#rhine lore study

Think of it like a video game's level editor. You can place enemies, adjust lighting, write dialogue, set up trigger events. But you can't suddenly add a new weapon type that isn't in the base game. You can't change the fundamental physics engine. You're working within the boundaries of what the toolset permits.

For example, the DPS dummy tracker doesn't let you change your team or equipment while you're inside, not because it's being malicious or because it "doesn't want to," but because the miliastra tools simply don't have that option. The functionality isn't there.

But the same toolset can give you infinite energy or 100% crit rate if you want. Because those modifications are included in the toolset. The developers added those toggles.

So what does this tell us about magic in Teyvat?

Magic cannot override the fundamental rules of Teyvat. It can't change the core architecture of how the world operates.

But magic can manipulate reality within these rules. It can reorder existing elements. It can create domains with custom parameters. It can speed things up, slow things down, give you infinite stamina or make you hit like a truck—as long as those parameters are part of the allowed toolset.

In other words, the witches aren't breaking the simulation. They're just very, very good at using its developer console. And Nicole, with her talk of debugging and trigger conditions, is essentially a senior engineer who understands the underlying code. Alice, meanwhile, seems to be the type who finds creative, unintended uses for the tools—the kind of programmer who makes the game do things the original developers never imagined, but never anything that violates the engine's core constraints.

I think this is what Dotorre was also doing in Nod Krai finale - he got access to developer's console through imitating trilunar authority and was trying to sell traveler an ability to basically use cheatcodes - instant teleport, instant kills of enemies, walking on air, etc, he was just for some reason not allowed to spell this out.

Access to reality's code

Now, let's talk about phlogiston and draconic language.

In real life, phlogiston was a hypothetical substance once thought to be present in all combustible materials and released during burning. It was wrong, scientifically, but it was an attempt to explain a fundamental process and its very obviously tied to fire, i.e. pyro.

In Genshin, phlogiston is something much bigger: it's a fundamental reality-building material. Think of it as a mix of both fuel as in original meaning and source code. It can be manipulated using draconic language to affect Teyvat's reality directly—not through the restricted toolset that witches like Nicole use, but by writing to the underlying architecture itself.

Here's the key distinction:

Normal magic is like using a pre-built software development kit. You have buttons, functions, and parameters. You can do a lot, but only what the kit allows.

Phlogiston manipulation is like having direct access to the game's code, like you're a hoyo developer. You can write your own functions. You can bypass the toolset entirely. But you need to know the language—the actual code—to do it.

This is why access to phlogiston is restricted. It's not a toolset that anyone can pick up. It's a programming language itself, one that can break the normal limitations of what's "allowed" in Teyvat. But the access is gated. Only dragons—the original inhabitants of the world, the ones who built this reality or were there when it was built—have native access to it. And then, people with very specific conditions (like those connected to the Night Kingdom with an "ancient name") can be granted a kind of authorized user status.

This explains something that's confused a lot of people: why doesn't Natlan have everyone riding around on bikes and wielding flying guns?

Because not everyone can use these tools. Working with phlogiston is what allowed Xilonen to create Mavuika's bike and Chasca's ridiculously massive gun. But those items aren't like normal weapons or vehicles. They're phlogiston-based reality hacks. They function because they're tied to specific individuals who have the proper authorization—their "name," their connection to the Night Kingdom, their permission slip to access this deeper layer of reality. And canonically, they were given access to this code language by a dragon. The Dragon Sage, to be specific, who taught the ancient people of Natlan how to use phlogiston.

So what are "ancient names" really? In this framework, they're essentially a login and password passed down through generations. An ancient name is your authorization token. It's what the system checks when you try to execute phlogiston-based commands. No name? No permission. No permission? The tech doesn't function. Mavuika's bike in a random person's hands would just be a hunk of metal. It wouldn't start. Because the bike isn't a machine that runs on physics; it's a manifested construct that runs on authorization. This is also why only people with ancient names could be ressurected and so only they were sent on missions to fight abyss.

How Fate Actually Works in Teyvat

Now, let's talk about fate.

I see people getting confused because they're used to thinking about fate as a prewritten script where every single action is set in stone. That's not how fate works in Teyvat.

In Linnea's Story Quest, it's spelled out explicitly. Fate has specific fixed points that it controls in a person's life. It can set conditions for each point, but it does not care what happens in between these points, and it does not care how these conditions are fulfilled. Only that they are.

Think about character constellations. A constellation is a pattern with fixed points—the stars—and vague, undefined lines connecting them. Everyone has these fixed points. The stars are the predestined events. The lines are the journey between them, which fate doesn't micromanage. You can take any path, as long as you hit those stars.

And if you try to avoid a star? If you try to fight fate? Then reality will bend to force you into the desired outcome. From Linnea's quest, Celaeno puts it bluntly:

"You're welcome to try to fight it if you want. Prepare to experience just how cruel fate can be. Leave this competition and fly somewhere far away. I promise you, something will happen to force you right back here."

This is the key. Fate is not a script. It's a reality manipulation program with target outcomes. It will adjust circumstances—sometimes drastically, sometimes subtly—to make those outcomes happen. The scale of adjustments can range from "you miss your bus and have to take the next one" to "summoning a giant world-devouring whale from across the galaxy."

Like. Remember that happened in Fontaine? Celestia didn't directly control that whale. The whale is a pet of Surtalogi, an Abyss Sinner. But as Skirk explained, the whale basically just... sniffed the tasty Primordial Sea from across the universe and decided to fly over and eat it. Exactly when Fontaine's prophecy was destined to come true.

Fate's role here was arranging circumstances:

Giving the whale a lead to the Primordial Sea at the specific time.

Making sure the Primordial Sea was the most desirable, tastiest thing available to the whale at that moment.

Ensuring nothing stopped the whale—like delaying Skirk so she showed up literally minutes after the prophecy was fulfilled.

Fate didn't write a script where "the whale attacks." Fate had a target outcome in a prophecy and then bent reality to make that outcome inevitable, using whatever tools were available, including a space whale from outside the known universe. But we will get to the Fontaine prophecy later in more detail.

If you're already actively doing what you're predestined to do, fate doesn't need to intervene. You're cooperating. The system doesn't have to force you.

This is why Mona, back in version 1.x, talked about fate the same way. When she reads the stars, she sees those fixed points in a person's constellation. She tells people their fate so they know it and can follow it willingly. Because the further you stray from your predestined outcome, the more drastically you will be forced back into it. The closer you follow your fate, the less friction you experience. Less suffering. Less cosmic intervention.

The architecture behind is this: Fate has access to Irminsul. And Irminsul is a digital database that contains all information about all people in Teyvat. It can read their thoughts. It can simulate their behavior. It knows, with perfect accuracy, how someone will act in any given situation. Like remember in Sumeru there was a plot point that Akademiya has enough information on Cyno that they can run simulations and predict his actions?  Fate can do this and it has all information on everyone in real time. It adjusts. It tweaks variables dynamically. It moves pieces around the board until the desired outcome is mathematically certain.

Fate, in Teyvat, is not a storyteller who makes all of your decisions for you. It's a systems administrator running a prediction engine, with the power to edit reality to make its predictions come true.

How Focalors Tricked Fate

Fate can be tricked.

As I said, Fate only looks at formal conditions. It does not care about how they are fulfilled. It has no intent, no understanding of context, no ability to judge whether a condition was met "fairly" or "honestly." It just checks boxes. The Heavenly Principles are the only entity that seems to be in control of Fate, and they are canonically dormant. So Fate is currently running on autopilot—executing its programming without anyone overseeing the results.

This is what my best girl Focalors exploited.

Let's look at the Fontaine Prophecy. It was created back when the Heavenly Principles were still active, so it's a manually crafted punishment, not an autogenerated one. It has several complex conditions, unlike the fixed points of ordinary people, which can be as simple as "lose a competition."

The conditions of the prophecy are:

The Hydro Archon is put on trial by her people and judged guilty.

The Hydro Archon is weeping alone on her throne.

Fontaine is flooded, and all "sinners" dissolve in the flood.

This prophecy was created as punishment for the previous Hydro Archon, Egeria, for using the Primordial Sea to turn her Oceanids into humans. She was explicitly not allowed to use the Primordial Sea. So the prophecy is designed to be as cruel as possible—a delayed punishment that forces Egeria to live knowing that one day, all of her beloved people will not only die, but will turn on her before they do.

But in reality, Egeria died during the Cataclysm, long before the prophecy came to fruition. Fate, however, doesn't care. The prophecy says "Hydro Archon," not "Egeria." So it just... switches targets to the next Hydro Archon. Focalors inherits a sentence meant for someone else.

I think Heavenly Principles never expected to go dormant, and if they were active, they would not allow Egeria to die, because she carried the Heart of the Primordial Sea. Without that Heart locked, Hydro Sovereign could not be reborn, and they did not want that. So Egeria was meant to be an eternal Hydro Archon, punished, but not allowed to die. There was never meant to be another Hydro Archon.

How Focalors tricked the prophecy:

First condition: The Hydro Archon must be put on trial by her people and judged guilty. Focalors couldn't fake this—it had to be authentic. So she split a part of herself and created Furina, a fully separate being who had no knowledge of the plan. Furina genuinely tried her best and genuinely failed. Her trial was real. Her guilt was real. Condition one: satisfied.

