The meeting hall at the summit of Babel was bathed in warm, crystalline light. Wine flowed like an endless river, and the scent of ambrosia filled the air—potent enough to intoxicate a mortal with a single breath. This was the Denatus—the banquet of the Gods, a place where the fate of the lower world was discussed amidst laughter and ridicule.
Yet, in this moment, there was no laughter. No clinking of glasses.
Silence wrapped around the circular chamber, an anomaly for these usually rowdy deities. All eyes were fixed on the center of the room, upon a petite figure clad in green and white—a new God holding a wooden lyre that possessed an aura far more ancient than his appearance suggested.
Venti, the God of Freedom, plucked the strings of Der Frühling.
"Ehe, well then, allow the best bard in Mondstadt—ah, I mean, in Orario—to present an old tale. A story of a wind that carried a promise, and a sword that cleaved through the darkness."
His voice was as light as a feather, yet as his fingers danced across the strings, the air within the hall shifted. It wasn't magic, nor Arcanum. It was pure atmospheric manipulation through sound. A gentle breeze, one that had no business existing in a sealed room, began to swirl, carrying with it visual illusions formed from the world's own memories.
The music began.
The melody was soft at first, like dawn breaking over ancient city walls. But slowly, the tempo shifted into the heavy tread of marching armies and the clash of steel.
"In a time when skies were veiled in ash and gray, And hope was but a candle fading away, There stood the King, Uncrowned and bold, With a sword that the night wind's power did hold."
The Gods were stunned. They recognized this tale. This was not a story from Teyvat, Venti's alien home world. This was Orario's own history. A history from a thousand years ago.
Albert Waldstein. The Mercenary King.
The illusory wind formed the silhouette of a man standing gallantly against a black storm—the One-Eyed Black Dragon—wounding the beast until only one eye remained. Venti's lyre notes turned aggressive, mimicking the roar of a dragon and the clang of a sword striking impenetrable scales. Yet, beneath the chaos of war, there was a heartbreaking melancholy. A ballad of farewell.
Venti was not singing of victory, but of sacrifice.
"He sought no golden throne nor divine acclaim, Just a little girl's smile and a world free of pain, Though his body was broken, his soul torn apart, The wind shall guard the name kept in its heart."
Loki, who usually wore a mischievous grin, now sat frozen in silence. Her narrow eyes opened slightly, staring at the wind illusion that vaguely resembled Aria, the Great Spirit of Wind she had heard of in old legends.
Even Freya, the Goddess of Beauty who forever sought the brilliance of souls, leaned forward. Venti's soul as he sang shone with an emerald green so pure and free, something she rarely witnessed even among the greatest of heroes.
The music reached its climax. A high, clear note that seemed to pierce the heavens, before slowly descending into a soft whisper that faded away, like a wind passing after the storm has settled.
Venti plucked the final note, letting the vibration hang in the air for a few seconds.
"And so, the wind continues to blow, carrying their story to this very day." Venti ended his performance with a playful wink and a theatrical bow. "Thank you! Thank you!"
Silence.
One second. Two seconds.
"BRAVOOOO!"
Thunderous applause shattered the silence. Hermes was the first to stand, clapping with genuine enthusiasm. Ganesha followed, shouting, "I AM GANESHA! AND GANESHA LOVES THIS!"
However, the most interesting reaction came from the corner of the room, where a blonde-haired God sat with a face flushed red.
Apollo, the God of the Sun and Music, bit his handkerchief in palpable frustration. He wanted to criticize. He wanted to claim there was a missed note or a flawed rhythm. But as the God of Music, he could not lie to his own essence. The performance was... flawless.
"H-How is it possible..." Apollo muttered, his voice trembling between admiration and burning jealousy. "That plucking technique... the emotion poured into every syllable... That wasn't just music. That was soul manipulation through sound!"
"Oh? Lord Apollo looks unwell?" Venti asked with feigned innocence, tilting his head. "Was my music too loud?"
"You...!" Apollo pointed a trembling finger at Venti. "You cheater! You must have used your wind to embellish the sound, didn't you?!"
