gaze gentle and welcoming. “Yes, and it’s still just as exciting. I can only imagine Jnagarbha Day produced under similar straits, no? It’s a rare occasion for me to visit, so I’m afraid my knowledge is rather limited…”

Wanderer isn't sure what he expected from Kazuha. Perhaps he desired to meet someone with a weathered soul - a temperamental one. Someone who did not possess the kindness he recalled Niwa having.

“I don’t think the nerds here are gonna quiz an Inazuman on Sumerian culture, so, I think you’re fine.” He rested a hand on his hip, his hand waving in the air in lackadaisical fashion. “The day was a glorified way of culminating every bit of newly found knowledge into the now defunct Akasha System, but Bu—er, Lesser Lord Kusanali thought it better to engage in this type of knowledge by finding ways to touch upon it tangibly.”

Kazuha’s smile only widened as he leaned in. Was he really that interested? “Oh? Sounds like the God of Wisdom is benevolent and wants for everyone’s happiness, then.”

And the puppet rolled his eyes. “I’m sure she just wants to make sure none of the knowledge we preserve is gatekept by a certain faction or… unprecedented parties any longer. It’s not like anyone will appreciate her tedious work, though.”

“I see… knowledge not for the mind, but the soul,” the samurai rambled. “Perhaps they may not see the good in it now… but I do believe she is onto something with her plans.”

His wispy cadence oddly kept Wanderer’s attention. Did every Kaedehara Clan member have this power? And really, why was he so interested in the intricacies of Sumerian holidays? It’s not like many people celebrated them anyway; academy students had their noses far too deep in studies and presentations. Jnagarbha Day was the one day off many of them found “efficient” and “necessary”. The amount of complaining he heard from his classmates over Nahida’s changes were often more than he could possibly keep track of.

He quickly peeked over the contemplative samurai’s shoulder to make sure he wasn’t blocking anyone else from signing up. Looks like he was the last applicant. Good.

“Why even ask about the old holiday? As far as I’m concerned, people are not going to reap the same benefits from learning whatever the Refulgent Kalpas Festival teaches them.”

“Oh?” Kazuha tilted his head. “I’m inclined to believe otherwise. Traditionally, many of the ancient arts left by our forefathers are what pave the way towards advancements of all kinds. They are the oasis a dying man finds respite in – that last spark of inspiration needed for a new idea.”

Oh, this guy was a total nutcase. “Is that how you see it? Between you and me, I’d rather have her focus shift towards foreign policies and settling unrest between the other six nations by actually talking to the other Archons. A silly dance event constructed by a child is not going to accomplish any of that.”

“I take it you weren’t a fan of the Neighboring Nations Congenial Poetry Gala, then?”

That was different. “I didn’t have the luxury of going.”

“Ah, then what about the Fontanalia Film Festival? If I remember right, the Kamisatos had the luxury of collaborating with the infamous Lady Furina herself for similar reasons.”

“I’m an Akademiya student tasked with at least three different research projects a month.”

There was silence, then laughter. His dry sarcasm wasn’t that funny, was it?

“Ah, that’s understandable… I, too, did not have the luxury of attending either of them. A shame, too, considering I heard the participants at each event brought quite the experience to each of their respective regions… but I digress.”

Kazuha hummed, returning the floor to Wanderer once more. Kazuha was quite the chatty one, wasn’t he? It reminded him a little of Niwa. Then again, just about everything that left Kazuha’s mouth right now reminded him of the guy. His eccentricities, his need to talk the puppet’s head off…

“I assume you’re volunteering to help streamline the event?” Kazuha asked, breaking Wanderer out of his thoughts.

He clicked his tongue. “Correction: I was voluntold. Your idyllic mindset on the sake of Sumeru’s culture is nice and all, but what we’re doing is practically the bare minimum for the academy. I’ll hold my tongue and let you win this little argument if the Refulgent Kalpas Festival actually grants us the results we’re looking for.”

“Oh? Does it come off that way? I apologize. I simply think dance can convey thoughts to the spectators in the same way poetry can to listeners. What words cannot convey, the body can. I stumbled upon Zubayr Theater’s Nilou practicing with her troupe on the way over. Her hard work and dedication reminded me of the great Yun Jin of Liyue. It was like I created a dialogue with them without even needing to hear their voices.”

Kazuha lost him. How could he be so sure everything would turn out alright when disasters could happen just as easily?

Okay, perhaps the samurai was a little too much like Niwa. Though not as poetic, his old friend – old beloved, even – had a way with words when Wanderer least expected it. Niwa had this abundance of confidence that struck him as hard as smithy hammers struck steel. His patience for anything and everything the puppet said always made him stop in his tracks. He never knew how to respond; he would simply ponder and watch Niwa return to whatever his hands worked on at the time.

Even now, he wasn’t sure of how to reply. He couldn’t tell if he was more flabbergasted by Kazuha’s hope… or if he found it agitating to even feel that positive.

Perhaps it was a mix of both.

“Lesser Lord Kusanali will make the Refulgent Kalpas Festival one to remember. This much, I know. If Sumeru was guided and given life in the past, then it will surely give even more as we move forward into the future.”

“Right…” Wanderer said, his voice trailing off. His eyes wandered over Kazuha’s soft, familiar features. They linger on his platinum blond tufts - scan his mild, but sharp expression.

None of his gawking seemed to phase the guy, though. If anything, it was as if he hadn’t noticed at all.

“In any case,” he finally scowls out. “As much as I’m sure you would like to carry the conversation, each of the nations now have enough participants to showcase a little bit of culture. I can’t stay here to chat much longer.”

“Oh,” Kazuha said, sounding almost disappointed by the news. “I understand. Do not let me keep you. There are some other friends I’ve not seen in awhile arriving soon, too. I was going to greet them at Port Ormos before we settled in for the evening.”

The samurai thanked him for a chat with one of the most formal bows he’d seen in ages. It made him uncomfortable, if not annoyed. Wanderer wasn’t a Harbinger anymore, and being Nahida’s right hand did not count as extensive royalty. Not to him, at least. He abandoned all that yearning for high respect ages ago. He would have to mention that the next time Kazuha did something similar (and Wanderer had a feeling he might).

Wanderer’s eyes followed him until he disappeared beneath the bustling crowd of the Grand Bazaar. Once all that was said and done, however, he turned back to the papers and markings he had to organize for the event. He hoped everyone had actually listened when he said he needed them to PRINT their names and write whatever they were doing proper.

Each of the participants seemed pretty adamant and definitive on what they knew they were doing. Sure, he found that the disguised Wind Archon’s want for poetry over lyre was a bit… much, but he had to admit that the aforementioned Yun Jin and another called Xinyan teaming up to perform a “rock opera” could balance it out. An odd mesh of cultures, but Liyue was good at holding that melting pot, he thought. There was also the infamous Furina coming in with a new short film, an unfortunate visit from Tartaglia for a tutorial on Snezhnayan dances and…wait a minute.

Kaedehara Kazuha. Kuki Shinobu. Performance of Choice: Inazuman Sword Dancing.

The art of kabuki was Inazuma’s pride and joy in recent years, not weapon dancing. Weapon dancing practically fizzled out the second the Raiden Gokaden fell. How were they supposed to continue the practice if there were very few people making swords? Not only that, but the few secrets passed down in scripture were likely burnt or trashed at the first calls of treason and betrayal.