Second condition: The Hydro Archon must be weeping alone on her throne. Again, Focalors couldn't fake it. But Furina, after 500 years of suffering, after being judged and rejected by the people she sacrificed everything for, would absolutely weep alone on her throne. This is why Focalors couldn’t tell Furina this is a part of the plan. Condition two: satisfied.

Third condition: The flood comes, and all "sinners" dissolve. But what defines a "sinner" for this prophecy? A sinner is a humanized Oceanid—someone with Primordial Sea water in their veins instead of blood. So to save her people, Focalors needed to turn them from Oceanids into real humans with real blood. She couldn't do this herself. But the Hydro Sovereign at full authority—the original god of Life of Teyvat—could.

So Focalors invited Neuvillette to her court. She made him the Iudex. She had him live among humans for over 400 years, knowing he would grow to love them. She didn't need to arrange Furina's trial; Fate would handle that on its own. She only needed to make sure two things were in place when the prophecy triggered:

Neuvillette was present (which she assured by making him Iudex).

She herself was present to witness and act (which she assured by placing her soul in the Oratrice).

When the first two conditions were fulfilled, Focalors pulled Neuvillette into her pocket dimension. She explained the plan. She asked if he would save her people. And she had watched him for over 400 years; she knew he was a softie. Then she destroyed the Hydro Archon's throne—her own divine seat—giving Neuvillette back his full authority as the Hydro Sovereign.

Neuvillette then performed the "baptism." He absolved Fontaine's sin by turning every humanized Oceanid into a real human, with real blood in their veins. Right before the flood hit.

So when the flood came, Fate checked its conditions: Are there any sinners left? Anyone with Primordial Sea water instead of blood?

No. There were none.

And Fate does not care why. It doesn't investigate. It doesn’t care if there are no sinners because they all dissolved or because none existed when the flood came. It just checks the box and moves on. Condition three: satisfied. The prophecy was fulfilled—technically, formally, legally—and yet everyone survived.

This is the genius of Focalors. She didn't break Fate.She just... read the fine print. Like a LAWYER. She understood that Fate is a program with inputs and outputs, not a conscious judge. She understood that the conditions were formal, not substantive. And she exploited every single loophole.

She gave Fate exactly what it asked for—a sincere weeping Hydro Archon on trial, a flood, no sinners—just not in the way anyone expected. That's not defeating Fate. That's outsmarting it.

How To Change Fate

So, to summarize, Fate works by changing the RNG (random number generation) of Teyvat. It changes the odds and makes random circumstances happen that will lead to the outcome it wants.

Think of it like an equation. If we have a prediction that Character Y will lose to Character X, it's essentially X > Y, where:

X = (a1) personal strength + (b1) current state + (c1) + ... + (x1) + (Z1) random circumstances

Y = (a2) personal strength + (b2) current state + (c2) + ... + (x2) + (Z2) random circumstances

What Fate primarily controls is Z—the random circumstances. It adjusts the RNG to suit its needs. If the natural calculation would have X at 10 and Y at 11, Fate can add a weighted variable to X's random circumstances, giving it an extra +2. Now X is at 12, and Y is still at 11. X wins.

(This is simplified, of course. Fate often works years in advance to set up these circumstances, adjusting multiple variables over long periods. For example, to assure Celaeno wins in pre-destined contest against her sister, Fate arranged her to meet and befriend a wild beast while it was still a child, so when it grows up, she would have a very strong animal companion, shifting the odds in her favor. But the core principle is the same: Fate stacks the RNG in favor of its desired outcome.)

So you can't beat Fate normally. No matter how strong you get, no matter how much you prepare, Fate can always calculate it in advance and adjust the RNG of the variables to counteract you.

Remember how in the Nod Krai Archon Quest, there was that whole section where they would not shut up about "variables" and how no matter how many variables Durin and Wanderer added, it didn’t change the outcome to the ghost they ere trying to save? This is what it meant. You can change the variables on your side—train harder, gather more allies, find better equipment—but you can't change the outcome, because Fate will always adjust its own variables to counteract yours. You add +2 to your strength, Fate adds +2 to the random circumstances working against you. The equation stays balanced in favor of the predetermined result.

This is why direct defiance never works. Fate has already run the calculations. It knows what you're going to do before you do it. And it has infinite levers to pull—weather, timing, luck, manipulating other people's actions—to ensure that no matter what you change, the fixed point still hits.

Now, what can disrupt it? Simple: if Fate can't see the variables, it can't adjust for them.

So what variables can't Fate see? The ones not recorded in Irminsul: the Abyss and the Descenders.

Descenders are not in the leylines. Fate has no control over them and cannot predict their actions. So if you want to change Fate, the surest way is to add a Descender to the equation.

But it's not a guarantee. A Descender can just stand there and gawk, like in Linnea’s quest. The Traveler was present but did nothing, and the prophecy still happened. So it's not enough to just have a Descender. It's important that the Descender knows beforehand what the goal is and is determined to shift circumstances toward it.

This is why Sandrone prepped the Traveler about what would happen in the battle against Dottore, and died to make sure her world-formula culminated near the Traveler. She understood that you need to translate a Descender's intent into variables that will outweigh Fate. It requires very good understanding of Descenders and how they interact with the Fate and Teyvat.

Sandrone had spent years studying the world-formula to figure this out. The only other example we have is Zhongli guiding the Traveler to save Hu Tao in Lantern Rite. Why does Zhongli knows how it works? Zibai called him “Heaven’s Star”, he’s clearly connected to Celestia. SPEAK UP, GRANDPA!

Another Way to Counteract Fate: The Abyss

Another way to counteract Fate is the Abyss.

From Alice in the recent event, we know that the Abyss is unrealized fates—the possibilities that did not come to pass, the roads not taken. If Fate has a predetermined outcome, what could be better than pulling in an outcome that is different? Perhaps you even get to choose what that outcome becomes.

In many ways, the Abyss is a virus—an outside, corrupted form of knowledge that can infect Irminsul. But its main strength is that Fate cannot predict it. Fate's calculations are based on the information in Irminsul. The Abyss comes from outside that system. It introduces variables that Fate never accounted for.

This is why all the major players who wanted to fight Fate used the Abyss: Deshret, Khaenri'ah, Nibelung when he returned to find his world colonized. They understood that you can't beat Fate on its own terms. You need something from outside the equation.

But there's a massive problem with the Abyss. It's some kind of information that Teyvat's engine simply cannot process. This is why it's called "Forbidden Knowledge" and why it drives people to madness and corruption. The system wasn't built to handle these discarded timelines. When you try to force an unrealized fate into reality, the system glitches. And the people caught in that glitch? They break.

It broke Deshret. It broke Khaenri'ah. And presumably, it broke Nibelung.

Again, remember that Nod Krai Archon Quest section where they would not shut up about variables? The only way to change what was happening was Durin's Abyss powers. That was the only thing that could interact with that old pre-programmed leyline recording directly.

I'm not going to go into it here because this is already long enough, but Durin is in a unique situation where he can process Abyss power without being corrupted. Maybe I will do a separate post on him.

Summary: How Fate and Magic Work in Teyvat

Teyvat is a digital/simulated world. Irminsul is a database. Memory cores are bytes. Objects can be broken down and reassembled like files.

Magic is programming. Witches use miliastra toolkits—restricted development environments with specific functions. You can only do what the toolkit allows (infinite energy? yes. changing your equipment mid-domain? no).

Phlogiston is source code. It's a reality-building material manipulated through draconic language. Access is restricted to dragons and authorized users with "ancient names" (essentially login credentials). This is why Natlan has crazy tech that only works for specific people—Mavuika's bike won't function in a random person's hands.

Fate is a reality manipulation program with target outcomes. It controls fixed points ("stars" in constellations) but doesn't care how you get between them. It works by adjusting RNG—adding weighted variables to random circumstances (Z) until the desired outcome is mathematically certain.

You can't beat Fate directly. No matter how strong you get, Fate has already calculated it and will adjust its variables to counteract yours. The Nod Krai AQ's endless talk about "variables" was about this.

Two things can disrupt Fate:

Descenders – Not in Irminsul, so Fate can't predict them. But they need to know the goal and be determined to act, otherwise they're useless (see Linnea’s quest).

The Abyss – Unrealized fates, discarded timelines. Fate can't predict it either. But Abyss data breaks Teyvat's engine—it's "Forbidden Knowledge" that drives people mad.

This creates a brutal cycle. They need the Bloodbranch Corals from Enkanomiya to revitalize the soil, but the effect doesn't last. The fertility slowly bleaches out until the land is useless again, forcing them to go back for more Corals. Watatsumi Island is fundamentally unable to sustain itself.

Naturally, this raises some big questions: Why does the soil suck so much? What are these Bloodbranch Corals? And why are they the only thing that can temporarily fix it?

At the start of the quest, Tsuyuko gives us the official legend: The depths of Enkanomiya are trying to absorb the very spirit of Watatsumi Island. This process bleaches and erodes the soil, turning it white and infertile. The ritual uses the corals to force those greedy Enkanomiya spirits back down into the ocean, temporarily halting the erosion.

As for the corals themselves, the story says they were created from Orobashi's own body. His noble sacrifice provided the power needed to suppress the Dragonheirs of the Depths. 