"Eeh? That's a rude accusation, you know," Venti chuckled, grabbing the nearest glass of wine and downing it in one go. "Music is about freedom of expression. The wind is merely my duet partner."
Hephaestus let out a long sigh, though the corner of her lips quirked upward. "Give it a rest, Apollo. Just admit it, the new kid has talent. Maybe you should learn a thing or two from him about humility in art."
"Humility?! Me?!" Apollo looked ready to explode, but sharp glares from the other gods forced him to sit back down with a coarse grumble.
"Alright, alright," came the heavy voice of Hermes, who was presiding over the Denatus (or at least trying to), speaking from the chaotic podium. "An extraordinary opening performance, Barbatos. However, we have an agenda to finish."
The party atmosphere slowly receded, replaced by an aura of divine bureaucracy that was slightly more serious—though still relaxed. The Denatus was not just about drinking; this was the place where the names of heroes were born.
"First agenda: The Second Naming," Hermes announced, acting as an energetic moderator.
Long scrolls of paper were unfurled. The discussion began. As always, this was an arena for the Gods to show off their naming senses, which were often bizarre and borderline "Chuunibyou."
"How about 'Crimson Edge of Destruction' for my new Level 2 child?" a minor God proposed proudly.
"Too long!" Loki snapped. "Just call him 'Red Rat'. Fits his sneaky face better."
"Hey! That's insulting!"
The ridiculous debate continued for nearly an hour. Venti just sat there, enjoying the free wine while occasionally tossing in naming suggestions that sounded overly poetic or silly, like "The Puppy Chasing Its Own Tail," which was, of course, flatly rejected.
Finally, after several names were decided (and several Gods wept because their beloved children received embarrassing titles), the atmosphere settled down again.
"Now, the report from the Guild regarding Familia status," Hermes said, his tone slightly more serious this time. He picked up a fresh document just delivered by Guild staff. "There is... a rather significant data update."
Hermes glanced at Venti briefly. There was a strange glint in the Traveler God's eyes. A mixture of concern and tickled curiosity.
"Barbatos Familia," Hermes read aloud. "A family formed less than a month ago. There is a registration of new members that has just been authorized."
The Gods, who had started to get bored and refocused on their wine, now pricked up their ears. A new Familia with an attention-grabbing God usually recruited rookies. Nothing special.
"New members..." Hermes paused dramatically, his eyes sweeping the room. "Alfia... and Meteria."
The sound of shattering glass rang out.
It came from Loki.
The trickster Goddess had dropped her wine glass, letting the red liquid spill onto the white marble floor. But she didn't care. Her usually closed eyes were now wide open, staring at Venti with a lethal intensity.
On the other side, Freya sat frozen. Her elegant smile vanished instantly.
"What... did you say?" whispered Hephaestus, her face paling.
The silence that fell this time was different from when Venti sang. If before it was silence born of awe, this was silence born of pure terror.
Alfia. The Silence. The Monster of Talent. The incarnation of Hera Familia's destructive power. One of the strongest entities to ever set foot in Orario.
And Meteria. The weak member of the Hera Familia, yet part of that same bloodline.
"Hermes, you're joking, right?" asked Apollo, his face—previously red with anger—now deathly pale. "They... they should be gone."
"Guild documents never lie, Apollo," Hermes answered calmly, though his hand gripped the paper a little tighter. "The blood signatures are authentic. Alfia and Meteria have officially become dependents of Barbatos."
Instantly, dozens of pairs of divine eyes bore into Venti. The pressure of Divine Aura—Arcanum—leaked out from several emotional gods, making the air feel heavy and suffocating.
"Explain yourself, Barbatos!" Loki shouted, her voice sharp as a dagger. "What is your goal?"
The question triggered an uproar. "Danger! This is too dangerous!" "Alfia alone could level Orario if she wanted to!" "New God, do you realize who you are harboring in your home?!"
Amidst the storm of protests and fear, Venti set down his empty wine glass. He didn't look intimidated. Instead, he looked... sad.
"Revenge?" Venti repeated the word, then shook his head slowly. He looked Loki straight in the eye. "Do you really think someone who struggles even to stand upright has the energy for revenge?"
The room fell silent again.