Sword dancing should have fizzled out when most of the Kaedehara’s downfall went with it. Katsuragi, as far as he knew, was the last to pass the tradition onto them after all. There’s no way the practice should have held up… and to see another name wanting to upkeep it, too…

…

Wanderer couldn’t help but wonder what this event had in store for him. As much as he hated to admit it, Kazuha’s passion for sword dancing was… prophetically poetic. What he failed to inherit in Niwa’s spirit he made up for in Katsuragi’s adamant attitude. And if he already carried the torch of Tatarasuna’s prolific community heads, who was to say he didn’t channel the others Kabukimono cherished as well?

🍁 🌀 🍁 🌀 🍁

In order to pay proper homage to the seven nations of Teyvat, Nahida had proposed a new “custom” to spark joy during the seven days of preparation.

Each day would be different – introducing a nation’s culture through smaller amenities, like pop-up shops and food stalls. The first day dedicated itself to Mondstadt, the seventh, Snezhnaya. Invitational letters were sent across the seas anywhere from one week to two weeks prior. They requested any and all who wished to represent their home to come along for the ride. Outside of the familiar Anemo Archon, there was also someone the Traveler described as a “talkative consultant” dressed in brown…

Wanderer supposed he was thankful Buer knew when to take him seriously and when to not toe over the line. Apparently, some of the letters meant for Tenshukaku had “gotten lost” in the mail and Nahida would “make it up to her” later. Whatever kept her happy. The chance of the Raiden Shogun arriving would be slim to none, and he was fine with that. He didn’t think he could stomach looking her way if she traveled out of Inazuma for more than a week.

He barely had the spoons to focus on the weakest Harbinger here. He barely had the spoons to focus on the weakest Harbinger here. There was only so much decibel adjusting he could do to his ears considering Tartaglia was loud enough to set off his tinnitus by simply breathing. He’d rather not rely on that one Kshahrewar architect to fix him up again…

All this to say, they were somewhere along the fourth- or fifth-day mark of the preparation rite—the Rite of the Blooming Lotus. The country of the day was… Fontaine? No, Natlan. Nahida had once again assigned him to oversee the festivities and ensure all was well. The sugar skull painting activity seemed to be a major hit amongst the children. The history lessons behind ranchera music never fell off-tempo either. Befitting of such a loud, but upbeat art…

Of course, none of that really seemed to matter when he found his stare falling on Kazuha again.

Wanting to take a moment to breathe from the hustle and bustle, Wanderer climbed atop a nearby tree branch just quietly enough that the samurai did not notice his presence. He laid against the wood and rested his chin on the back of his hand. Kazuha, like several others, had been practicing his performance in this designated spot just about every day. Each careful rondé in one direction was just as intricately poised as the heel turns he did in the other.

He expected Kazuha to be disciplined—dedicated. If the man was anything like his family (to which he was), he would stick to his guns about it all. He would put his all into it and more. The only thing that caught Wanderer’s attention was a simple: why?

Kabuki was easily the most recognizable in the performance arts world. Most of the popular dances and stories are famously retold in that bumbling kitsune's egregiously tiring light novel market, and are frequently sold worldwide. To see he chose to ignore all that was documented was…

Well, no use dwelling on it. This was not his choice or burden to bear any longer.

The Traveler was not kidding when he said Kazuha was quite the seasoned Anemo allogene. Despite not once using his Vision to smooth his steps, Wanderer could almost smell the scent of autumn hidden beneath Sumeru’s springlike breeze.

Inazuma’s sword dancing culture itself wasn’t exclusive to the Raiden Gokaden, but it was the Gokaden’s people that held unique styles in their sways and swings. He supposed the longer he thought about it, the less surprising it was that the sole surviving Kaedehara would practice what little had been passed down to him.

That said, what did surprise Wanderer – perhaps even appalled him - was Kazuha’s footwork. His moves. Not only were they sloppy and not in tune with his blade at all, the puppet felt the entire performance Kazuha was doing was... entirely wrong. Blasphemous.

Disgraceful.

Nobody was perfect when they first dedicated themselves to the art, but Kazuha’s dancing felt… choppier than what Wanderer expected. Stilted. Whereas the samurai’s sauntering seemed smooth to the touch, his dancing… could’ve seen better days. Katsuragi was the one who led most of Tatarasuna to learn Nagamasa’s dancing, yes, but it was Katsuragi’s variant that should have, ideally, manifested and popularized in Mikage Furnace. No matter how much history had twisted and turned, Niwa should have picked it up and popularized it without an issue.

The Kaedeharas as a whole should have picked up anything of their era without issue. And yet, the maneuvering Kazuha had done wasn’t like anything Wanderer remembered. They weren’t familiar, nor were they distinguished. Kazuha’s dance was just…

“Barbaric.”

From what little the Traveler divulged to him, the Amenomas were the only ones remaining. Is it possible that the dance in question could have been theirs? Hard to say. His time, and what he recalled as Kabukimono, did not divulge all the details to him. He would have to dig through Irminsul’s knowledgeable roots again if he truly wanted an answer, and that in itself would require asking the ever-reverent God of Wisdom.

He did not want to ask Buer for a stupid answer to an even stupider question. He didn’t think she’d let him near the Ley Line-loving tree again on his own, either. She’s gotten far too attached to him.

He slipped off the tree, his sandals clacking against some nearby rocks. Kazuha did not turn around to greet him, but he can tell the noise caught the samurai’s attention just by the softness of his final swipe.

“I thought I sensed a friend nearby.”

Wanderer grunted, taking a few steps forward until they were only a couple of feet away from one another.

“I don’t recall us being friends.” He folded his arms over his chest. “And you aren’t exactly the quietest person in the area.”

Kazuha let out a soft laugh, the puppet’s harshness rolling off his shoulders.

“Then, I hope I did not disturb you, dear coordinator?” He gestured to his bokken sword, now pointed towards the floor.

“Just Wanderer will do, thanks,” he corrected, briefly surveying the samurai’s surroundings. “Did you not sign up with a partner? Where are they?”

“Ah, Kuki? She had some… other affairs to take care of today.” Kazuha chuckled, that smile of his only seeming to widen the longer the puppet spoke. “But since you are here… I assume you’ve come to provide constructive criticism? Proper feedback?”

“If you want to call it that, sure.”

Wanderer turned his attention towards the nearby box of supplies. Inside sat Kazuha’s sheathed blade, a few other bokken unlike his own, and hand props ranging from fans, to bells, to a variety of colorful ribbons. He was surprised; was Kazuha not intending to use the blade he carried around so diligently? Not his problem, he supposed. He was not one for calling something “sacrilegious” or “tainted” simply because a person chose to honor traditions in their own way. He was not the weapon-dancing police.

After he walked over and picked out a fan and a bokken from the selection, Wanderer gave each item a few swift swings forward. He returned to Kazuha’s side soon after, now standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

“You’re a Kaedehara, aren’t you?” he asked, wanting to get to the point while still attempting to feign cluelessness. “And yet, your dance is nothing like what I rec—er, what I’ve heard stories about.”

“What do you mean?” The samurai raised an eyebrow, repositioning himself in the way he started the dance. He had pointed his sword downward so as not to accidentally hit Wanderer when his hands occasionally gestured.

“What you were doing—what you are about to do,” his index finger pointed at the man’s hands. “That’s not a Kaedehara Clan dance.”

“Indeed, it is not.”

