Chapter Text
The stack of papers on Varka's desk had officially reached what he considered a criminal height.
He'd been staring at the same report for the last ten minutes. Not reading it. Just staring at it like it might do something interesting if he waited long enough.
…
It didn't.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. Somewhere outside, Mondstadt was having a perfectly good evening without him. He could hear it. Laughter from the direction of Angel's Share, (Venti’s) wind doing its usual thing through the archways, someone's dog barking two streets over. Normal city sounds. Living city sounds.
Meanwhile, he was in here. With paper.
He'd been Grand Master for long enough now and he still hadn't made peace with the paperwork. Here he was just — signing things. Approving things. Reading reports about things happening to other people while he sat behind a desk that Jean kept refilling like it was some kind of punishment.
…He was starting to think it was- from all the sneak out to get drunk in the middle of the day.
The door then opened.
"Don't," he doesn’t have to look up. He knows who is coming. Or what is coming.
"I haven't said anything yet," Jean said, and set a new stack of documents on his desk.
Varka looked at it. He looked at the candle that had burned down to basically nothing while he'd been not-reading. He looked at Jean.
"That's more paper!" He complained.
"Investigative updates, patrol reassignments, and the budget reconciliation." She was already organizing them by category. "Also the Cathedral sent another formal request about the apothecary district patrols."
"Mm." He pulled the nearest document toward him and skimmed through it.
The smuggling case. Again. Always the smuggling case. Three weeks of chasing a ghost through his own city and they still had almost nothing solid to show for it. Sick people, a few dead ones, and a supply chain that dissolved every time they got close to it.
"We get anything new today?"
"Nothing actionable." Jean sighed. "The courier we detained last week had no information beyond his immediate handler, and that contact hasn't surfaced."
"Whoever's running this knows how we work." He tossed the report aside. "They're always one step ahead. It's like they've got someone on the inside feeding them our moves."
"That's possible," Jean said, in the tone that meant she'd already considered it and didn't like the implication any more than he did.
Varka rubbed the back of his neck. The case sat in his head like a splinter — not the sharp pain of a crisis but the dull constant irritation of something he couldn't quite get a grip on. Fake vision-granting drugs. People desperate enough to buy them because they wanted to feel like they mattered, like they had power, like the world had chosen them. And someone out there happy to sell them that lie alongside whatever was rotting their bodies from the inside.
It made him tired in a way that sleep didn't fix.
"You look terrible," Jean said, cutting through his thoughts.
"Thank you, Jean," Varka replied dryly. "I appreciate the honesty."
Jean sighed again. She was concerned of Varka’s wellbeing but even she has the same, if not double amount of workload than him that needs to be done.
She then remembered a different set of documents she brought. Maybe that could reduce the stress. She then reached past the investigative pile to pull out a different folder. Thinner. Cleaner.
"New recruits," she said. "Final cohort. They've completed intake and interviews. I've done the preliminary screening. You're just the last seal — approve or reject, your call." She paused. "It might be a nice change of pace."
Honestly? It wasn't bad.
He poured himself a proper drink — Jean had left a bottle of something decent on the side table, which he chose to interpret as a peace offering — and worked through the files. Jean had already done the real work. Background checks, reference verifications, preliminary skill scores. He was just the final stamp.
Young woman from Springvale, hunter training, good scores. Fine.
Stamp. Approved.
Former mine worker, built like a wall, two merchant guild references. Fine.
Stamp. Approved.
Man with no combat experience but excellent administrative aptitude. The Knights needed clerks. Also fine.
Stamp. Approved.
He was moving through them mechanically now, barely skimming the recruits' attached pictures as he stamped each file with a robotic, unseeing rhythm.
Then he hit the one with no photograph.
He paused.
Every other file had a neat headshot clipped to the upper corner. This one had an empty rectangle and faint clip marks. He flipped through the pages looking for a loose photo. Nothing.
Name, Lohen. Adventurers' Guild, certified rank. One reference, Guild branch local. Age and origin filled in. Health assessment completed- the usuals.
However, the experience section was where it got interesting.
[Date] [Location] – Ambushed and slaughtered an entire bandit encampment of 14. No survivors. Goods and stolen livestock returned to the villagers. Their leader’s head left impaled on the trail marker as warning.
[Date] [Location] – Infiltrated a Treasure Hoarder hideout at midnight. Captured 11, executed 7 on the spot for resisting. Retrieved all stolen Mondstadt artifacts and burned the rest of their camp to ash.
[Date] [Location] – Neutralized a Fatui reconnaissance squad and their Pyro Agent leader. All 9 killed in close combat. Documents seized, bodies left for the wolves.
[Date] [Location] – Pursued and eliminated a group of 19 Abyss Mages and their Hilichurl thralls after they attempted a ritual near the city borders. Mages butchered. Thralls scattered or slain. Threat eradicated.
He let out a low whistle. This one had his full attention. How could someone so young single-handedly slaughter and capture that many? Even at that age, Varka had never pulled off feats this brutal.
"Jean," he called.
She appeared in the doorway.
"This one. Lohen." He held up the file. "You sure he is.. uh sane?"