For context, Orobashi is the great white serpent god who literally created Watatsumi Island. He led its people up from the sunken civilization of Enkanomiya to live on the surface and later died in a war with the Raiden Shogun. (we will expand on this later, believe me)

Enkanomiya’s entire theme is misdirection and the manipulation of information to shape a narrative, and it starts with this basic premise. The initial story we're fed is very clear: Enkanomiya and its dragons are the aggressors, leeching the life from the land. Orobashi is the heroic protector, who used parts of his own body to nobly suppress the evil and save his people. It's a classic, straightforward myth designed to justify the endless, desperate repetition of the ritual.

This narrative banks on two things: the player's existing trust in Watatsumi (they're our allies, so why would they lie?) and our ingrained familiarity with the "defeat the evil monster dragon to save the kingdom" fantasy trope. It's structured this way to obscure the reality from the player without ever technically lying to them—which is extra ironic, considering the game has already shown us that every time we hear about "evil dragons," like Dvalin and Azhdaha, it turns out they were never truly evil to begin with, just misunderstood, corrupted, or victimized.

This is where Enjou comes in. His entire role is to bring the theme of information manipulation to the forefront. He’s a walking, talking (and burning) illustration of how a clever asshole can frame a narrative to make you see white as black and black as white, all to manipulate you into doing what he wants.

His main rule? He doesn't technically lie. Everything he says is true, even when he's seemingly joking—like when he tells the Traveler, You never know what can happen in magic rituals, I could turn into a flame-throwing monster! Haha! He only lies by omission or by using leading questions. He constantly answers direct questions with his own questions to evade, or he hides the truth behind a joke.

For example, when the Traveler first arrives and asks who he is, he doesn't answer. Instead, he asks a question: Didn't they tell you there'd be a priest here to guide you? The Traveler says, Yeah, they did. Then Enjou says, Great! You can't be expected to learn a new language, haha! I'm here to help translate.

See what he did? He never said, "I am the priest." He asked a leading question that made the Traveler connect him to a trusted figure (the promised priest), then immediately redirected to his function ("I'll help translate"), which was technically true! He let the Traveler's own assumptions do the lying for him.

But here’s the fun part: despite all his screentime and how personally his betrayal stings, Enjou doesn’t actually affect the main quest. He genuinely does help the Traveler do everything the real priest was supposed to do. He guides us, and we successfully finish the mission. Enjou isn’t about the "what"—he’s about the "how." He’s there to teach players to look deeper into the seemingly obvious things we take for granted about the world, because there might be lies woven into the very foundation.

And crucially, he directs us where to look. He attacks us specifically because he guesses we found the book "Before Sun and Moon." That book was his real target all along. His reaction is a giant, flashing arrow for the player, signaling that this book isn't just another lore item, it's the key to everything. It was the biggest lore bomb in Genshin for a reason, and Enjou is the narrative device that makes sure we don't miss it. He’s the guy who points at the curtain and winks, right before he tries to set you on fire.

So, what does "Before Sun and Moon" actually tell us? It completely detonates the foundational myth Teyvat operates under.

The book reveals that Celestia are not the benevolent, original creators of this world. They're invaders. The true original sovereigns of Teyvat were the dragons. Celestia came from beyond, waged a war against the dragons, won, and then established a "Golden Age" for humanity—a civilization built on top of a genocide. 

“When the eternal throne of the heavens came, the world was made anew. Then the true lord, the Primordial One, came forth and did battle against the seven terrifying sovereigns, dragon-lords of the old world. The Primordial One created shining shades of itself, and the number of these shades was four.” 

“Forty winters entombed the flames, and forty summers churned the seas. The Seven Sovereigns were vanquished, and the seven nations submitted to the heavens. The Primordial One, the great sovereign, began the creation of heaven and earth for "our" sake — that of its creations which it cherished most, who would soon appear upon this earth.”

But then, another Descender (someone else from beyond Teyvat, like the Traveler) arrived and attacked Celestia. Their cataclysmic battle is what destroyed that first human golden age. Enkanomiya is literally what's left of one of those ancient cities that plummeted into the ocean depths during that conflict—it's Genshin's Atlantis, complete with the Greek-inspired aesthetics to drive the "ancient, lost advanced civilization" point home.

“The second throne of the heavens came, and war was rekindled, as it was in the world's creation. That day, the heavens collapsed and the earth was rent asunder. Our ancestors and their ancestral land fell into this place during that conflict. The era of darkness had begun. ”

Up until this moment in the game, Celestia's presentation has been pristine: heavenly, white, and ostensibly benevolent. This revelation shatters that image completely. They're not guardians; they're conquerors who rewrote history to paint themselves as divine saviors. And they don’t want the world to find out, to the point that anyone who reads this book must die.

Note that the description in Before Sun and Moon is very reverent to Celestia, as its written by people who worshipped the Primordial One, but even with that tone, as complimentary to Celestia as possible, Celestia still prohibits reading of that book due to the factual truth about the world initially belonging to dragons hidden in it. 

From here, we have another twist in the accepted narrative. We were told Orobashi died in a war with the Raiden Shogun over territory and the conflict between Watatsumi and Narukami. That was a lie, a cover story for everyone's safety.

The truth is, Orobashi read "Before Sun and Moon." He learned the forbidden truth of the world. And because he did, Celestia issued a decree: he had to die. To protect his people in Enkanomiya from being utterly annihilated by Celestia's wrath, Orobashi made a deal. He deliberately provoked a war with the Raiden Shogun—a fight he knew he couldn't win and never intended to—sacrificing himself so that Celestia would be satisfied and leave his people alone.

Now, let's look at Orobashi himself. He wasn't always the god of Watatsumi; he was originally a white snake god from Liyue who fought in the Archon War, got his ass thoroughly kicked by Morax (because Zhongli was not fucking around back then), and fled across the sea to save his life. He ended up falling into the depths of Enkanomiya, where he laid, slowly healing from his wounds.

The people of the sunken city found him and asked him to be their god. He agreed, overthrew the brutal tyranny of the Sunchildren (a whole other fascinating story about propaganda and hidden truth), and became their ruler. Eventually, he led them to the surface and, using his power, created Watatsumi Island for them to live on out of his own coral.

This is the key. Orobashi’s whole thing is corals. His statues in Enkanomiya show him holding coral branches. He literally grew an island out of coral. Now, think about that logically for a second: are corals known for being fertile soil? Can you grow wheat and potatoes on a reef? No. 

So let's rewind and look at our initial quest with this new context.

The legend said evil dragons were leeching the life force from Watatsumi, and Orobashi's Bloodbranch Corals were needed to "suppress" them. But what did we actually do in that quest?

We went down to Enkanomiya and unsealed a deep hole at the bottom of which were some trapped dragons.

We killed those dragons.

We took the Bloodbranch Corals from their dead bodies.

We brought those corals back to Watatsumi to "revitalize" the soil.

The logic of the legend immediately falls apart under the slightest scrutiny:

If the corals were suppressing the dragons, why are we killing the dragons and then taking the suppressing agent away? Shouldn't the corals stay down there to keep doing their job?

If the dragons were the problem, why didn't Orobashi just kill them himself centuries ago instead of creating a convoluted seal that requires a dangerous ritual to maintain?

How is the thing that is supposedly suppressing evil dragons “revitilize” the soil?

Where is the proof they were "leeching" anything? We never see it. We're just told they are. 

 It just doesn’t add up even if we believe the premise that the dragons are evil.

If we do Enka’s side quests and read the hidden research logs, we find the final, damning piece of the puzzle: hidden laboratories, where we find Bathysmal Vishap Experimental Records. And it reveals that the people of Enkanomiya, under Orobashi's orders, were not just researching vishaps—they were conducting straight-up torture and eugenics.

The logs are chillingly clinical:

They subjected vishaps to extreme environmental changes, including starvation, high and low temperatures, etc, noting how it altered their elemental expression and biology across generations.

They conducted intelligence tests and discovered, to their "astonishment," that vishaps are sentient beings capable of complex communication and learning, even capable of learning human language.

The researchers even express ethical concerns, writing, "We believe that these experiments should be stopped," and fear a prophecy that the Dragon Sovereign would be born in human form.

But they didn't stop. Because they had a direct order from Orobashi himself: the "Special Orders" logs detail attempts to graft Orobashi's coral onto the vishaps. The goal was to force a union between a being of the Human Realm (Orobashi and his coral) and a being of the Light Realm (the elemental vishaps). The initial attempts failed catastrophically, causing horrific rejection and adverse effects, until they finally "succeeded."

So, let's re-contextualize the entire cycle with this horrifying new information:

Dragons are original inhabitants of Teyvat, invaded by Celestia. Enkanomiya’s vishaps fled there after being displaced by humans, and then humans invaded their territory AGAIN, and now vishaps had nowhere to flee and so were attacking humans.

Orobashi's coral was surgically and magically implanted onto the vishaps to leech their innate elemental life force. The vishaps are kept trapped at the bottom of that deep hole from childhood so the parasitic corals can slowly drain them dry.

The Ritual is a Harvest. The "hero" who descends doesn't go down to "suppress" an evil. They go down to ** slaughter fattened livestock.** They kill the drained, tortured vishaps, rip the now life-force-saturated coral from their bodies, and bring it back to the surface.

The "Revitalization" is an injection of stolen life, because the barren coral island of Watatsumi cannot sustain itself. The only thing that temporarily fertilizes it is a massive infusion of pure elemental energy—energy stolen from the native vishaps.

