Zibai

The legends of Liyue make mention of a mysterious White Horse Adeptus.

Traces of her story are scattered throughout books and folktales. Yet, across these diverse sources, accounts of her appearance are never quite the same.

Some say she became a steed as white as snow and, in the days of the Archon War, aided Rex Lapis in attaining supremacy over the mortal realm.

Others whisper that her eyes, like amber touched with gold, hold the power to gaze through the desolate wastelands of time itself.

Still others claim she has always lived on the moon, listening to the wishes of mortals, and keeping watch over the world of flickering lights below.

Yet, amidst all these different accounts, none could truly capture her visage, nor paint a likeness of her form.

Whether amidst gentle tea-time chatter, or in debates pouring out over ink-filled scrolls, each view was a glimpse through a keyhole — catching naught but fragments, never the full picture.

In any case, she was as a shard of blessed light, a wild goose upon the snow, whose footprints vanish with the morning.

Still, her yesteryears linger in the mortal dust, and her tale awaits the day it is unearthed by those who would seek it.

Few realize that the legends told of the White Horse Adeptus across Liyue were born from her demise.

She was an envoy from the heavens who descended, millennia ago, to guide the journey of mortals.

She watched over the ancient kingdom of Lang-Gan, a realm of Sand Crystals and gemstones. It was she who taught the people of the kingdom to till and to weave, and, as a result, they prospered with bountiful harvests, their granaries close to bursting.

And so, the people of that ancient kingdom came to worship her as the God of Soil and Grain.

Under her wise counsel, Lang-Gan prospered, a resplendent pearl in a unified civilization.

Alas, nothing lasts forever, and an unforeseen catastrophe descended from beyond the world — a devastating war erupted above the skies.

The shockwaves of that catastrophe, laden with dark malice, crashed over Lang-Gan. What followed was the resolute will of the heavens to purge the darkness.

Sacred will coalesced as though divine punishment to assail the ancient kingdom and scour its tainted land from the world.

To secure a glimmer of hope for the people she watched over, Zibai defied the will of the heavens.

Thus, with a grievous strike, her spirit was sundered into three, never to heed the desires of the mortal world again.

Yet, whether stirred by pity or to punish an act of betrayal, a shadow watching from the heavens above extended a hand to Zibai.

From that moment on, Zibai's three severed spirits have been frozen in that fleeting instant, a fraction of a second before their dissipation...

And her essence wanders eternally in a dream where both life and death are beyond reach.

In a time long past, when Zibai descended upon the mortal world as an envoy of the moons, she befriended a being most unusual.

Though he bore the semblance of a mortal man — one with a striking visage — he could ride the clouds and mist, move mountains and fill seas, shatter rocks, and grind jade to dust.

Yet despite possessing powers that could rival the divine, he was not of the angelic race — much to Zibai's amazement.

One day, they agreed to meet high in the mountains to duel in the Adeptus Arts — yet when the hour arrived, her opponent was nowhere to be seen. There was naught but a distant rumble on the horizon.

Zibai followed the sound and discovered three identical figures aloft in the clouds, engaged in a fierce confrontation.

Amidst the clashing of their blades, she could hear, faintly, a battle cry — "The Lord of Geo, Heaven's Star!"

Before long, the fighting ended, and the three figures merged into one, alighting before her — it was none other than her astonishing friend.

This matter piqued Zibai's curiosity, and her friend did not withhold his secrets, imparting them most generously. And so she came to learn the ancient art of "Tri-Factor Excision" — or how to excise the "Three Deadly Selves."

These so-called Deadly Selves are the impure thoughts and wicked desires that pollute the practitioner's mind. To cast them aside is to glimpse the unmarred self, pure and clean.

But Zibai, as an envoy of heaven and the Three Moons, harbored no such wayward thoughts — no matter how hard she tried, she could not sever her Three Deadly Selves.

Her friend was unperturbed, simply remarking that "The will of heaven shifts and does not stay, while white clouds drift and turn to hounds of grey." And with that, he turned and left.

At that time, she did not yet know how — on the long journey of guiding humanity that lay ahead of her — human emotions would surreptitiously take root in her heart.

Nor how, in a future more distant still — when her own eyes beheld the divine punishment that would descend upon the nation she cherished — resentment, fear, and sadness would gnaw at her soul like gangrene feasts on flesh.

In that moment, she would surely sever her Three Deadly Selves — an act through which she would abandon her former self, lie hidden among the mortals, and keep kindled a final chance for vengeance against the heavens.

But as her friend had said, "The will of heaven shifts and does not stay, while white clouds drift and turn to hounds of grey." It was at that very moment that the shadow, which had long been watching her, would cast upon her a cage wrought of pity — and damnation.