How is he so casual about it? “Amenoma, then?”

He shook his head. “The old man doesn’t move like he used to, I’m afraid. Most of those who knew his have passed on.”

“Then…”

“It is a combination of traditions hailing from both the Kamisato and Shinobu clans. With benevolence and permission, they allowed me to create a new dance as a sort of blueprint to represent the Land of Eternity.”

For reasons unknown, Wanderer wasn’t too keen on the idea. There was something about the Kamisatos – proverbially, at least – “leading the charge” and representing the totality of Inazuma’s culture that didn’t sit right with him. Why rely on the Tri-Commission? Wasn’t it corrupt and constantly in shambles?

And then there was the Shinobus... a smaller family, no doubt. Unrecognizable to him. He was not about to critique a household name he barely knew, but collaborating with a larger, more powerful family practically asked for trouble to come to them. It wasn’t a good look.

“As far as I’m aware, my forefathers did not have a dance to perform,” Kazuha turned to face him, those autumn eyes as warm as ever. “If they did, we do not have information on it. I would not be surprised if the fall of my family let even the tiniest of details slip between my fingers.”

So even a world “without” him managed to mess that up… “And that will suffice. You will not even attempt to replicate a dance of more prolific families, like the Nagamasas?”

“I have no need to continue the bloodline – not immediately.” Kazuha aims the bokken forward, stabbing the air before him. “Hypothetically speaking, if it were to end with me, I would not mind falling and leaving behind secrets representing all the bonds I’ve forged and all the new perspectives I’ve learned as I drifted.”

Something about that declaration pissed him off. The weight of his words carried no defeat yet held finality to them. There was no grief or anger – no… thirst or desire for revenge. He had to hold his tongue. He’d heard stories of how Anemo carriers the Traveler met tended to let the winds carry them, but… were there not limits to that freedom? They were just as shackled to this world as everyone else.

Saying nothing, he watched as Kazuha took another deep breath, his body pushing and pulling in one direction, then another. Each quiet inhale of his breath matched his fan in the air, each exhale matched how the bokken met his foot, then the floor.

“With the way you speak, Wanderer, am I right to assume you know of the intricacies of my clan?” He asked, his body jerking forward to spin twice before he pulled back into position. “And if I am, then judging by those beady eyes veiled beyond your narrowed expression, you are not trying to deceive me?”

Wanderer quietly caught the breath in his throat. He swallowed it down, clutching the handle of his own bokken even tighter. “You… could say I’ve come across ancient texts of the past.”

“Hm. Long since ruined, I’m sure?”

“Afraid so.”

“A shame,” Kazuha hummed. “Be that as it may, I would still like to hear what you have to say. A contemporary performance is all well and good, but I am not averse to learning about my past for the sake of upholding tradition.”

At this rate, the puppet felt like he could tell the samurai a tragic love story surrounding his family and the man would believe him. He sighed. No use thinking too hard about the descendant’s line of thinking. It would only agitate him further. Maybe even give him a migraine.

“Fine. You should know that I hate repeating myself, though,” Wanderer finally replied, unraveling his own fan with one hand as he positioned the bokken with the other. “Pay close attention. Their dance was not as complicated as some of the others, so even someone as clumsy as you should be able to pick up on it fast.”

Wanderer only raised his arm in the air halfway before slashing forward. He then widened the gap between him and Kazuha, flipping the bokken behind his back with a flick of the wrist. He slashed to the left, then to the right.

“As far as I know, the Kaedeharas incorporated Nagamasa's footwork after the blade was made,” he began. “They initiated every starting part of their dance like this. From there, they liked to show their knowledge of the Isshin like so…”

The two of them performed to the gentle sway of Sumeru’s leaves, Wanderer taking the lead while Kazuha followed. The puppet glanced at the samurai every so often; he noted how Kazuha weakly mimed his actions mere seconds after a second showcase. How odd… he truly did not know a thing. Did the loss of Kabukimono eradicate all desire to pass down even the barebones basics of dancing? That wouldn’t make any sense. Katsuragi was just as much his own person as Wanderer was his. The main driver to that piece of history should have been Nagamasa’s blade. Nothing more, nothing less.

Still, Kazuha wasn’t stupid. Far from it, really. He was swift to learn and, had his initial steps faltered, he made sure to clean it up his second go around. He perfected it by the third. This dance—Nagamasa’s—was unlike any other family dance Wanderer ever learned about. His dance was not one that carried family honor nor was it challenge towards families of higher or lower status. This dance was one to commemorate the success of a long and arduous task. It was a dance which emerged from the cumulative work of the hearts and hard work of those at the furnace.

As the Balladeer, Wanderer always regarded such talks of “found family” and “powers of love” as mere drivel. Bombastic. Over time, however, he’s slowly abandoned that view. Between his old reminiscence of the past and the high amount of respect several scholars had over the history of Tatarasuna’s people, he grew to understand sword dancing as another form of communication. A show of resolve.

Perhaps such a resolve was why Wanderer found his resolve after a few repetitive attempts at showing the dance. He hadn’t felt worthy enough to showcase such a dance to the samurai. To talk about it with anyone.

His memories, combined with Kazuha’s dedication, had the puppet stumble several times mid-practice. His face warmed whenever it happened, if only because Kazuha held back a snicker each time. Wanderer considered that a good thing. He didn’t need his “student” here reading too far between the lines.

Slowing to a stop, Wanderer let out a sigh and clapped his fan closed. Kazuha turned his head at the sound of the satisfying snap, taking this time to stick the tip of his bokken into Sumeru’s soft soils.

“Dear Wanderer, are you alright?” The samurai was just about to place his bandaged hand against his shoulder, but Wanderer quickly backed away.

“Just got distracted.” He blurted. What a silly thing to ask. Then again, Kazuha wouldn’t know he’s a puppet. He wouldn’t know fatigue never came so easily for him. “A careless mistake on my behalf, and the mindset came crumbling down. Consider my blunder a teachable moment.”

“Aah… something related to the festival, I presume?”

He could feel Kazuha’s eyes burning into him. Stop looking like that. He looked far too much like ginger boy Tartaglia who could never stop groveling for a rematch after their spars. He hated that. He hated expecting snide remarks, only to get genuine interest in turn.

“Yeah.” He lied, playing along to Kazuha’s little tune. “Blame the faculty for dragging me out to help a few weeks before exams.”

“Forgive me for taking up so much of your time…”

“Don’t. As I said, it’s the fault of the school, not yours. Besides, I was the one who offered to impart what little I knew about the Kaedeharas.” He chucked the bokken and fan behind him, the props perfectly landing and slotting themselves inside the box. “So long as you don’t go around claiming that I’m some walking encyclopedia or slashing someone’s knees open? I don’t need such consideration.”

“On the contrary. I believe anyone who is willing to kindly impart wisdom on a stranger they’ve only met deserves all the consideration they can possibly get.”

It took everything in Wanderer’s power not to let the shrillest squawk possible leave the confines of his throat.

“That said, you can rest your head knowing I will not go around causing chaos mere days before the festival,” Kazuha nodded. “Miss Kuki and I will be practicing more when she gets back from her business. She is even quicker to adapt than I. She may even find it more exciting to perform a dance that once belonged to my family. To me.”

“You think two days will be more than enough for you to perfect each blunder of the dance I showed you?”

And Kazuha flashed that same cheeky grin. Interesting. He had a gap between his teeth. Nobles were allowed such imperfections?