Therefore, the initial legend is a complete and utter inversion. The dragons aren't "leeching" the spirit of Watatsumi; Watatsumi is leeching the life of the dragons. The entire myth was crafted to reframe a cycle of horrific, parasitic exploitation into a noble battle against darkness.

This is basically Omelas. The entire paradise of Watatsumi Island and its survival, is built on a foundation of unimaginable suffering. The beauty and peace on the surface are purchased with the perpetual torture of innocent beings in the dark below.Orobashi wasn't just a savior; he was a scientist-god who devised a brutal system to ensure his people's survival, forcing them to become perpetrators to avoid becoming victims themselves. It's propaganda of the highest order, and we, the players, completed the harvest without ever questioning the lie.

This is made brutally clear in the “Three Realms Gateway Offering” event, where we see the other side of the story: the dragons are conducting a rescue operation to save their people from that pit of torture.

The dialogue says it all: Paimon: "It's Tsumi! Uh, what is she doing in front of the Dainichi Mikoshi?"

Tsumi: "Since you came back, I'm curious to know — did our rescue operation succeed?

"Paimon: "Some baby vishaps were rescued before we got there. But the old and weak vishaps went back in the water to hide after we defeated the elites."

Let's be real. How can you look at that—"Yeah, some BABIES got away while we were killing the people trying to rescue them, but the WEAK AND ELDERLY were too terrified to escape"—and still think you're the good guy here?

So what is Enkanomiya about?

It’s about manipulation. It’s about the hidden truths buried under the lies used to control what people believe. It’s a story about censorship and colonialism, plain and simple.

It’s about two sides of the same coin. To the people of Enkanomiya, Orobashi was a benevolent god—a savior who freed them from tyranny and died for them. To the dragons, he was a monster who authorized their torture and built a paradise on top of their suffering. Both are true. That’s the whole point.

The Celestia parallel is key. The name “Teyvat” translates to “ark,” and it’s pretty clear Celestia is playing the role of a twisted Noah—trying to save a remnant of humanity by giving them a new world. But just like Orobashi isn’t justified in torturing dragons for the sake of Watatsumi Island, Celestia isn’t justified in wiping out Teyvat’s native people just to make room for humans. Both actions ask the same ugly question: does one group’s survival require another’s extinction?

additional notes: it’s interesting that Orobashi is Liyue’s white snake god, bc we know of one white snake adepti from Liyue - Changsheng, Baizhu’s white adepti snake. Orobashi’s vassals are humans with snake vertical pupils - just like Baizhu. And Changsheng’s power is not strictly healing, it’s transfer of lifepower from one creature to another - Baizhu heals by transferring his own lifeforce to his patience, this is why he’s constantly sick. This is rhymes with Orobashi being unable to grant life, but able to steal it from the dragons.

Kaveh is the artist. He takes the strict, rational mathematics of architecture and transcends them into art. The Akademiya he grew up in, pre-Nahida, valued cold rationality above all else and shunned beauty as frivolous. But Kaveh took perfect calculations and functionality and added a layer of human comfort and aesthetic beauty. A huge theme for him is that a building should suit its environment, to grow out of it rather than clash with or dominate it. This is why he went bankrupt on the Palace of Alcazarzaray—he designed it for that specific spot; it was an organism that couldn't be moved. This act of transcending pure logic to create something that fosters human emotion and harmony is a form of wisdom. It’s exactly why Nahida said of him: “He has an almost-perfect grasp of what it truly means for Sumeru to be a Nation of Wisdom.”

Alhaitham is the logical counterpart, but his motivation is key. He's driven by a desire to seek the truth of the world. His preferred method is dialectics—the process of comparing opposing opinions to see the truth emerge from the conflict. This is why he values his tumultuous relationship with Kaveh so much; Kaveh’s opposing worldview is a vital component of his own search for truth. This is also why he prefers reading physical books to using the Akasha: he wants to understand the author's point of view, the context and bias, and process it himself. His infamous mercenary attitude at the Akademiya isn't just laziness; it's because he realizes the institution obstructs the true pursuit of knowledge. He seeks financial freedom not for luxury, but for the independence to conduct his research on his own terms. His wisdom is the process of intellectual synthesis.

Now, compare and contrast Alhaitham with Albedo. Both have the stated goal of "seeking the truth." But their motivations and methods are fundamentally different, hence their different elements.

Albedo seeks truth because it was the legacy and task assigned to him by his master, Rhinedottir. This fits Geo's theme of legacy and building community around that legacy. As he states in the Paralogism quest, his journey led him to realize that the "truth of the world" is the connection with other people. His truth was, quite literally, the friends he made along the way. It was about the continuing Rhine's legacy, not learning secrets of the world. 

Now, let’s get back to the Aranara, because they perfectly illustrate that Dendro's "knowledge" isn't confined to a laboratory. We don't help our Aranara friend grow by conducting science experiments; we go on adventures. For them, wisdom is accumulated through lived experiences, not just intellectual data. This is the heart of Dendro's growth: it's organic, emotional, and human-driven.

This is exactly why Collei's official tagline is "Sprout of Rebirth." Her early life was defined by torture and horror, a period of absolute darkness. What allowed her to grow anew wasn't studying a textbook; it was her bravery and curiosity to open up and experience the world again. She actively accumulated new, positive memories and experiences with people who genuinely cared for her—Amber, Tighnari, Cyno. Through that process of collecting new stories, she was able to slowly reinvent herself. I understand why some people find her transformation from a dark, hostile survivor to a sweet teen jarring, but the problem isn't the change itself—it's that we, the players, don't get to see enough of that difficult growth on screen. I have written about this before

In a similar, yet gentler vein, we have Yao Yao. She isn't just a pupil of the Adepti focused on learning their techniques. Her Dendro nature shines in her travel anecdote with Qiqi (which is excellent btw, please play it). In a bittersweet cene, they have a picnic where Qiqi expresses sadness that she will inevitably forget this happy moment. But Yao Yao reassures her that the moment of joy matters anyway, and promises that she will remember it for both of them and will repeat the picnic just to see Qiqi happy again.

It's not about grand revelations or complex theories. It's about the accumulation of simple, small experiences—like a picnic with a friend—and how they transcend their fleeting nature to become something immeasurable. Yao Yao understands that the value is in the continuous, caring repetition, the gentle growth of a bond that is tended to like a plant. 

And this finally brings us to Nahida. The reason the God of Wisdom appears as a small child is the ultimate expression of Dendro's theme. It’s a rejection of the idea that wisdom is stern, ancient, and purely intellectual. Instead, it shows the value of childhood whimsy, dreams, and inspiration—the raw, unbridled capacity for growth.

The Akademiya dismissed her precisely because they only valued a cold, rigid form of intellect and rationality. But true wisdom, as Dendro defines it, is about connection and collective growth. This is why one of Nahida’s most famous phrases is “Let’s hold hands!” It’s a literal and symbolic gesture of unity. This is also how she defeats the artificial god, Scaramouche, who represents the Akademiya's ideal of a solitary, all-knowing intelligence. She doesn't defeat him alone; she asks all the people of Sumeru for help through the Akasha, channeling the collective knowledge of her nation. Victory is achieved not by a lone genius, but by a connected forest.

speaking of forest, Tighnari literally left the stifling, theoretical environment of the Akademiya to become a Forest Ranger. His role is exploring of theme of actual knowledge over prestige: he gets to study nature firsthand (accumulating experiential knowledge) while also using that knowledge to help people interact with the rainforest safely and sustainably.

He’s the bridge between pure research and practical, lived experience. And despite his stern, "mom friend" and middle-manager exterior, he is fundamentally driven by a deep, innate curiosity. We see this most clearly in his trailer, where he can't resist the urge to taste a strange new mushroom—a classic, almost childlike act of exploratory learning. His wisdom isn't just in his books; it's in his direct, hands-on engagement with the world, embodying the Dendro principle of growth through active experience and connection with one's environment.

By parallel, Kirara is a cat who got curious enough to be driven to explore the world. But also, her job as a courier is a perfect metaphor for this element: it's literally about both exploring new places and connecting people. She's accumulating experiences and fostering connections with every delivery, embodying that Dendro spirit of organic, network-based growth.

This leads to another crucial Dendro theme: knowledge is not the domain of lonely geniuses. True advancement comes from many people working together to build upon a shared foundation. This is perfectly embodied by Emilie.

Her entire theme is deconstruction. She takes something seen as mystical and one-of-a-kind—like a legendary perfume thought impossible to recreate without a Delusion—and breaks it down into its simple, understandable components. Her goal is to make it possible for anyone to recreate, democratizing knowledge that was once the privilege of a few. Crucially, in her Story Quest, she makes a point that she can only do this because research has advanced over the years; she is standing on the shoulders of countless others who worked to advance the field.

Emilie is a great illustration because she combines both of the element's key processes: deconstruction and synthesis

Combining small elements to create something transcendent (creating a sublime perfume from simple ingredients).

Investigating a "miracle" to deconstruct it, breaking a complex perfume down to ingredients, making it accessible and allowing the collective knowledge of humanity to grow.

The theme of using knowledge to dismantle the myth is mirrored not only in Emilie’s SQ, Baizhu’s deconstruction of immortality and Nahida’s confrontation with Scara, but also in recent Lauma’s storyline.

Lauma held a secret, painful knowledge: the moon her people worshipped was not real. After receiving confirmation from the Traveler, she made the difficult choice to tell her people the truth, despite knowing it would shatter their faith and cause many to leave. She prioritized honest, shared understanding over a comforting lie.