...Three... Five... Seven...

In the void moon, where time stands still, all things appear to have ceased their flow.

...Fifty-three... Fifty-nine...

But time does not truly stop — it merely slows to the point of imperceptibility. A single day in the mortal world feels as though a century is passing here.

...One hundred and fifty-one... One hundred and fifty-seven... One hundred and sixty-seven...

Indeed, time must slowly pass — how else could one explain the erasure of the memories once engraved in my mind?

Five hundred and fifty-seven...

Ziju.

Five hundred and sixty-three...

Lang-Gan.

Five hundred and sixty-nine...

Their voices. Their faces.

What do these things mean? It's as if I can't bear to forget them, no matter what.

But what do these things mean? What do these things mean?

...One thousand, five hundred and fifty-three...

Is that brightness over there the light from a lantern? It feels familiar.

It's as though someone once told me... It's the direction of home.

There will come a day when I can return to my homeland. This is something I must not forget.

...One thousand, five hundred and sixty-seven...

What is home?

...Three thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven...

So lonely... these numbers... Besides one, they have nothing but themselves.

...Three thousand, five hundred and fifty-nine...

Yes, I am counting myself.

Even if I forget my name, I won't forget that I exist.

I won't forget that.

Sixteen thousand, one hundred twenty-seven...

What am I counting?

...Three... Five... Seven...

The White Horse Adeptus who frequently appears in Liyue's legends is Zijiao, the Third Deadly Self severed by Zibai.

She was the "White Horse" that the elder of Qingce Village said "would assist the campaigns of the Lord of Geo."

She was the "Daughter of Time" known to the clans of Chenyu Vale.

She was the "Gold-Eyed Celadon Mare" referenced in The Sanctification of Tao Dou.

She was even the White Horse Adeptus who "leapt across the chasm of five hundred years," according to the genealogy of the Lu clan.

In the days of the Archon War, she was freed by the Geo Archon from a painting of "Zhanzhu the Moon-Devourer," and entered into a contract to aid him in his battles.

Yet the traces of time upon her still exerted an inexplicable influence on the ancient Geo Archon.

Thus, after the Archon War, Zijiao, aware that she carried a threat upon her person, retreated into the forested mountains — never to reveal herself again in the mortal realm.

However, she was carefree and unrestrained by nature, and she took much joy in displaying her powers — since mortals' lifespans scarcely stretch a hundred years, little did the traces of time leave their marks.

And so, she would sometimes reveal herself to mortals beset by woe. While helping them in their plight, she would quietly pass on stories from before the sky collapsed and the earth sank into itself.

But if the tales that humans recorded strayed from her intentions, she would likely give them no more than a glance before tossing them aside.

After all, she was akin to a wild horse galloping freely across the empty wilds, with nothing to restrain her unfettered bounds.

Though birthed from Zibai's demise, she deemed it not her fate to don her bridle — nor suffer the spurs of anyone else.

Ever is she ready to spring with grace and mirth into the ends of time — then, with a bang, transform into a shimmering cloud of golden dust.

#Much like the unforeseen catastrophe that befell the land she loved, the turning point that altered Zibai's fate once more arrived from beyond the heavens.

Thanks to the efforts of the golden-haired traveler and his/her companions, the true moon returned to the skies of Teyvat, while the false moon that had imprisoned Zibai's essence began to crumble.

With the aid of another old friend, the three fragments of Zibai's soul — tempered, slumbering, and carefree — greeted the hour of their return to the realm of mortals.

Was all this foreseen by the shadow that had kept watch over Zibai? And had it now become the true reality beheld by the first angel?

Whatever the truth, the guiding grace of the ancient kingdom had finally returned to her homeland, led by the summons of countless wishes.

Though the land she returned to now bears little resemblance to its former days — the people worship a new god, the rites associated with lighting lanterns are completely transformed, and even the tales that she birthed have become unrecognizable...

Yet Zibai understands that the mortals she once protected did not allow their glorious civilization to perish. Instead, they took root in the soil of their homeland and flourished, carrying their traditions through the ages — their visage may have shifted with the passing generations, yet still they endure to this day.

As her old friend once said, had Lang-Gan's magnificent masonry not become part of the foundations upon which Liyue Harbor now stands, from whence would it gain its reputation as peaks adorning the clouded moon?

And now, starved of all discontent, even the once insatiable fire of wrath has dimmed beyond sight.

After all, her efforts were not in vain — she has returned to her homeland once more. This, it would seem, is enough.

Enough, indeed, to offset the bitterness and hardship she has endured.