“One can get a lot done when they put their mind to it.”

Wanderer’s lips twitched, but never curled. Confident, but not too full of himself. Humble, yet absolute in his ways. Kazuha’s just as much of a walking contradiction as Wanderer himself is. He considered it a breath of fresh air.

He would never admit it to anyone, though.

“Very well,” Wanderer hmphed. “I look forward to seeing how things pan out on stage, then. With how adamant you are on making this work, even a beginner like you can master a dance or two, right?”

“To learn you think so highly of me as well,” Kazuha mused, cutting through his sarcasm like a flimsy piece of paper. “I hope to see your face in the audience, then, dear Wanderer. Call it histrionic, but I do find myself performing much better when I have at least one pair of pretty eyes on me.”

Wanderer sputtered, immediately diverting his attention away from Kazuha before he booked it back to the inner city. He’ll… pretend he didn’t hear that. In fact, he will not even dignify it with a response should the samurai bring it up again. Such pretty pleasantries were often all talk and no action; he would likely walk up to the Zubayr Theater within the coming days only to bear witness to Kazuha falling on his ass. He could have sworn the red-streaked samurai had said something as he departed, but he paid it no mind. Perhaps, in a sense, it was better that way. The less he paid attention to a man like him, the better his life would be.

Putting distance between his and Kazuha’s existence would also stop him from worrying so much about his words meaning so little. It’d rid him of the redness plastered on his cheeks, and eradicate the urge to turn around and watch him dance until rise, too.

🍁 🌀 🍁 🌀 🍁

When the eve of the Refulgent Kalpas Festival arrived, Wanderer found himself multitasking to keep his restless mind from fixating too much on Kazuha’s words.

Simple custodial duties—mere greetings and guidings of people throughout the Grand Bazaar—turned into group setups and gathering flowers. He sprinted from one side of Sumeru City to another gathering supplies. He located lost children and found misplaced baubles and knick-knacks.

He refused to sleep that night, if only because he knew the moment the darkness overtook him his overactive mind would think of Kazuha, Kazuha, and nothing but Kazuha. He thought back to their two simple interactions – he recalled how the minor brushings of wind against his shawl made it evident he was nearby. If the samurai wasn’t found practicing, he idled with what looked like his partner and the few friends he must’ve made during his stay.

Wanderer had ogled for so long these past few days that even Nahida noticed and inquired about it. His response was simple and curt – a slightly snippier “don’t worry about it” – but unfortunately, that only seemed to incur the threat of her reading his mind. He shot back a threat of his own, claiming he would drop everything in a heartbeat and leave the remaining setup to her and her alone. He was grateful she seemed to know where her limitations lied.

Even though he actually hadn’t minded her usual nosiness, every way he could explain what troubled him was nonsensical. Unclear. How exactly was he supposed to shamelessly admit that he was looking forward to the festival now? How was he supposed to explain that his sudden interest in this night was merely because Kazuha’s presence plagued every part of his brain?

Indescribable foreign emotions collided with every move. He didn’t think what he felt for Kazuha was romantic, no… but it definitely wasn’t hatred, either. Something about Kazuha’s ability to keep smiling in the face of adversity—to shrug off every bit of animosity he held against humans and their words—simply made Wanderer want to talk to him more. He wished to hear more.

It's not that Wanderer was averse to helping the Sumerian population nowadays, but he had to be honest with himself: cooking three different cuisines three days in a row was not on his to-do list whatsoever.

Come to think of it, neither was helping Kazuha with sword dancing three days in a row.

The latter was a boon to him, if only because Kazuha rushed to him at the last minute in raw desperation. While Shinobu intended to see this new endeavor through, she eventually dropped from the performance to take care of some outside emergencies. “Emergencies” that only seemed to further spur her rumored workaholic nature. Her little gang had followed her all the way to Sumeru but ended up getting themselves into trouble for some reason or another. He didn’t care too much about the logistics of the hearsay. All that mattered was the way Kazuha begged and pleaded for his assistance in perfecting the final touches.

Who was he to deny a man who immediately dropped to a dogeza bow and used every honorific in the book to get his attention? He would be lying if he said that hadn’t made his heart flutter to some degree.

“You really can’t rely on anyone nowadays, can you?” He had grumbled, inspecting Kazuha’s warm-up stretches before posing himself beside him once more..

“On the contrary,” he replied. “With how capable and courteous Shinobu is in everything she does, I dare say I could trust her with my life.”

They spoke little after that. Wanderer was too busy coaxing Kazuha to reperform the dance he was working on and realigning where his feet or arms stretched when needed. When he told Kazuha to take a break so he may remain limber and light enough for the performance, he had even gone the extra mile to ask Nilou’s little troupe and the various Liyuan instrumentals if they were willing to contribute some music for the ambiance. He refused to tell Kazuha of his little favor directly, though. He chose to let the man figure it out for himself.

The Refulgent Kalpas Festival’s seven major performances were stretched out throughout the day – the first starting in the early afternoon while the others trickled and stretched out into the late night. Each performance was also accompanied by a Q&A session that lasted no longer than an hour or so per group, but if that didn’t appease the people, then the wide array of stalls was sure to. Who in Sumeru couldn’t say no to souvenirs and trinkets from far-off places?

Wanderer, wishing to blend into the crowd, had actually taken the time to dust off an old Akademiya uniform Nahida picked out for him several months ago. Canceled as classes were for this occasion, that did not stop any of his cohort peers from sticking around the city in their usual scholarly garb. He didn’t really understand why at the time… but he could get behind it now.

No one really recognized him as Hat Guy without, well, the hat. They simply thought he’s some regular everyday student that hid away from the crowds. They saw him as a Driyosh who had just come home from a long excursion.

He briefly perused the stalls, but nothing came to his attention other than an Inazuman merchant selling a variety of swords. He made a mental note to return to it later. Keeping his voice down and his mouth shut at almost all times, Wanderer was almost grateful he hadn’t run into any of the chattier familiar faces around the place. The General Mahamatra recognized him through his garb, but merely gave him a nod. That Chief Officer of the Forest Rangers did the same, the trainee he shadowed frantically waving at him as well.

Despite those encounters, he was so sure he was alone and left to his own devices for the day. Not a single soul came his direction, nor did they ask him for help with their studies. As the crowd pestered the Liyuan duo, Wanderer squished himself between two flower vases and slipped stood as close to the stage as he possibly could.

Surely he couldn’t be found here, could he? He’d like to think he was short enough to blend in. He could see the stage just fine, he wouldn’t look ridiculous covering his ears if the crowd got too loud—

“You’ve been working hard lately, haven’t you, Mister Hat Guy?”

Fuck. Never mind. Of course Nahida would find him here.

And he groaned, not needing to turn around to know the God of Wisdom herself was wearing one of the largest smiles she ever had on her face. He scowled.

“Only because you’ve been nagging me more than usual recently, Buer.” He paused. “Sorry. Lesser Lord Kusanali.”

A teensy titter escaped her lips. “Sorry, sorry! I’ve just never seen you in this good of a mood before.”

Good mood? He frowned, finally facing her and unraveling her fingers from the fabric. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“If going over an overbearingly long festival checklist to ensure everything is perfect is what constitutes a ‘good mood’,” he didn’t forget the air quotes, “then I’m afraid you’re still sordidly mistaken on how I handle things.”