This creates an interesting contrast with Candace in Aaru Village. Her people believe that, as a descendant of King Deshret, she has special powers like controlling sandstorms. She doesn't, but she allows them to believe it because that myth gives them a sense of safety and stability. This is why she is Hydro—Hydro characters are most often defined by playing a role for the sake of others, maintaining a facade to uphold harmony or protect feelings.

Lauma, as a Dendro leader, chooses the opposite path. But she didn't stop at just deconstructing the myth. When the Wild Hunt attacked, she was the one who united her people, telling them they didn't need the power of a moon goddess; they could protect each other if they all came together. This is the second part of the Dendro process: after deconstruction comes reconstruction through collective effort. It's about combining individual strengths to create a new, tangible form of protection and community.

Lauma is a wonderful example of a mature Dendro leader. Her side quests further emphasize this: she creates a library open to both humans and animals. Her ability to communicate with animals, to collect their understanding and share human knowledge with them, perfectly suits the Dendro theme of fostering shared wisdom through connection and empathy, building bridges between different forms of consciousness.

Nefer is not released yet, but her character theme of gathering stories and being information broker already fits Dendro theme very well, and I’m really excited to see what nuances and interesting twists she will bring to the Dendro philosophy.

Now, let's address the elephant in the room: Kinich.

I think it's pretty clear Kinich got shafted characterization-wise. This isn't hate for the character, but a critique of Hoyo's resource allocation. It's very obvious that the urgent demands of the new unplanned region in Nod Krai pulled resources, and Natlan's narrative suffered heavily for it. I believe a significant portion of Kinich's intended story was simply cut.

He literally does nothing in the Archon Quest. He has this elaborate setup with Turnfire in his Story Quest—a concept with huge potential for exploring Natlan's past and secrets of ley lines—and it goes absolutely nowhere. It doesn't tie into the main plot, and it doesn’t even function as a satisfying character arc for him.

You could try to argue he's a second Kirara—a courier who connects the tribes. But that falls apart because he lacks her curiosity, Kirara is driven by a genuine desire to see the world and connect with people. Kinich is introduced as a supposedly ruthless mercenary and bounty hunter, yet his themes of "everything has a price" and the Turnfire legend are never explored in a way that defines his personal motivation, let alone connects to a larger Dendro theme of wisdom and growth through synthesis of small experiences.

As he stands, his Dendro Vision feels almost arbitrary. It's not that he contradicts the theme; it's that he barely interacts with it in any meaningful way we get to see. His potential remains completely untapped, if anyone has compelling ideas on how his intended role might have reflected Dendro themes, I'm all ears, because based on what we got, it's a mystery.

When we see the Akademiya persecute religious minorities, artists, and desert people, we’re meant to see it as straightforwardly bad. Especially because we meet and befriend members of all these groups—Dunyarzad, Nilou, Dehya—while from the Akademiya, we only get Alhaitham, who’s sus as hell and standoffish (and later defects from the Akademiya). I’m specifying this because I’ve seen some frankly insane sinophobic takes claiming that Hoyo showing this persecution means they approve of it—because they’re Chinese, so they must be pro-religious persecution (??). Never mind that all the persecuted groups win in the end.

The point is, the corpo-Akademiya is trying to enforce homogenous obedience on its citizens, and as players, we’re set up to sympathize with everyone fighting against that.

The Samsara dream time loop—where the Traveler and the people of Sumeru get trapped—is LITERALLY corporations exploiting the dreams of common people to extract resources from them. It’s an incredibly on-the-nose metaphor. The same day repeating over and over? That’s capitalism trapping us in the hopeless, monotonous loop of routine, grinding us down with no promise of change. And just like in real life, the most vulnerable—people like Dunyarzad, who’s disabled and chronically ill—are the first to pay the price, because they don’t have the physical stamina to survive the system’s brutality.

And what breaks this corrupt, soul-crushing cycle? An artist.

Nilou, a dancer—someone whose entire existence is dismissed by the Akademiya as "frivolous" at the same time as they try to use her as foundation of their propaganda loop —is the one who shatters the illusion. Because art does that. It exposes truths that rigid systems try to bury. The Akademiya, with all its cold logic and "progress," can’t comprehend something as intangible as creativity, so they never see it coming. But when Nilou performs, she disrupts the Samsara, proving that the human spirit expressed through art can’t be fully controlled, even by the most oppressive structures.

It’s chef’s kiss storytelling. The Akademiya thinks they’ve perfected their dystopia, where everyone is a docile, productive cog in their machine. But they forget that people dream. And dreams—real ones, the messy, emotional, human kind—can’t be commodified forever.

But then it only gets better. Because breaking the Samsara loop isn’t enough to bring down the whole system. That would be too easy, too cheap. What Nilou’s rebellion does is ignite a spark—something that shakes people awake, makes them question, but doesn’t magically dismantle centuries of oppression overnight. Real change takes more than one defiant dance.

Now, let’s talk about the desert people in Sumeru.

The Akademiya built a literal fucking trump wall to keep them out. They oppress them, demonize them, and treat them like second-class citizens. And the first time we see desert people in the story, aside from Dehya? They’re religious fanatics confronting Alhaitham—which, at a glance, plays right into the most tired Western stereotype: Middle Eastern terrorists. But let’s put a pin in that.

Because then we meet Setaria, a desert woman who had to abandon her religion and heritage just to fit in. This is the Akademiya’s imperialist assimilation in action—desert people are forced to conform, no matter how brilliant they are. And Setaria is brilliant. She’s a genius, and that’s the only reason she got as far as she did in the Akademiya. But even then, she had to erase herself to survive.

Then comes the entire quest about reminding her of her roots, urging her to embrace her people again, and, most importantly, using her privilege to help them. And here’s the kicker: it’s Nahida—the Dendro Archon, a god the desert people actively oppose—who pushes Setaria to reclaim her heritage. Not out of some patronizing "enlightened savior" nonsense, but because Nahida, despite being the figurehead of the very religion that marginalizes them, values truth above dogma. Because desert ppl don't know Akademiya traps and supresses Nahida herself!

Nahida doesn’t demand Setaria convert or assimilate further; she tells her to remember who she is. Because liberation isn’t just about tearing down walls—it’s about refusing to let your identity be dictated by the people who built them.

The game doesn’t just show the oppression—it shows the way out: reclaiming your history, refusing to be pitted against your own, and leveraging your position to lift others up. And the fact that it’s Nahida of all people who facilitates this? That’s the narrative acknowledging that justice isn’t about which god you worship—it’s about whose humanity you’re willing to recognize. So accusations of Sumeru narrative somehow being pro-oppression of opposing religions is not only sinophobic, but missing the entire, very obvios point.

And then—just when you think the Akademiya couldn’t get more villain-coded—we learn their endgame: They’ve been using the energy drained from the Samsara dream cycle to build an artificial god. A corporate-made deity, designed to replace Nahida entirely. And who’s helping them? Dottore, a foreign warmonger exploiting Sumeru’s resources for his own ends.

I mean, come on. If you wanted a more blatant anti-imperialist, anti-corporate metaphor, you’d have to start handing out pamphlets in the streets. The Akademiya isn’t just content with controlling knowledge—they want to manufacture divinity itself, outsourcing the labor to a foreign power that couldn’t care less about Sumeru’s people.

And then—Nahida sacrifices herself.

After everything, after being imprisoned, erased, and treated as a figurehead, she still chooses to give up her freedom to stop Dottore from harming her people. Not because she’s a martyr, not because she’s blindly selfless—but because she understands power. She knows the Akademiya’s artificial god won’t save Sumeru; it’ll just put a new face on the same exploitation. So she takes the hit. Voluntarily.

This is where the narrative really sticks the landing. Because Nahida’s sacrifice isn’t framed as some tragic inevitability—it’s a strategic move. She’s playing the long game, proving that real leadership isn’t about control, but about knowing when to step back so others can step up. And in doing so, she forces Sumeru to confront its own complicity. The Akademiya’s downfall doesn’t come from some outside force—it comes from the people they oppressed finally rising, because she gave them the space to do it.

And so, of course, in the next act, we move to the desert—where the narrative flips the script entirely.

We meet Alhaitham, who’s already defected from the Akademiya. Then we confront Cyno—and this is critical: people misread him as a "cop," but he’s not. The actual cops of Sumeru are the Corps of Thirty; the Mahamatra (Cyno’s former role) are the corporate enforcers, the Akademiya’s private security. And here’s the thing: Cyno was *promised* justice, but when he tried to audit the Akademiya’s artificial god project, they shut him down.

And what did he do? He didn’t comply. He defected.

This isn’t just a character beat—it’s a thematic one. Cyno’s entire arc is about choosing justice over institutional loyalty, even when the institution claims to serve justice. The game wants you to question who the "law" really works for.

Then we arrive at Aaru Village, where we meet Candace and the other desert people—all portrayed as good, kind, and suffering under Akademiya oppression. And in a lesser story, this would be the endpoint: "See? Not all brown people are evil terrorists! Some are noble victims!" (Which, admittedly, is still more nuance than most Western media manages.)

But Sumeru’s narrative isn’t satisfied with that. It doesn’t just want to humanize the desert people—it wants to contextualize their resistance. Because the next step isn’t just proving they’re "good." It’s asking: What made the Eremites into ‘fanatics’ in the first place?