Everything that makes up today's Liyue feels both familiar and fresh to Zibai.

Hence, while her spirit remains stable, she journeys across the land's vast mountains and rivers.

She traveled to Mt. Qingce to watch waterfalls cascade from on high, crashing down and flowing anew through limpid springs.

She ventured to Guyun Stone Forest to witness spears of rock thrust high into the vast sky above, their grandeur assailed by the howling winds — steadfast and resolute.

She journeyed to Jademouth to glimpse fishing boats dot the water, beneath towering pieces of ancient jade, as mountain songs echoed in the distance.

She wandered to Jueyun Karst to behold ethereal mists swirl and billow, like a lake of shifting white or an endless, upturned sea.

She was the angel who had taught ancient Lang-Gan the art of silk paintings — now she called on those skills that had lain dormant for millennia.

Whenever she encountered a scene of exceptional beauty, she would harness her adeptal powers to embroider the majestic landscape onto silk.

Over time, the mountains and rivers she captured spread over thousands of miles, a magnificent, resplendent tapestry of silk...

When free from all labor, Zibai would happily retrieve her silk painting and admire it. The longer she looked, the brighter her face would shine with joyous pride.

It's said that the Lord of Geo, upon observing her behavior, took quite an interest in the painting as well. Many times he asked to borrow it, but was consistently rebuffed — Zibai's reason being that it was not yet finished.

Who knows how magnificent and grand this splendid landscape will be when it is finally completed?

As with her kin, Zibai was born in accordance with a divine plan.

Thus, she appeared beneath the skies of Teyvat, bearing the mantle of the heavens' mission.

The sparkling stars in the sky loved this world and sought to shape it into a garden of joy. Understanding her mission well, the emissary began to cultivate the soil.

If the soil were fertile, the flowers and plants would flourish — but if the soil were spoiled, the garden would become a putrid swamp.

Flowers of joy would bloom under the fervent morning sunlight.

While flowers tainted with putrescence must be uprooted with the soil, lest they profane the heavens' love.

Thus Zibai's destiny flowed the course of the divine plan that had birthed her — until, that is, that fateful day...

For reasons unknown, the shadow of a king, that shade of Time, placed before Zibai a crest engraved with the sigil of the moons.

Its meaning was that she would no longer be just an agent of the morning stars. She would become an envoy of the moons as well.

Was this, too, destined by the divine plan? So she wondered. Indeed, this was part of shaping the world.

Thus, she began to travel back and forth, from the morning stars to the moons to the garden. Though she did not accept that crest.

Since she did not understand how such an extraneous crest could make the divine plan any more perfect, she judged its acceptance unnecessary to her mission.

But, over time, she began to realize that the will and love of the morning stars and the moons for the garden she was cultivating did not seem equal.

The brilliant light of the morning stars always shone with vigor across the entire garden, not lingering on any single flower for long.

They did not worry about scorching the flowers and soil that were not sacred, even if it would turn them to pure nothingness.

The silver moonlight was different. Shunning the soil, it preferred to seep into the roots of each scorched plant, offering solace to those that had suffered the withering light.

Of the two, whose will and love was more sacred? Such doubts would arise within Zibai's heart from time to time.

The answer was clear — the solution lay within the riddle itself. The divine plan was, naturally, the most sacred.

Yet, for some reason, Zibai's gaze followed the moonlight, lingering longer and longer on the small patch of flowers and plants she tended herself.

When flowers bloomed, they were like laughter. When flowers withered, they were like falling tears. But the soil cannot laugh, so why should what is born from it be capable of sorrow?

Lost in thought, Zibai cast her gaze...

Flowers blooming, flowers withering. Fruits forming, fruits falling. New buds blossoming, flowers blooming, flowers withering...

Later, she heard that a flowerbed managed by a peer had profaned the divine and was completely uprooted. Sorrow washed over her, but it soon turned to unease.

Indeed, her mission from the heavens did not include sorrow. So how could one born from that very mission feel such an emotion?

Had she been reduced to a plant that needed guidance? Had the will and love she once bore lost their sanctity?

This seemed to mark the moment that fate first went astray, only to culminate in another — the moment when the sky collapsed, and falsehoods descended.

The garden turned to scorched earth, with flowers and plants teetering on the brink of collapse. The scorching heat seared her will, leaving her powerless to gather her thoughts.

At that very moment, the moon-crest dropped onto her back like a falling tear.

It was the same cold glow she had once beheld and turned down, yet it bestowed upon her the same tranquility and solace as it did upon the flowers and plants in the garden.

In that fleeting moment of chill, she realized that before she was consumed by the scorching brilliance of the morning stars, she could still love her flowers for untold ages.