Silence fell between the two of them, but Nahida was not offended by his callous banter in the slightest. What is with every new face he’d come to know? Why are they always so… happy and carefree? Why is the Archon of the nation so carefree? What could possibly be going through her mind that would make her smile grow wider and wide—

“Stop. Reading. My mind. Without. Permission.”

“I see…” She tapped a finger to her chin. “So that wandering ronin character the Traveler spoke about has nestled his way into your thoughts.”

Why did she have to make it sound like that? ”Hush.”

“I’ve heard from others around Sumeru that you were a lot more wired and willing to help around town recently… it makes a lotta sense now that I know it’s the Kaedehara Clan’s descendant who has kept you busy. You did seem interested in meeting him after the Traveler told you about what happened between him and the Raiden Shogun, right?”

“You’re really just gonna continue with your monologuing of my thoughts in public, huh?” His cheeks felt warmer than usual. An internal malfunction, perhaps?

“Did him deflecting the Musou no Hitotachi delight you that much?”

“Would it not appease you if such a self-righteous woman who always put pride in arbitrary abstracts was finally put in her place?” He waved one of his hands in the air, as if wielding his hand like a knife to sever the ties to his thoughts. “In any case, why are you stalking me this time? Aren’t I free from homework duties for another evening?”

Nahida let out a soft sigh and shook her. “Of course you are, silly. I was just coming to check up on you! You were working so hard… I wanted to remind you that you needed to take a break every once in a while, too.”

“You know I can handle myself just fine,” he huffed. “You don’t have to mother me every time I busy myself with something or another.”

“Ah…” Her smile finally faltered. Oops. He struck a chord. “Do my actions seem that way? I apologize. It’s just… you seem so invested in this new friend of yours, that I wanted to relieve you of your duties so you could get a better look at him. His show starts after Yun Jin and Xinyan finish their talks, doesn't it?”

“They do, and I wouldn’t consider Kaedehara my friend.”

“But he considers you to be his, at the very least.”

For once, the puppet did not have a response. He simply turned his attention back to the stage, fiddling with the edges of his Akademiya beret. Kind and sneaky as Nahida could be, Wanderer couldn’t help but doubt the authenticity of her words. Putting all his secrets and past atrocities aside, people don’t just… become that close in such a short amount of time.

Befriending someone within a day wasn’t possible. A long-term friendship with someone like him just… wasn’t possible.

He watched as Xinyan and Yun Jin bowed and waved to the audience, though Yun Jin was the only one who did not depart. He anticipated this; she was the one in charge of all the instrumentalists, after all. He considered it a miracle that a few of the folk in her group were actually capable of emulating and adapting to Inazuman style. He was, admittedly, grateful for their willingness to improvise – if only for today.

Wanderer could not hide slight curl of his lips when Kazuha took center stage in awe. Raw bewilderment. He had since slipped out of his usual attire and changed into a hakama of similar coloring; that familiar scarf of his was the only piece of gear that remained. His hair was down, resting upon his shoulders. That softness in his look never seemed to fade, even with all the last-minute changes that were oh-so-casually thrown his way.

His appearance truly maintained that same air of nothing more than a humble ronin of the wind, yet his silhouette against the theater’s silky curtains gave the impression of something more. It gave him the life of what he could have once been. His bandaged hand trailed over the hilt of his actual sword; if Wanderer remembered right, that was none other than the Kagotsurube Isshin, was it not? The Traveler had written about it once upon a time…

Kazuha bowed and chattered amongst the few who remained onstage for his performance. Wanderer, in deep contemplation, gnawed on his bottom lip as he found himself gripping at the tough skin of his gloves.

“Lesser Lord Kusanali.” His call for her had her eyes on him immediately. He heard the sudden, yet quiet shuffling of her feet. “Inazuma had one last shipment of Amenoma swords come in through the port yesterday, didn’t they?”

The short woman pondered for a time, then hummed. “At least two or three, yes!”

“Were the stalls any more or less popular than the other nations?”

“No. I believe there were still several blades up for sale before you made your way over.”

He dug into his uniform’s pocket and tossed her a pouch full of Mora without another question. A small and squeaky “oof!” came from her direction the second she caught it.

“See if you can buy one—Amenoma preferred. If all their swords are sold out, then a regular old katana from secondhand will do.”

“Oh?” She cocked her head to the side. “Is there a special meaning behind this? A souvenir or gift, perhaps?”

And the puppet’s jaw clenched. “Don’t be ridiculous. Just go get it for me.”

She skipped away towards the Grand Bazaar without another word. Wanderer shook his head. Must this god always stick her nose where it doesn’t belong?

The man he’d heard so much about—the Kaedehara whom the puppet only recently came to know—now sat at the very edge of the stage on his knees and with his sword at his side. His vision was obscured by his bangs, one hand rested upon his knee while the other on the hilt of the blade. His grip felt protective. His blade was his best friend.

He thought back to a minor conversation between him and Katsuragi once upon a time. A discussion on what it truly meant to smith a blade.

Not only did that blade most likely carry his hopes and dreams, it was also the blade that defined his beliefs. That summoned fourth the strength to pursue any and all of his aspirations. The more Wanderer mulled over it, the more he understood why Kazuha refused to practice the dance with it. His humble disposition truly knew no bounds.

He, in his own delusional samurai way, wanted to make the blade proud. He wanted to prove he was worthy enough of using it. There was always the chance of even the worthiest running into issues when they least expected it, but that could always be solved in time.

Wanderer, no longer comfortable in this tiny hidey-hole, sunk himself deeper into the crowd. Closer, yet closer he inched toward the stage, closing the gap between him and the one who simultaneously felt so familiar and foreign. A part of him almost wished he could reach out and touch the man. That very same part then pushed back those thoughts and claimed them foolish and naïve. Could anyone really blame him with the elegance the man held before the crowd?

The puppet eventually squeezed out of the many people blocking the theater stage and found a spot he could comfortably witness the performance in. The act itself was a bit grating given that the crowd’s size only seemed to increase the more folks were enraptured by his sheer beauty, but it was still really fucking annoying.

He couldn’t help but wonder whether the people were truly here for the pretty performance, or just to gawk at his pretty face. He could only hope he didn’t appear that way the second Nahida tried to snuff out his truest feelings and intentions. He would hate to show just how much Kazuha’s beauty captivated him, too.

He took in Kazuha’s many different details—the minor body scars, the split end hair tips no ordinary mortal would notice… It was still so hard to believe Niwa’s descendant could know so little about their ancestry’s appearance, yet still maintain a body and soul meticulously crafted with the same grace and mellow affection he remembered in Niwa.

His thoughts stopped dead in their tracks when Kazuha finally opened his eyes to gaze into the audience. One look was all it took for the gossip-loving, loud-mouthed crowd to force themselves into silence. He quietly chuckled, clearing his throat mere moments after he’d had his fill of entertainment.

“I’ll admit, I did not expect you all to be so eager to observe Inazumans customs… but then again, the nation of wisdom must have such an insatiable appetite when outlanders are involved, hm?”

He scanned the audience, his cheery attitude only further heightening the motions and lifting their spirits. Their expectations. Wanderer could have sworn their eyes met for a few seconds. He immediately darted his indigo ones away.

Kazuha’s hands waved around, connecting every word of his like a conductor connected notes to a song. “The performance I wish to share with you all is one which hails from a bygone era. Because of this, it is admittedly not one I am well-versed in. You may find me portraying ancient motions in a more contemporary fashion… but even so, I am hoping I can show you all even a glimpse of what my home’s history looks like.”