And that’s where the story gets really bold.

t doesn’t just tell you the desert people are oppressed—it forces you to confront their reality. They have no chances. No fair trial, no voice, no future under Akademiya rule. And when Dehya—a desert-born warrior who’s spent her life caught between worlds - risks everything to broker peace, the game doesn’t give you a choice. You have to negotiate with them. No "both sides" compromise, no patronizing "maybe if they just assimilated harder." The narrative makes you stand with them.

And then—the revelation.

Deshret, the god of the desert people, was never Rukkhadevata’s enemy. They were friends. Allies. And when disaster struck, Rukkhadevata—the very goddess the Akademiya claims as their own sacrificed herself to save the desert people from extinction. The history the Akademiya taught was a lie.

And the narrative never walks this back. Later world quests double down: Deshret wasn’t some mad tyrant. He was a beloved, fair ruler. His people’s faith isn’t some backwards fanaticism—it’s legitimate, as sacred as Nahida’s. The game refuses to frame desert culture as something that needs to be "fixed" or abandoned.

This isn’t just subversion—it’s narrative justice.

And the entire Sumeru finale is about exactly that.

It’s not a lone hero’s journey. It’s not a divine miracle. It’s every marginalized group—artists, desert people, religious minorities, Akademiya defectors—coming together to overthrow their oppressors. The narrative makes this collective struggle the centerpiece. Azar, the Grand Sage, is a deliberately bland villain because he doesn’t matter. He’s not some complex tyrant—he’s just another greedy man at the top of a corrupt system. The real story isn’t about him. It’s about who rises against him.

And at the heart of it all is Nahida—not as a traditional archon dispensing wisdom from on high, but as a child god who connects people. Her power isn’t in domination; it’s in unity. She doesn’t command an army—she links minds, letting Sumeru’s people see each other’s struggles, dreams, and defiance.

This is the ultimate rebuttal to the Akademiya’s ideology. They believed in hierarchy, in control, in a world where only the "worthy" (read: those they approved of) had a voice. But Nahida proves true wisdom isn’t hoarded—it’s shared. And when she breaks free, she doesn’t just liberate herself, she gives Sumeru back to its people.

And crucially? They couldn’t have won without the desert.

The desert people weren’t just "allowed" to help—they were essential. Their knowledge, their strength, their history became part of the resistance. The narrative doesn’t frame them as "redeemed outsiders" joining the "real" fight—it says their fight was always legitimate, and Sumeru’s freedom depended on them.

The finale of Sumeru’s arc isn’t just a victory—it’s a reckoning.

The wall dividing the desert and the rainforest crumbles. The Akasha—the internet turned tool of control—shuts down forever. The narrative makes it clear: technology should connect and empower people, but when it’s weaponized against them, it deserves to die. And Sumeru doesn’t mourn its loss, because freedom is worth more than convenience.

But the real triumph isn’t in what’s destroyed, it’s in what’s rebuilt. Desert people are welcomed, not as tolerated outsiders, but as equals. The Akademiya’s chokehold on knowledge is broken. Artists, scholars, outcasts, and visionaries—all of them—have a voice now.

This is the core message: No one fights alone. Corpo tyranny falls when the oppressed stop competing for scraps and stand together. Not out of charity, not out of pity, but because liberation is collective or it’s nothing.

This is why Sumeru storyline rings true.

Yes, it’s simplified. It’s a fantasy, not a political manifesto. But the core idea is real, and that’s what matters.

Sumeru’s revolution works because it understands something fundamental: Oppression isn’t defeated by lone heroes or divine intervention. It’s defeated when the people no longer accept their own erasure. When artists, outcasts, racial minorities, and even disillusioned enforcers realize they’re stronger together than they ever were apart.

The Akademiya thought they could control truth by rewriting history. They thought they could commodify dreams, exploit faith, and wall off the "undesirables." But in the end? They underestimated the one thing they couldn’t algorithmize: solidarity.

The second biggest problem, for me, is how Susbedo was handled.

I never expected him to be playable, but he was clearly established as a perfect narrative foil to Albedo. Albedo's arc was always leading to that classic "the real treasure was the friends we made along the way" conclusion. We saw it happen: from the cold, dismissive alchemist of the first Dragonspine event, to someone who slowly, over years of subtle events, learned to enjoy human connection for its own sake—not as data, but as community. It was a beautifully slow burn.

Susbedo was the dark reflection of that. He represented the shortcut. He wanted to steal Albedo's life—his place, his friends—without putting in any of the work, the vulnerability, or the genuine effort to connect. He was the "what if" of an Albedo who never learned.

But Paralogism doesn't capitalize on this established foil. Instead, it throws away years of subtle development. Susbedo is killed off-screen, reduced to a plot device to be cleaned up, not a character to be confronted.

Worse, Albedo immediately depersonalizes him. He declares that he is a person, despite his artificial origins, but that Susbedo was not. Therefore, destroying him "doesn't count as murder."

This isn't just cold—it's a hypocritical contradiction the story never examines. Albedo's entire arc is about proving that origins don't define your humanity; your connections and choices do. By declaring his double non-human simply for being an imitation, he undermines his own hard-won thesis. If Susbedo—who clearly had his own consciousness, desires, and capacity for suffering—isn't a person, then what does that say about Albedo's own claim to personhood? It’s a moral loophole the story creates so Albedo can avoid the weight of his actions, and it robs the confrontation of any thematic depth. The foil is shattered, not explored.

This leads to the third glaring issue: the trial itself was a colossal missed opportunity, built on a foundation of unforgivable negligence.

We were robbed of the real confrontation. Instead of the cathartic, thematically rich clash between Albedo and his established foil, Susbedo—a battle over identity, humanity, and what one deserves—we got a trial against a random girl we’d never met before. All the history, the mirrored pain, the personal stakes… gone. It defanged the entire conflict, turning a deeply personal philosophical duel into a generic whodunit with no emotional weight. And it’s not even an actual mystery, because Albedo and the Knights knew people were being replaced the entire time and just?? Let it happen?? “To draw them out”? How about Venti uses his powers of literally hearing everything that happens in Mond to track them down instead? It just makes no sense.

Paralogism: Albedo

Here's how I want to approach rewriting this. In my view, Genshin’s storytelling is at its best when a narrative operates on two levels: as a compelling in-universe story and as a metaphor for deeper, often difficult, themes.

The game narratives work like a collection of sort-of fables, operating on almost mythological principles. It’s not subtle about this anymore—Nicole recently revealed that in-game fairytales are the prime vehicle for hiding serious truths from Celestia’s censorship. The writers themselves have said, like in the pre-Nod Krai dev stream, that they want to use simplified, accessible metaphors to talk about important subjects. 

This dual approach works for both societal and personal stories.

Societally: Fontaine deconstructs the justice system; Sumeru dissects profit-driven academia, etc. Societal metaphors are not the focus of this quest, so I won’t elaborate further. 

Personally: Scaramouche’s Interlude Quest is a masterclass. On the surface, it’s a powerful story about erasure, rebirth, and atonement. But it’s also a startlingly honest allegory for a suicide attempt. And within that, there’s a resonant trans metaphor about choosing your true self and name. You don't need to catch every layer for the story to work emotionally, but if you do, it becomes profoundly textured and specific.

This space of intertwining metaphors allows stories to be both universal and intimately detailed, all while remaining internally consistent. The emotional truth carries it.

My goal is to apply this principle to Paralogism and Durin SQ. The original had the skeleton of a powerful fable—a story about identity, inheritance, and the cost of belonging. But it fumbled the execution, leaving its metaphors contradictory and its emotional truth unearned. I want to sharpen that fable, to let its metaphors speak clearly and its difficult choices carry the weight they deserve, so the ending—however dark—feels like an inevitable, respected part of the tale, not a narrative convenience.

Let's start with Albedo. Like Scaramouche, Albedo’s narrative is built on the great metaphor of being an artificial creation who must navigate a human world. It’s a direct allegory for feeling fundamentally different from societal norms, for the anxiety of "passing" and the search for belonging.

For Scara, this deviation was about being trans. When his memory was erased, he just latched onto the first guy who showed him a modicum of kindness and offered to work for free just because he wants to be accepted. Like if you’re queer and active in the community, you know at least a dozen of baby trans guys and girls like that who are so vulnerable to being taken advantage of, which Dottore did to Scara. And when the Traveler tells him “I know what you really are… You’re a puppet!” and Scara gasps and recoils, like this is such on the nose scene of trying to pass and being clocked, I cannot explain to cis people how overt and obvious it was. 

I’ll be bringing up Scaramouche's arc as a benchmark because it executed this allegorical layer with precision. It was emotionally true on the surface and resonated with profound specificity for those who saw the deeper metaphor. Furthermore, he’s narratively tied to Durin and, by extension, echoes the same themes of artificial life that haunt Albedo. His story shows us how this kind of writing can work.

Now, Albedo explores a different facet of that "artificiality" metaphor. If Scaramouche’s story is one of abuse, trying to conform to oppressive norms and then rejecting them and forging a new identity, Albedo’s is a nuanced portrait of neurodivergent-coded integration.