"What do you mean?" Freya asked, her voice calm but demanding.
Venti sighed, leaning back in his chair casually, as if the weight of the Gods' gazes was no heavier than cotton. "You all know, don't you? The reason why Alfia, with all her terrifying talent, never became the captain of the Hera Familia? The reason why Meteria was called the weakest?"
The Gods looked at one another. Of course they knew. It was an open secret.
"Incurable Disease," murmured Miach, the God of Healing who had been silent until now. "A disease that eats them from the inside. Even the strongest healing magic cannot remove it."
Venti nodded. "Correct. Alfia is dying. Meteria is even worse. They came to me not to seek glory, not to conquer the Dungeon, and certainly not to take revenge on you who seized the throne of Orario."
Venti leaned forward, his gaze softening.
"They just want a place to rest. A place where they can spend their remaining meager time in peace, listening to songs, and watching children grow. Is that too great a request to be granted by the great Gods?"
The argument hit the Gods hard.
If Alfia were healthy, she would be a catastrophic threat. Every Familia in Orario would be on war footing, or racing to recruit her for absolute power. A faction war would break out.
But a sick Alfia? A dying Alfia?
That wasn't a threat. That was a tragedy.
"Dian Cecht," Loki called out suddenly, turning to the arrogant God of Medicine across the room. "Is it true their illness is that severe?"
Dian Cecht snorted rudely, crossing his arms. "I've examined them once. That disease is a genetic curse. Their own mana poisons their bodies. Even my Panacea wouldn't be able to cure it completely. They are time bombs with fuses nearly burnt out. The fact that they are still alive today is already a miracle—or torture."
Dian Cecht's confirmation dismantled the tension in the room, replacing it with awkwardness and, for a small few, pity.
"So... you're just taking in the crippled and the dying?" someone scoffed, trying to break the ice with mockery. "Barbatos Familia... sounds more like a nursing home than an exploration Familia."
Venti laughed crisp and clear, not the least bit offended. "Perhaps. But every soul deserves a beautiful farewell song, don't they? I merely provide the stage."
He poured more wine into his glass, then raised it high.
"To peace, and to letting the past remain in the past. How about it?"
The Gods paused for a moment. The threat of war had turned into a pitiful humanitarian (or divinity) act. There was no pride in hunting a dying lion. Loki clicked her tongue; her wariness hadn't completely vanished, but her logic accepted the reasoning. Hera Familia was already destroyed. Two sickly women wouldn't change the power map of Orario.
"Tch. Do as you please, Bard," Loki grumbled, leaning back again. "But if that 'Dying Lion' tries to bite my children, I won't hold back."
"Of course, of course~" Venti smiled broadly. "I'll make sure she's too busy nagging about house cleaning to think about swords."
The atmosphere of the Denatus slowly returned to normal, though the topic of the Barbatos Familia remained a hot whisper among the gods. They discussed a few other trivial matters before finally closing the meeting.
One by one, the Gods left the room.
Venti walked out onto the balcony of Babel, letting the night wind of Orario brush against his face. He looked down at the twinkling city lights.
His playful smile slowly faded, replaced by an expression far older and wiser.
"Dying, huh..." he whispered to the wind.
It was true they were sick. It was true the medical world of Orario had given up. But these Gods forgot one thing. They were speaking with Barbatos.
The wind doesn't just carry sound. The wind carries life. Wind erodes stone, and wind can revitalize what has withered. In Teyvat, the power of Anemo is about freedom—including freedom from physical shackles, if one knows how.
Venti reached into his pocket, touching a fake glass Vision he had made, but inside it lay pure energy from a Statue of The Seven.
"Maybe I can't heal them completely overnight," he muttered, his eyes flashing green. "But under the protection of the wind, at least they won't suffer anymore. And who knows... maybe that 'Monster' still has one or two dances left to surprise the world."
He chuckled softly, hopping onto the balcony railing lightly.
"Well then, time to go home!"
With a single light push, Venti let himself fall from the peak of Babel, allowing the wind to catch him and carry him flying across the night sky, towards the old church that was now home to cast-away legends.
Down below, the gears of Orario's fate had just begun to turn in a direction no one had ever predicted.