The crowd remained silent – an occasional (bap) and babble from nearby children reducing any tension that may have formed. Kazuha slowly stood to one knee, blade only slightly unsheathed from its saya but the Isshin touch still visible to the ever astute Wanderer. Even at a slight angle, it still looked impressive. It shimmered as if it had accepted Kazuha as its one true owner. It would have to be a fool not to if the rumors about him deflecting the Shogun’s advance with a puny, everyday sword were true.

It was Kazuha’s turn to fall silent now, the only sounds Wanderer heard coming out of him were light breaths dangling out of his mouth like leaves dancing against their respect trees during a breeze.

“Before I begin,” Kazuha began, breaking the quietude after several minutes had passed, “I have written a poem in commemoration of the very first Refulgent Kalpas Festival. It is not often that such inspiration comes to me in such a short amount of time, so… I can only hope you and your beloved god, Lesser Lord Kusanali, will appreciate it all the same.”

More whispers, more gossip. He literally just told the fools to listen, yet here they are, clamoring once again. Honestly, the way this nation never knew when to stop talking… Then again, even Wanderer couldn’t help but question why Kazuha wanted to speak a poem. Wasn’t that a bit much for a simple dance from even simpler times?

And yet, Kazuha persisted all the same. Releasing his sword, the samurai deftly stuck his hand into the sleeve of his shirt and pulled out a leaf. He took one deep breath and blew against, a sharp but serene hum ringing across the Grand Bazaar. The sound caused even the farthest of folk to divert their attention to him. They quickly joined the crowd after buying their beloved goods.

Silence engulfed the Grand Bazaar. Not a single soul dared to utter a word. Kazuha’s light pink lips parted as he turned his gaze toward the ceiling. His spoken words wormed their way into ears like a song.

Nomads seeking spring,
Autumn lotus melodies,
Let us dance as one—

And before Wanderer could attempt to unravel its secrets, one of the musicians hit the gong and Kazuha was already up in the air. Faking a slip off the edge and into the crowd, the samurai flicked his sword into one hand, released the leaf in the other, and spun a circle around the flower décor surrounding him. The blade’s slice sent them into the air, the petals burst and scattered with a sudden brush of wind. Some of the petals touched his cheeks and lodged themselves in his hair after a singular sway. They moved alongside him, following his blade’s every command.

The drummers turned up the heat with a steady beat, Kazuha’s footwork slow to start with a few taps here before eventually sliding into a steady rhythm on his heel over there. His leg tremors – it twists to the wind chimes. One of the instrumentalists has pulled out a flute, while Yun Jin reappearing to hum along to the improv song.

How on earth had this group harmonized so fast?

The dance’s transition was as rapid as Wanderer recalled. Kazuha pivoted to the left, then the right; he tossed the blade into the air, pirouetted twice, then caught the blade in both hands once more. Its hilt transitioned to his bandaged hand, and that once pale, but serene complexionhad transformed into a hardened stare Wanderer found himself unable to read.

He didn’t think Kazuha’s expression could change drastically.

Sweat dripped down the samurai’s temples and cheeks. Each shift in the dance amid the song was rigorous, then calm. Rigorous, calm. At some point he even pointed his blade at the drummer jamming away to his own beat. They halted, as if to mimic a block, and Kazuha shifted his attention towards the flutist. They fell to a knee after he mimed slicing them in half.

Yun Jin’s singing hit a high note, provoking another backstep from the ever-diligent samurai. His Anemo Vision latched tight onto the scarf, the man crouched before he took to the sky. It flickered, as did his body. Ethereally, he scaled the nearby silk-covered wall, slinking across it as if it were a tightrope that could take him into the sky. When he landed, he leapt and twisted his body midair. His toes delicately balanced his body against the edge of Zubayr Theater’s stage. He was lucky the wooden floorboards did not catch or snag that fabric and rip it mid-performance.

He was like a fish out of water who synchronized its tricks with a birds’ flyway. The stage was the water, the winds, his sea breeze. It wasn’t until Kazuha spun in another circle and shuffled closer to the edge of the stage that he and Wanderer’s eyes finally met. He pointed his sword at Wanderer; the puppet’s cheeks burned hot for mere seconds before he turned away.

The realization hit him like a brick. Nomads seeking spring. Nomads… seeking spring.

…

“Kaedehara, you cheeky bastard.” He murmured to himself. This man was going to be the death of him.

Kazuha had been nothing but nice to him these past few days, and here he was going the extra mile for… what, some lofty attempt to catch his attention? To keep Wanderer on him? He was already doing that. How could he not when the entire dance exuded the love and passion folks like Katsuragi and Niwa had put into it? How could he disrespect all his hard work when it maintained that same tenacity Nagamasa and Kinjirou had for their craft?

This samurai not only respected the advice Wanderer gave, but he was buttering him up, too. Each change in course almost felt seductive. Tempting. More than just an homage to those giving him the time of day. He’d heard from the Traveler that the man’s charisma was magnetic in nature, but… did he flirt like this with just about everyone he met?

What a childish game he plays, if that’s the case, Wanderer thought. He tugged on his beret again in hopes whatever shadow it could create would hide his expression. It failed.

Rather than trying to fluster the puppet and force his hand, shouldn’t Kazuha focus more on his surroundings? On what could happen if he misstepped? This sword dance was no longer a one-man rodeo – the musicians were really into it, too! The last thing Kazuha should have focused on doing was keeping those bright red eyes of his on Wanderer’s indigo own. The last thing he should be doing is effectively taunting him.

He was bound to get hurt – a sword dance required total concentration! And Wanderer could only hope this man wasn’t relying on someone to clean up after him if he flubbed it horribly. He may have contributed to the coordination of the event, but he was not coordinating trips to Bimarstan. Not for reckless abandon, anyway.

Autumn lotus memories… Autumn lotus memories…

—the sudden gasp of an audience member snapped him out of his thoughts. Those who stood directly behind him pierced his ears with their incessant yapping. His eyes darted towards the stage the moment Kazuha’s name left someone’s mouth. Of course there was some god out there who enjoyed inflicting the gift of prophecy on Wanderer at the worst of times.

Kazuha stood on one knee once more, but this time it was not by choice. Wanderer could tell. He rested the sword against his lap, improvising artistry in the middle of what looked to be obvious agony. The puppet inspected the surroundings. Was it an attack? Was there something more to this? There weren’t any weird odors in the air, nor did the incenses the Dasturs and other scholars loved to use seem to impede the bazaar’s surroundings. The students knew better than to bring the putrid stuff down to the Grand Bazaar during a special ceremony. Several of them have gotten in trouble in the past for it.

No, no – it was clear Kazuha injured himself, but the cause remained unclear. He was soundless when he fell to the stage floor, judging by what he got from eavesdropping on the conversations… had he cut himself in the middle of the performance? No, impossible. The clothes would have had rips or tears—even mild nicks if that were the case. And seeing as there wasn’t any red dribbling down any part of his body or blotting the clothes… he was perfectly fine in that regard.

Then, if that was the case, was it something internal? Humans were all made differently. Some of them contracted physical afflictions, but internal damages were often just as bad. Had Kazuha strained himself? Had the fool pushed himself far too hard for him to proceed with the dance?