“He was pretty calm during the interview. Answered all the questions straightforwardly. Says he is very passionate about combat”
‘Someone like him could also be exactly the kind of person the Knight’s of Favonius needs right now.’
"…And you sure this person is real?"
"Your call, the cohort assembly is tomorrow morning." She gestures to the seal.
Without hesitation, Varka stamped it.
Approved.
He fell asleep around the second bell and didn't dream, which was normal for him.
What wasn't normal was waking up at the third bell knowing there was someone else in the room.
He didn't sit up. Didn't move. Just opened his eyes and lay still, breathing the same way, while his brain caught up with whatever had pulled him out of sleep.
The window was open. He'd latched it.
He noticed the corner by the wardrobe had a shape in it that the other corners didn't. He could see the glint from here. Small, bright — edge of a blade, catching moonlight.
Varka sat up on his bed. He glanced at the weapon beside him, just in reach if things go out of hand.
The shape in the corner didn't move.
"You going to stay there all night?" Varka asked.
Silence.
Then — a giggle. Light, genuine, pleased with itself.
"You're good," the voice said. Young. Conversational, like this was completely normal. "Most people either don't notice or go straight for the weapon."
"I'm not most people."
"No," the voice agreed, like that was the interesting part. "You're really not."
Varka let his eyes adjust. The shape resolved slowly — slight, on the smaller side, hair that looked pale in the moonlight. He couldn't make out the color. The blade turned once in the hand that held it, an idle rotation.
"You want to tell me what you're doing in my room?" Varka said.
"Checking," the voice said. "New employer. Wanted to see if it was worth it."
‘Ah so it’s from the new recruits’
"You could've just waited for the morning assembly."
"But resumes are boring." A short pause. "It’s much more fun to show people exactly what they want to see."
"So you must be the one without the photograph, Lohen is it?"
A soft, delighted little sound slipped from him — low and playful. “Sharp,” he purred.
The figure shifted, just slightly, stepping into the moonlight enough for Varka to catch more of his detail- short, pale. A small mark beneath one eye. Hair that was green- light mint green, catching the silver light.
But it was his eyes that truly stole the breath from Varka’s lungs — a deep, smoky dull red, ringed with the same luminous mint as his hair, glowing with an otherworldly hunger.
Varka hadn’t expected him to be this... dangerously beautiful.
He shook his head. ‘Gah what am I thinking!’
"You're going to have to leave," Varka said, maintaining his composure. "We can do this properly tomorrow."
"Probably," Lohen agreed, yet his fingers shifted on the dagger. "Buttt, one more second~"
The throw came fast.
Varka was already moving — arm up, hand closing — and caught it. The blade bit into his palm, shallow, a clean sting.
‘What the hell is wrong with this guy.’
When Varka’s eyes snapped to the corner, it was already empty.
Lohen was already perched at the open window
He glanced back with a slow, wicked smirk that promised all kinds of trouble. "We’ll meet very soon, Grandmaster~" Then he jumped and melted into the night sky.
The hand not holding the blade rose to his forehead, pressing against it as he let out a slow, irritated breath.
‘What have I gotten myself into?’
That night, Varka slept with the blade right beside him. If that mint-haired maniac showed up again, he’d be ready to throw it straight at him — no hesitation.…Though deep down, a small, annoying part of him was already curious. Just a little. That sneaky little bunny had definitely left an impression.
“He came through the window,” Varka said casually, twirling the dagger between his fingers as he and Jean walked toward the courtyard. “Spent some time watching me sleep, apparently. We exchanged a few words… then he threw this straight at me.”
He held the dagger up, letting the morning light catch its sharp edge. Jean’s face paled.
“Grand Master, I apologize— this is my fault—”
“Cut it out, Jean.” Varka interrupted with a lazy wave of his hand. “It’s been ages since anything actually interesting happened around here. Beats drowning in paperwork, that’s for damn sure.”“But your safety—” Jean pressed, voice tight with concern.
Varka ignored her completely. He stepped into the courtyard, voice booming across the open space like thunder.
“Good morning, new recruits!”
The startled rookies jumped, conversations dying instantly. The courtyard was packed with fresh faces desperately trying to look disciplined and competent.
Varka grinned, sharp and wolfish. The thirty-something rookies scrambled into position, offering shaky salutes. A few still fumbled, clearly unsure which hand went where.
“Good morning, Grand Master!” they chorused, voices uneven but eager.
He doesn’t see the familiar intruder yet.
He did a slow walk of the line. Not saying anything yet, just looking.
Jean walked beside him with her clipboard, quiet and steady.
"Front," he said to the group when he reached the end. "Standard stance. I want to see how you stand before I hear how you talk."
They moved. He watched.
Honestly, it was fine. Average and a few genuinely good ones.
"We've been dealing with something," he said, as he walked the line again, "that's been giving us a headache. You might've heard about it — sick people around the apothecary district, a few deaths. Someone out there selling vials of something and promising it'll make you strong. Give you power like a Vision." He kept his tone easy, conversational. "Whoever's running it knows how to stay invisible. Every time we get close, the trail goes cold."