He begins as the archetypal hyperfixated, low-empathy scientist who was isolated and not taught how to properly socialize by his distant, emotionally unavailable parent. His otherness manifests first as a clinical alienation, but also a distinct intellectual superiority—a sense of being above the trivialities of "normal" human interaction. He's condescending and visibly annoyed by social demands, viewing most people as variables or distractions. The only exception is the Traveler, precisely because the Traveler is, in his eyes, another "special" being—a human-looking non-human. It's a connection based on shared otherness, not shared humanity.

The genius of his slow-burn arc is in the second Dragonspine event. He tolerates the company of others (Bennett, Amber, etc.) initially only because they are the Traveler's friends. But we see the subtle, brilliant shift: he begins to engage, to be genuinely helpful, and in the quiet campfire scene, he allows himself a small, private smile as the group enjoys his cooking. It’s a moment of unspoken, non-transactional belonging.

This progression continued in every subsequent appearance. We saw him take a more active, mentoring interest in Sucrose and Timaeus's work. He began organizing community events in Mondstadt, sharing his knowledge not for research data, but for others' benefit. And of course, that one event where he had pretty much “Hey, me and my husband saw you across the bar and we really like your vibe” dynamic with Tighnari and Cyno. Albedo was still introverted, still autistic, but he was shown throughout the years to find out he actually enjoys interacting with people on his own terms, for fun and not just for research, and while Traveler is still clearly an important figure for him, they are no longer his only point of connection. Or Inazuma event, where he let himself interact with people purely as an artist and make many new friends, with no apparent benefit for his research or the mission Rhine sent him on. Or many adorable interactions with Klee, sprinkled throughout the years, where Albedo was a patient and affectionate brother. 

By the time Paralogism began, Albedo was no longer the isolated observer, focused on his singular task. He was an introverted but integrated member of a community, someone who had chosen connection. The foundation for a powerful story about what that hard-won belonging is worth was already laid. And one of the reasons I was so disappointed in Paralogism is because it wasted all these years of subtle development.

Now, back to our metaphor. What does Susbedo represent for Albedo? I don't think he was ever intended as a separate character in the traditional sense. He was never granted a name or his own voice; Albedo always spoke for him, always defined him in relation to himself. While fans who see potential for him as a distinct character are valid—the raw material is compelling—I'm working from the narrative's clear intent: Susbedo functions more like one of Scaramouche's alter egos. He is not a person, but a concept—the specter of "what could have been" and a walking narrative foil.

So, what concept does he embody? He is the crystallization of Albedo's own internal anxieties taken to a monstrous extreme.

First, he is Rejection Personified—the living, breathing manifestation of Albedo's deepest fear: failing his master, Rhinedottir. He is the "imperfect" creation cast aside, a stark reminder that Albedo's own place in the world might be just as conditional.

More importantly, he is Entitlement Personified. He is Albedo's own intellectual and social superiority complex, stripped of any emerging empathy and dialed to eleven. Susbedo believes he deserves everything Albedo has—his life, his friends, his place in Mondstadt—simply because he is powerful and intelligent. He views connection not as something to be earned through vulnerability and effort, but as a prize owed to a superior being. He wants to seize the life Albedo built without doing the work.

In a word, he is the social engineer, every arrogant intellectual who believes respect and affection are transactional rewards for their perceived genius, not gifts nurtured through genuine interaction. His act of erasing Albedo's unique birthmark—the "mark of imperfection"—is the ultimate act of this arrogance. He seeks a flawless, frictionless takeover, attempting to delete the very history of struggle and authenticity that made Albedo's connections meaningful.

This is hammered home by his method: creating disposable copies from Whopperflowers. This act proves he doesn't see others—not even his own followers—as people. They are tools, programmed with crude, impersonal scripts meant to mimic human interaction. It’s the difference between learning a language to connect and memorizing a phrasebook to manipulate.

Metaphorically, Susbedo is the user of every shortcut, every "pick-up artist" manual, every social engineering hack that promises a bulletproof way to get what you want from people. He is the hollow algorithm of connection, a stark and terrifying foil to the organic, hard-won community Albedo has slowly grown to cherish. His existence is a warning of what Albedo could have become.

Right—all of this was perfectly established years ago. So how do you capitalize on it now?

The obvious answer is NOT by killing your narrative foil off-screen.

Here’s how I’d do it. The trial should have been the climax of this long-simmering conflict, not a staged play where the Knights held all the cards from the start. That choice drained every bit of tension for no payoff.

Instead, the trial should have been a genuine mystery of identity—a philosophical and emotional trial where the entire community of Mondstadt becomes the jury.

The premise is potent: after years in the shadows, Susbedo has had time to learn from his mistakes. He’s no longer the crude copy; he’s had time to study, to refine his act. Meanwhile, Albedo has spent those same years genuinely, gradually integrating, letting people see his real self.

So when Susbedo makes his move, it isn’t with obvious, clumsy malice. He makes his case by manipulation—not with threats, but by weaponizing the very connections Albedo holds dear. He might subtly twist past events, mimic Albedo’s dry humor a little too perfectly, or even exploit small, private moments Albedo shared with others to sow doubt.

The first half of the trial wouldn’t be about catching a villain, but about Susbedo trying to prove he is entitled to Albedo’s life by performing a "better" version of it—more charming, more helpful, more of what he thinks people want.

And the Traveler, alongside the people of Mondstadt, wouldn’t have a cheat sheet. No secret birthmark, no Knightly surveillance footage. The only way to tell them apart would be through actually knowing Albedo. The quest would become an interrogation of two Albedos, where you have to ask the right questions, observe their reactions, and listen to the testimonies of Sucrose, Klee, Jean, Kaeya, and others.

Does one of them remember a detail from a private conversation incorrectly? Does one hesitate a moment too long when asked about a feeling rather than a fact or maybe he names the feeling doesn’t actually connect to real Albedo’s perception? Does one’s version of a shared memory feel slightly… scripted?

Imagine the tension. The drama wouldn't come from physical danger or npcs we’ve never met being killed, but from the fear of being deceived, of losing a friend to a perfect imitation. It would be a trial by intimacy, forcing everyone—and Albedo himself—to define what makes him real. Is it his memories? His relationships? Or something more intangible—the quiet, unperformative sincerity Susbedo can never quite replicate?

Then, after Susbedo is finally unveiled and his performance collapses, he makes one final, devastating move—not an attack, but a revelation.

Cornered and furious that his "perfect" performance has failed, he turns his wrath not on Albedo's body, but on his life. He reveals the truth to everyone present: Albedo is not a human. He is an artificial homunculus, a creation of alchemy.

This is the critical moment the original story needed. Because as it stands, Albedo's claim that "the truth of the world is connecting with people" rings hollow when he simultaneously:

Hides his own true nature from those same people.

Uses Susbedo's artificial origins as a justification to depersonify him, declaring that destroying him "doesn't count as murder."

The implicit, terrifying logic becomes: If Albedo's worth is tied to his humanity, and Susbedo is non-human, then Albedo's own nature is a secret that, if revealed, could justify the same fate. The story never grapples with this hypocrisy.

By forcing this revelation, the narrative can finally face it head-on. This is where Genshin's unique strength—having literal years of in-game history and character development—should pay off. We don't need a rushed, tell-don't-show speech about acceptance. We have a documented history.

This becomes the trial's true climax. Susbedo, in his final act, puts Albedo's entire hard-won life on trial. And the defense comes not from Albedo, but from the community he built.

Sucrose can speak to the mentor who patiently guided her research

Klee can talk about her big brother who listens to her stories and keeps her safe, whose nature never mattered next to his kindness.

The Traveler can bear witness to the slow thaw from cold analyst to trusted friend.

Kaeya or Jean can speak to the ally who has proven his loyalty to Mondstadt through action, not birthright.

Benny can testify how Albedo risked his life to save him in Dragonspine event

Some random Mond npc telling us how Albedo’s alchemy helped them

Hell, throw in someone from other nations he befriended, Tighnari, Cyno, Xingqiu, Kazuha, etc

They don't accept him in spite of his nature; they accept him because, through years of shared experiences, his nature has become irrelevant to his personhood. The proof is in the campfire meals, the solved crises, the quiet collaborations. The community's defense dismantles Susbedo's entire worldview: that identity is a title to be claimed. They prove it is a role lived and earned. First, we are reminded of these shared experiences in the first part of the trial, now, we give them meaning.

This moment validates Albedo's entire arc. His fear of rejection is confronted and disproven by the very connections he feared losing. It turns Susbedo's act of spite into the moment that finally, fully, secures Albedo's place in the world—not as a perfect human, but as himself.

Susbedo refuses to accept defeat, there is a dramatic duel between him and Albedo, but he loses - and dies.

Durin 

Now, let's talk about Durin. I'd keep the Abyss invasion of Mondstadt, but restructure the stakes entirely.

The premise: Durin, still unconscious but dreaming on Dragonspine, is sending more and more Abyss forces into Mondstadt, spurred by Susbedo’s death. And they won't stop while his heart is beating. This creates genuine, tangible urgency. There's no time for lengthy diplomatic missions or exploring every possible redemption arc. The city is under siege. People are dying. The decision to kill OG Durin becomes an impossible wartime choice, not a cold, premeditated execution.

I would also directly involve Dvalin. Frankly, I'm not a fan of how he's been treated like Venti's loyal pet, with no dialogue and no role in a plot concerning the dragon he personally killed and whose Abyss corruption tainted him for centuries. And then at the end of the quest, Baby Durin is suddenly best friends and flying in circles with Dvalin, as if Dvalin is some sort of prize to be won—despite having zero prior interaction with this new creature.