An urge to call for Kazuha rose in the back of his throat. It doesn’t come through. That instinct to care about someone – to help them – is quickly blocked off by one question and one alone: why does he care?

Even worse – why does he want to? He warned Kazuha about the consequences of his foolish desires, so it’s not as if the samurai didn’t see this coming. For all Wanderer knew, he could’ve just messed up another switch in the dance and needed a moment to recoup before getting back up. He was strong, wasn’t he? A measly fall wouldn’t have messed him up.

…

Kazuha still hadn’t gotten up. The music surrounding him, despite adding to the dramatics, was slowly dwindling to a stop. This was bad—the people wouldn’t shut up. Perhaps Wanderer should step in to help. Perhaps he should stall and take over for the samurai.

But… but if he did…

Another familiar tug to his sleeve. Nahida had managed to wriggle her way through and – in both her tiny hands – she held the sword he asked for. Perhaps Archons were quite the reliable ones at times.

Taking the sword and mouthing a thank you, Wanderer (toggled) his own Anemo Vision and – after a brief blinding flash of bright green light – propelled himself upon the theater stage and shielded Kazuha from the eyes of the crowd. Whatever flower decorum remained from the dance was now all swept up and swirled around the audience for further distraction. The “ooh”s and “aah”s would buy him some time.

He crouched down to one knee as well, his whispers against the shell of Kazuha’s ear quick and harsh. “Can you move?”

Wanderer tightly gripped his own sword between both his hands. He could hear the rampant slamming of Kazuha’s heart against his chest. He could hear, through all the chatter, the whimpers the samurai tried his hardest to suppress.

“I overshot one of the turns.” Kazuha sighed, unable to mask his surprise and shockingly broken confidence.

“Doesn’t surprise me.” Wanderer muttered back. “I spaced out before it happened. Someone said you twirled thrice?”

“Tried to, rather than sticking with the two you taught me.” He slowly turned his head upward, regarding Wanderer’s rather plussed manner with a tender one of his own.

“Imbecile. I told you not even they could do three without overexerting themselves!”

“What can I say? I, ah… it was as if I felt the power of my ancestry flow through me in the moment.”

It took Wanderer everything in his power to not tell him to shut his mouth. It also took every part of him not to suddenly tear up on Kazuha’s words, either.

Not wanting to reminisce any longer, Wanderer hopped back to his feet. He quickly unsheathed the sword, throwing the saya it came in off the stage before he shuffled his feet into the next position. He picked up the threads of the dance Kazuha left behind, but kept his eyes closed the entire time.

The crowd had now directed their prattling at him, and he knew it. It was not often he took center stage, and when he somehow did, it was only because his Vahumana peers had asked enough questions to turn their simple inquiry into a conference panel. No one in Sumeru knew of Wanderer’s swordsmanship—much less his ability to dance with them. It wasn’t like he anticipated a day when he’d have to show them that he could, either. He likely wouldn’t have if it were anyone else but Kazuha.

That painful expression the samurai wore in his attempt to shift his weight back on that injured ankle was just too much to bear. He knew he’d self-inflict an unfixable guilt for thousands of years if he didn’t.

A mere flick of his wrist got the crowd cheering again. They clapped, they hollered—a successful diversion. He stepped to the stage’s edge, spinning around and pulling a makeshift paper fan out of his academy jacket. It was a flimsy old assignment he wouldn’t need anymore, but people wouldn’t care too much about the intricate details, right?

The drums continue, as Yun Jin transitioned the climax of the song. Once more he felt those autumn reds burn into his back.

Whose pretty eyes are on whose now, Kaedehara?

Wanderer’s confidence carried him far. His swaying, not unlike Kazuha’s, followed the ebbs and flows of the winds his Vision conjured. He never swung his katana too abruptly, and never overextended to risk the harm of those around him.

500 years of abandoning this time-honored tradition should have rusted him over more. He should not have recalled the steps so effortlessly. At most, his mind should have reminded him of how he remorselessly incorporated his fine steps into cutting down the “inferior”.  How he needlessly sliced “pests” into slivers and mere remnants of what they used to be.

A thousand times before had he thought of tearing down the Traveler like this. Several thousand more, he thought of doing the same to his estranged mother. Nowadays, such a bewitchingly dangerous performance only manifested the animosity he held towards the Doctor—the entirety of the Harbingers. He pondered actively attempting to reestablish the art, if only so it could become a tool to help weaponize his emotions.

This dance was once a memory of a naive past, and a remnant he wished he could've tossed away in his future. Now, for some reason, rehashing his eccentric memories felt less awful to stomach. Now, in this moment, his mind felt far freer than he could have imagined.

If the crowd was still worried about Kazuha, they no longer showed it. Wanderer paced his footsteps around Kazuha, taking care in how he circled his slowly rising body. He did not push him, he did not kick. Occasionally, he’d scrutinize the samurai; he’d sneak a tiny gust of wind towards the injury in hopes to soothe it. Otherwise, he would close in and tap the samurai’s head with his fan. Sometimes, he'd briefly touch his cheek with the back of his hand.

Kazuha had touched him with his gracious wordplay before, so it only made sense for Wanderer to reciprocate in his own way. This dance was no longer a mere play for the audience, but a play for them and them alone. Somewhere along the way, their Anemo Visions flickered in tandem. Kazuha’s Vision created a string of bright green maple leaves towards the audience. Wanderer’s followed in his footsteps, leaving a windswept trail that almost looked like stars in the night sky.

Soon enough, Kazuha rose into a proper kneel. A gap between his arm and abdomen now formed, Wanderer took advantage of the opportunity and faked a strike towards his bodice. He wrapped the fan-wielding arm around the small of Kazuha's back and feinted a strike a second time. Chatter about the beauty of it rang through his ears. Worries about Wanderer actually hurting Kazuha rang through, too.

In reality, Wanderer was helping Kazuha maintain his newfound balance. Stumbling now would have ruined everything.

“Finally toughened up?” He whispered, breath blowing against the hair tufts covering Kazuha’s ear.

“You predicted such a blunder to happen.” Kazuha replied, his question a breathless statement.

“Nonsense.” They now both stood face to face, their katanas crossed with one another’s. “I simply had the feeling you would overextend yourself.”

And Kazuha… laughed. This man would truly be the death of him.

Kazuha tested the firmness of his footing before he and Wanderer danced in unison. It took them a few measures before they synchronized, but once they did, the crowd went wild. Each back and forth of theirs was a trade of messages. Each swivel and swerve a passing of their secrets.

Arrogant as Wanderer could be, he was far more enamored by Kazuha’s movements than he made himself out to be. His princess-like drags of his hakama against the floor, his princely responses to Wanderer’s effeminately charming clashes of metal to metal. Despite the pain—despite his quiet wincing—the determination to see this performance to a perfect end turned this silly little samurai into a man of great interest to the puppet.

His actions elicited a genuine chuckle from Wanderer… and Wanderer, having heard his own laugh, knew he could not deny his curiosity and intrigue in Kazuha any longer.

The music came to an abrupt halt; with this, the sword dance did as well. The two drifters’ blades clanked against one last time before they both fell back to their knees. Somewhere in their gambol they had traded swords. It was hard to believe this man could trust him so easily with the blade. His mind thought back to Buer’s words on Kazuha considering him a friend.

Foolish, he thought to himself. This performance was just one of many favors he owed to the samurai. They did not need to be friends.