He paused and looked out at them.
"I'm not going to sugarcoat it. It's a hard case. But that's Mondstadt out there, and people are dying, so." He spread his hands slightly. "You're Knights now. That's what that means."
A few nods. The appropriate combination of determination and slight terror that a good speech should probably produce in new recruits.
“Now then,” Varka announced, a sharp grin spreading across his face.
“Combat assessment time. You can train on your own or in pairs… but anyone who’s got guts — come at me. First one to draw blood gets a free drink on me at Angel’s Share tonight.”
Dead silence fell over the courtyard. The new recruits exchanged nervous glances. Everyone knew Varka’s reputation. Challenging him on day one was basically asking to get humbled.
He waited, arms loosely crossed, radiating calm confidence.
Behind him, Jean muttered under her breath, “You really don’t have to do this every single time…”
“Relax,” Varka said, glancing back at her with a lazy smirk. “I’m trying to lure the cat out of the bag.”
He turned forward again, waiting with pleasant patience.
Then, a single step broke the silence.Varka knew who it was before he even looked. That smooth, fearless movement — no hesitation, no showy wind-up, just pure, casual confidence.
“I’ll go,” a familiar voice chirped.
Lohen stepped out from the crowd, mint-green hair catching the sunlight, wearing that same playful, dangerous little smile.
"Name," Varka said, acting professionally- not bringing up what happened last night. Well, at least not in front of everyone.
"Lohen."
"Lohen." He looked at him for a moment. "You sure?"
Lohen tilted his head. The smile didn't move. "Are you?"
Someone in the formation made a soft sound. Varka chose to find it funny rather than address it.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," he said, and settled into his stance.
Here was the thing about Varka that most people only learned the hard way: he wasn’t a show-off. He didn’t need to humiliate anyone. When new recruits challenged him, he usually kept things measured — clean blocks, controlled pressure, just enough to test their level without breaking spirits.That plan lasted roughly thirty seconds.
Because Lohen was good.
Not “promising recruit” good. Not even “talented rookie” good. The kind of good that came from surviving real fights where mistakes got you killed. His polearm skills was crisp, efficient, and sharp. No flashy spins, no wasted movement. Every strike had intent. He read distance like someone who’d learned it in blood, not training yards.
Varka’s easy smile faded. He drew his own claymore.
“There it is,” Lohen said, voice bright with delight. His red eyes practically glowed. Now they were fighting for real.
Steel rang against steel across the courtyard. The recruits had gone completely silent, watching wide-eyed. Varka pressed forward with a heavy overhead strike. Lohen slipped it like water, countering low and fast. “Not bad, bunny,” Varka grunted, parrying the thrust. “You’ve done this before.”
Lohen laughed — light, thrilled, almost giddy. “A few times, maybe~”
There wasn’t a single trace of exhaustion on his face. If anything, he looked like he was having the time of his life. Cheeks slightly flushed, eyes sparkling with pure fight-drunk joy. The expression of someone who could do this for hours and thank you for the privilege.
Varka felt something loosen in his chest. It had been a long time since anyone made him think in a spar. No paperwork. No politics. Just the pure thrill of someone who could actually push him.
Lohen feinted high, then dropped low, testing Varka’s legs. Varka turned it and forced him back two steps, but the green-haired menace didn’t even look annoyed. He simply adapted, flowing into a new angle with a delighted little hum.
Then came the moment Varka didn’t see coming.
Lohen deliberately dropped his guard for a fraction of a second — just enough to look like a reckless mistake. The moment Varka lunged in, Lohen twisted like smoke. The butt of his polearm cracked against Varka’s forearm, knocking his claymore off-line. In the same fluid motion, Lohen’s free hand darted forward — lightning quick — and snatched the dagger from Varka’s belt.
The same dagger he had thrown the night before. Varka had tucked it at his waist before the spar, thinking it was safely out of reach.
It wasn’t.
Then, a sudden burst of Cryo exploded from Lohen’s palm, coating the stolen dagger in razor-sharp frost.
Varka’s eyes widened in genuine surprise.
‘He has a Vision?’
The temperature plummeted as Lohen drove the icy blade across the back of Varka’s hand, slicing a clean, shallow line of red. First blood.
For a moment, everything stopped. Lohen’s eyes locked onto the blood welling up on Varka’s skin. His playful expression vanished. His pupils dilated sharply, turning those dull red eyes into something darker — hungrier. A slow, almost delirious smile spread across his face as he stared at the crimson, breathing heavier, visibly riding a savage high.
He looked like he wanted to lick the blood off Varka’s hand.
Then, just as quickly, Lohen blinked. The feral darkness snapped back behind his usual bright, mischievous mask. He tilted his head, flashing that charming, dangerous little smile again as if nothing had happened.
“Looks like I win, Grandmaster~” he purred, voice light and playful once more. He twirled the cryo-coated dagger between his fingers. “I’ll take that drink tonight.” He walked back to join the rest of the rookies who were left agape from the battle they just watched.
Varka turned to face Jean “You didn’t tell me he has a Vision.”
Jean shrugged “Well maybe you should read the resume more properly.”