No. Dvalin needs a voice. I don't care if a billion-dollar indie company can't spare resources for a humanoid model; he can talk through a Dodoco phone or channel his voice through Venti. There are workarounds. But he needs to be present.

And his presence creates the emotional core. Dvalin is conflicted. On one hand, he was corrupted by the Abyss because of Durin. He suffered for centuries, lost his mind, and nearly destroyed the very people he was meant to protect. That trauma doesn't disappear.

But on the other hand, Dvalin knows what that corruption feels like. He knows Durin had no choice in his nature—he was born of the Abyss, not corrupted after the fact. And so Dvalin can confront Venti with the question the story desperately needed:

"You decided to save me when I was corrupted. What's different between me and Durin now? Is it only because I was useful to you?"

And Venti, for once stripped of his playful facade, can answer honestly: "No. I would want to save him too. But we don't have time. Mondstadt is falling. If I could trade my life for his, I would. But I can't trade theirs."

This reframes everything. It's not about declaring Durin "evil" or unworthy of life. It's not about Albedo claiming moral superiority. It's about an impossible choice made in desperation—a choice that leaves everyone stained, that haunts them, but that saves the living. The tragedy is acknowledged, not erased.

And in this context, if Albedo is the one who must carry out the act—who must wield the blade because his alchemical knowledge makes it possible—then his later statement about "the truth being connection" isn't hypocritical. It's him clinging to the very thing he almost lost, the community he saved by doing something unforgivable.

Now, remember what I said about allegorical storytelling and how different versions of a character can represent different stages of the same person? This is where Durin's story becomes devastating.

Look at Original Durin. He is born of the abyss—he had no choice in his nature. Rhinedottir sends him into the world with no tools, no guidance, no understanding of how to exist among others. And here's the crucial thing: he isn't evil. He loves the world. He genuinely wants to be part of it, to connect, to belong. But purely due to his nature, his mere presence is harmful. Everything he touches, he inadvertently damages. Every expression of love becomes a source of pain.

This, to me, reads as a clear and powerful metaphor for a self-destructive person who hurts others without wanting to. The beauty of this allegorical framing is that we don't need to spell out the specific reason for the self-destruction—it could be severe mental illness, addiction, trauma, any number of things that make someone dangerous to be around despite their best intentions. The mechanism isn't the point; the pattern is.

And then he meets Dvalin. And he sincerely loves Dvalin—as a friend, as a companion, perhaps as something more. It doesn't matter. What matters is that his self-destructive nature, his inherent toxicity, drags Dvalin into the same spiral. Dvalin tries to help, tries to love him through it, tries to be the support that saves him. But you can't save someone who isn't able to save themselves. You only get dragged down with them.

This is why Dvalin had to "kill" Durin. This is why he had to end the relationship, despite both of them being well-meaning. And this is why Dvalin was "corrupted" for so many years afterward—not just by literal abyss, but by the trauma of that experience, the guilt of surviving, the grief of losing someone you loved who was destroying you.

The story is telling us something painful but true: sometimes a relationship is harmful even when there is no evil intent. Sometimes love isn't enough. Sometimes the kindest thing is to walk away, even when it breaks both of you. And sometimes, walking away still leaves scars that last for a lifetime.

But here's the crucial thing: none of this means we should just give up on people like Durin.

The tragedy of OG Durin isn't that he was beyond help. It's that he never got the help he needed. He was sent into the world alone, with no tools, no guidance, no one to teach him how to navigate his own nature. He loved sincerely and destructively because that was the only way he knew how.

What people like Durin need are people equipped with understanding and the right tools to help them. And this is what Anya represents for Durin in Simulanka.

Think about it. In therapy, a common and powerful method is to revisit the person's "inner child"—to recreate the original traumatic situation, but this time with support, with guidance, with someone who can help them process and heal. This is exactly what Anya did for Durin. She recreated the same fundamental dynamic—a lonely, confused being reaching out for connection—but this time, she was there. She helped him work through it. She taught him how to connect in a way that wasn't destructive.

And of course Baby Durin sees himself as a completely different person from OG Durin. Because in a very real sense, he is. We all look at ourselves ten years ago and see a stranger. We think, "Wow, what was I thinking? That person is nothing like me now." That's not denial; that's growth. That's what it feels like to truly change.

Because Anya was the one who helped him through this process, she is now who he considers his mother. Not Rhinedottir, who created him and abandoned him. Anya, who walked him through his trauma and helped him become someone new—she is the parent who mattered.

This reframes the entire Durin story. Original Durin isn't a villain to be disposed of. He's a tragic figure who never got the help he needed. Baby Durin isn't a replacement or a "better version." He's what happens when someone does get that help. The continuity isn't in the body or the memories; it's in the healed soul that can finally, safely, love the world.

And that is what makes Baby Durin as a teenager work. Awkward, uncertain, still figuring out who he is. This detail matters, because this kind of profound, early trauma almost inevitably leads to stunted emotional development. When your first experience of the world is rejection, when your very existence causes harm without your consent, when you spend years dissociating while your corrupted heart keeps beating—you don't get to grow up normally.

So Baby Durin emerges not as a fresh slate, but as someone who is finally, belatedly, beginning the process of becoming himself. He's not innocent in the way a newborn is innocent; he carries the weight of Original Durin's pain, even if he can't fully articulate it. He's defensive, unsure how to trust, prone to seeing himself as a problem. That's what trauma does. It freezes you at the age it happened, and you have to thaw out slowly, with help.

Here's how I'd actually structure Durin's story quest.

It starts with a quiet crisis: Baby Durin is beginning to be forgotten by the world. The image of Original Durin—the "evil dragon," the monster—is slowly overwriting his existence. People remember the destruction, the corruption, the name. They don't remember him. He's fading, becoming a shadow, replaced by the monster in the stories.

The only way to save him is to go into a storybook—into the narrative itself—and witness Original Durin's story firsthand.

And what we see there changes everything. We see Durin as he really was: unprepared, helpless, deeply well-intentioned, and utterly unequipped to exist in a world that couldn't handle him. We see him reaching out to Dvalin with genuine love, not understanding that his touch was poison. We see him offering gifts, singing songs, trying to connect—and watching in confusion and horror as everything he touched withered. He didn't know. He couldn't know. No one ever taught him.

This is the crucial point. It's not about excusing the harm. It's about understanding it. Because only by embracing your past self—even the parts that caused pain—can you truly heal. Denouncing your past self as pure "evil" isn't growth; it's just another form of self-destruction. It's cutting off the roots and wondering why you can't grow.

And Dvalin needs to be there for this. He needs to see what we see. He needs to witness that Durin never meant any of it as harm—that every destructive act was, in Durin's mind, an act of love. This doesn't make it okay. Intention doesn't negate impact. Dvalin's years of suffering are real, and they matter.

But it gives him understanding. After all these years, after all the pain and confusion and guilt, he finally knows: it wasn't personal. It wasn't malice. It was a tragedy where everyone involved was a victim of circumstance. And that understanding doesn't erase the past, but it transforms how Dvalin carries it. It allows him to finally, fully, let go.

This is the healing that Baby Durin needs—not to replace OG Durin, but to integrate him. To understand that the person he was, however destructive, was still a person who deserved compassion. And only by giving that compassion to his past self can he truly become someone new.

And with Durin finally accepting his past—not erasing it, not pretending it didn't happen, but integrating it—and receiving the proper tools to handle himself and interact with the world, the metaphor of Anya giving him the power to "write his own fate" becomes infinitely more powerful.

Because that's what healing actually is. It's not about becoming a completely new person, unburdened and innocent. It's about looking at the person you were—the harm you caused, the pain you endured, the love you gave in all the wrong ways—and saying: "That was me. And I can be different now."

The power to write your own fate isn't the power to erase the past. It's the power to choose what comes next with full knowledge of where you've been. It's the power to take the same hands that once destroyed and use them to build. It's the power to love without poisoning, to connect without consuming.

Anya doesn't give Durin a blank page. She gives him a pen and says, "Okay. Now you know what happened. What do you want to write from here?"

Here's what makes the Paralogism failure so baffling: they already did this story correctly.

Scaramouche's Interlude is the gold standard for this exact narrative structure. We spend the whole quest believing that by erasing his past, by deleting "The Balladeer" from Irminsul, we've given him a clean slate. A fresh start. A chance to be someone new, unburdened by the horrors he committed.

But then the quest pulls the rug. We see that cutscene—the moment in the factory where his "evil" Harbinger self reaches out and catches his hand. And Scara realizes what we realize: you can't just erase the past. You can't cut off the parts of yourself you're ashamed of and pretend they never existed. That's not healing; that's denial. The only way forward is to accept, to integrate, to carry the weight of what you've done and choose to be better anyway.

The game understood this perfectly with Scara. They showed us that true growth requires facing your worst self, not destroying it. They gave him the chance to reintegrate his memories, to accept his past deeds, and to move forward as someone who knows what he's capable of and chooses differently.

And then they did the exact opposite with Durin.

With Durin, they killed the "evil" version off-screen, replaced him with a cuter, more palatable version, and called it a happy ending. They treated Original Durin as disposable scaffolding for Baby Durin's "growth." They let Albedo declare that Susbedo wasn't a person, so killing him didn't count. They let Venti and the Knights sign off on a mercy killing without ever attempting to understand or communicate.