Fervent applauds struck their ears, and the two synchronously turned their heads to the many folks bouncing up and down amongst the crowd. Cheers turned into whistles, whistles turned howls. A brief glint towards a bright green light in his peripheral showed Nahida sitting on her Dendro-powered swing. What he’d normally consider far too embarrassing and overstimulating to the senses were surprisingly dulled because he focused on the sounds of his and Kazuha’s weary breathing.

Sword dances were intimate and arduous to begin with, so hearing the samurai gulping for air shouldn’t have stunned him. His highspeed heart shouldn’t have fascinated the puppet…but it did. It did to the point that Wanderer couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

Wanderer was so wonderstruck by the shattering of Kazuha’s perfected calm that he, for this moment and this moment alone, truly felt like Kabukimono again. He found Kazuha’s determination so endearing that he (much to his embarrassment) wanted to latch onto it and never let go. He wanted to ask Kazuha so many questions—tell Kazuha so many things…

He found himself enthralled, just as he was back then. Just as he did when his beloved Niwa—

“Ah… how long has it been since I’ve found myself so enraptured by such breathtaking arts,” Kazuha spoke as he gingerly peeled his Isshin blade out from beneath Wanderer’s fingers. “I do believe my remark about dance conveying what words cannot was quite correct in this regard, wouldn’t you agree?”

Wanderer groaned, stepping out of pose so his eyes may locate the saya he chucked moments ago. “You and your jabbering…”

"Apologies," he snickered. "I did not mean to offend you."

"Sure."

The two escaped the stage together not long after, Wanderer exchanging a silent nod with Yun Jin and the musicians before he made his way out and into the deeper parts of the bazaar with Kazuha in hand. He’d have to pay her back for having to handle yet another impending inquiry session later. He wasn't careless with the samurai’s body; he tried not to be anyway. After he successfully hoisted Kazuha into a piggyback position, Wanderer darted towards one of the exits and never looked back. He made a mental note to avoid Bimarstan today – if only because he knew just how intrusive Sumeru’s student paparazzi could get when he piqued their interest.

If the crowd was already fawning over him dancing, he could only imagine how many of the civilians would try to question Kazuha and refuse him a moment of peace. Nahida likely read his mind on the way out anyway. She'd go and fetch that Forest Ranger and meet him at the sanctuary. He’d entertain Kazuha as a guest in their home.

"I never suspected you would be both my teacher and my savior," Kazuha said after some time, his arms wrapped around the base of Wanderer's neck. "Seems like I not only owe you for the lessons, but for the recovery, too."

Wanderer had his eyes focused on the detour leading them out of the Grand Bazaar. He would just have to fly them there once they were out of sight, anyway. Might make a few folk mad and even scatter some papers, but he could care less about it for now.

"It's fine. I had a feeling you suddenly switching up the intensity would have done something to you." He stated, his voice curt as ever. "I didn't think you'd be so willing to fling your Vision's powers so willy-nilly."

"I wanted to try something different. To rekindle my clan's legacy, in a way."

"Your legacy should not risk your physical constitution. Hu—our bodies can easily shatter, you know."

Kazuha hummed. "I suppose. Your concern is appreciated all the same."

"Mm."

Wanderer took to the skies. Kazuha latched on a little harder, but not to the point of pain.

"I will say... I have an inquiry for you, dear Wanderer."

The puppet sighed. "Out with it, then."

"Ah, it is nothing big... I simply find your disposition to be quite unique, if you do not mind my saying. You say your name is Wanderer, yet it feels as if there is more to you. Your Vision is one of Sumeru, yet your soul speaks in the way of an Inazuman. A way most familiar to me."

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious...?" Wandered tilted his head back, eyebrow raised.

Another laugh. "I suppose what I am getting at is... are you sure we do not know of each other? And even if not, may I at least get to know your real name?"

And Wanderer's chest tightened. That was... well, the no part was easy to answer, at least, but the complications behind his true answer...

Wanderer pondered for a time. The only three who knew his name were Nahida, the Traveler, and Paimon. Most referred to him as "Hat Guy" or "the weirdo". It wasn't often someone expected something like that out of him.

He almost wanted to shut that avenue out for Kazuha. Problem was, not giving out his name to the successor almost felt like a sin in itself. Like a proper payment he simply couldn't ignore.

Another heavy exhale left him. Wanderer had a feeling Kazuha wasn’t going to let this go.

"...Arnica." He spat. “My real name is Arnica.”

Kazuha's deep exhale tremored against his upper back. It pierced through Wanderer's silks and skin.

"Like the plant to soothe all traumas and wounds," he replied, seemingly dreamily.

“I guess so.”

Wanderer landed on the roof of one of the buildings to rest; he looked around for the thickest tree vine. The samurai wasn't too heavy. He could afford to bring him higher.

Kazuha continued, seemingly unphased by Wanderer’s occasional groans of exasperation. "I've heard many doctors use the plant to help reduce swelling or act as an antibiotic, but I have learned the ritualistic ways of using it from others as well. Some Sumerians have used it in their incense to rejuvenate the psyche, but others have used it as a prayer to alleviate their pains of the past."

"Okay, cool - didn't think we had another person enroll into the Amurta Darshan recently." He rolled his eyes, successfully landing on a vine before digging the heels of his sandals into the greenery for better support.

"You do not." Kazuha simpered. "I am simply fascinated. Your name truly fits you, as dancing with you today helped heal a part of my lost soul. I cannot thank you enough, Arnica."

And Wanderer nearly dropped him where he floated, that same rosy red crawling across his cheeks. Curse this ever radiant, ever refulgent descendant. If he had to be entirely honest with himself, he had thought only the Traveler could stir a flurry of conflicted emotions when he said his real name. They were the one who chose it, after all.

He turned his undivided attention to nailing the landing on the city's pavement. The samurai’s words put his mind in a tizzy again…

He thought only the one who bestowed such an unexpected gift upon him had that right.

Yet even so, Kazuha managed to provoke that same flustered reaction to him just by expressing his gratitude. His name rolled off the tongue so sweetly, Wanderer was almost glad he didn't have a heart. He feared such kindness would pop it in bubble-like fashion. He feared he would die from the sudden euphoria.

Ugh. Ugh. Those human feelings rose to the surface again—he had to stop! Kazuha was only thanking him; he did not need to act like he received the highest praise in the world.

...but knowing how he was - knowing how he could be - Wanderer had a feeling he'd view it as such anyway. How could he not, when Kazuha's words were anything but disingenuous.

He turned his undivided attention to nailing his sharp landing against the city's pavement, ascending the spiral and passing the few Corps of Thirty idling nearby. He hoped the sprain wasn't too bad; he hoped the samurai could make a swift recovery. With so much to clean up and so many surveys to oversee, Wanderer wasn't sure if he could make time to care for him. He wasn't sure if the boats at the Port Ormos would wait for him, either.

Ah, but who was he kidding? Should the man find himself stranded in Sumeru, Wanderer wouldn’t leave the man for dead. He was better than that now. At worst, the guy would have to play with the Aranara or entertain Nahida while he was attending classes. At best, he could appreciate Sumeru’s scenery. That little leaf blowing trick he did screamed “tree-hugger”.

Of course, if Kazuha found himself unamused by either option… Wanderer supposed he could treat him to some tea some time. To a chat. That’s how normal people spoke to one another, right?

That’s how… “friendship” worked…?