I said last chapter I'll post in a week, but now it's been more than that. Oh well, better than half a year I suppose.


March 24, 2025


Start


Diona was sure they'd lost it.

Oh, Archons, they'd totally lost their marbles. She shivered behind a bush, her ears flat against her head, and she doubted her fellow Katzleins were any less horrified.

Three mitachurls. Just three mitachurls, the knight had said. At least, that's what she thought she'd heard—and she'd made sure she heard it right. The guy didn't even look older than her dad! Was he one of those overconfident idiots who thought they could take on the world?

Whatever. They were going to die.

"They're fighting with those things!?" one of the hunters shouted, his voice dripping with disbelief.

The knights had run back, turned, and aimed those short metal sticks they held like hand crossbows—except without the bow part.

Those were the things Kaeya had been raving about? Her Katzlein eyes never lied to her, but if their best bows barely scratch a mitachurl's hide, what made them think those little toys would work? Even a heavy crossbow wouldn't do squat!

That boozehound captain couldn't be trusted. He probably made the whole thing up while drunk off his mind. Were these knights drunk too? They had to be!

The ground trembled as the mitachurls charged. Diona covered her eyes, peeking through her fingers with morbid curiosity. The monsters were focused on the knights, thanks to all the torches they'd set up.

One knight aimed a "crossbow" that looked different from the others—bigger, longer, but still no bow limbs. Diona flinched and squeezed her eyes shut as thunder struck close. Then again. It took her a moment to realize there was no storm—the explosions were coming from their bowless crossbows.

Come to think of it, there'd been rumors in town. Whispers about the knights developing a new kind of magic that could call down a cloudless storm to fell great enemies. Rumors no one had the time or energy to take seriously. Mondstadt was barely holding itself together, and Springvale had its own problems.

Diona couldn't care less about drunken rambling!

Her ears flicked at the collective gasps around her. Peeking through squinting eyes, her horrified expression shifted to one of shock as she saw the mitachurls frozen in place, their massive forms encased in shimmering Cryo.

"So... uh. Now?" one of the knights asked, his voice trembling slightly.

The knight with the bigger weapon nodded. "Now."

Diona had once seen a tree explode into chunks, courtesy of a certain bomb-loving arsonist. The sight of the mitachurl's shield shattering reminded her of that—like a statue smashed with a sledgehammer.

The explosion melted the Cryo coating, cracking it like an eggshell. Before the mitachurls moved an inch, thunders erupted again in bursts- from the knights' smaller weapons. The Katzleins flinched, covering their ears as they watched in stunned silence.

The mitachurls staggered with each thunderous blast, their bodies riddled with invisible strikes. Bones snapped. Holes punched through their thick hides.

Clicks echoed from the knights' weapons—sharp, mechanical sounds like the ticking of a clock. The monsters' forms turned inky black, dissolving into ash swept away by the wind.

The sudden silence was deafening. Only the rustling of leaves filled the air.

"Uhh... Daddy," Diona whispered, turning to her father. He looked just as bewildered, his fingers still plugging his ears. "Are all crossbows from Fontaine like that?"

Draff blinked, his tail twitching. "I don't think crossbows spit lightning."

"Neat! Mine didn't jam!" One of the... unconventional knights checked his weapon, his outfit as strange as his mannerisms. "Wow. Imagine if something went wrong. Like, fuuuck me, I'd be pancakes right now!"

I don't think that guy's a knight. Diona winced at the bad word—something only adults were supposed to say. Heck, come to think of it, she'd never heard a knight swear before. Not even the drunk ones.

Not that she didn't understand. She had a thing or two she'd love to say to the wine industry. But Daddy always told her to hold it in until she was older.

"Four clips left, sixteen shots remaining," Phonia reported, sliding her ear protection aside. She squinted at the spent casings moon-clipped together, ejected by the extractor between the chambers. "Three brutes dead. Three less to worry about. As a common cog in the machine, I couldn't have dreamed of taking them down with anything else."

She picked up her dropped flare gun and dusted it off. She'd have holstered it before switching to her four-shooter, but as it was, she had no confidence in a smooth transition. None of them did. This unit's experience had about as much finesse as borderland bandits.

"Everyone," Ematol called out, raising her voice. "Tell me if yours jammed or misfired. Otherwise, you know the drill."

The knights moved to the fallen torches, their pistols clicking open as they meticulously inspected for flaws, no matter how minor. These new guns had never undergone hours of rigorous testing. The only qualification for fielding them was firing overcharged rounds without breaking.

"No misfire here, ma'am."

"None here either."

"Same here." John pulled the spent casings from the chambers, watching as they flashed into yellow sparks. He studied the new rounds in his hand, noting the faint purple glow on the primers. Huh, interesting. "Couldn't we have gone for headshots while they were frozen? Would've saved ammo, yeah?"

"That assumes we could reliably shoot that accurately at a rapid pace," Phonia said, handing her empty four-shooter to John.

John frowned, peeking behind the chambers and comparing it to his own. "Huh? This is smoothbore. No sights, either. Is mine the only one that's rifled?"

The frame was made of brass, its surface unpolished. It had no trigger guard, just a safety switch within thumb's reach. No sights. The barrels were forged from steel, but with production shortcuts, John doubted their integrity.

His expression turned sour. The lack of trigger guard deserved a scoff when they managed with their muzzleloading hand cannons.

Ugh. The grip panels. His thumb rubbed the rough, unvarnished wood... they did have every right cutting corners to arm a squad with repeaters; a gun-squad that can kill in seconds what a seasoned sword-platoon in minutes.

If the latter could even engage mitachurls in melee without lives lost in grim proportions.

Brass frame. Softer metal, less work. Less chances of not blowing up if something got majestically fucked and stubbornly unfuckable.

Phonia responded curtly, "We've limited resources in production given our shortages. Rifling would take much of our time."

"I get that, but I'd still have appreciated a heads up." John took it all in with a thoughtful hum.

Relative to their tech level, rifling and iron sights were bells and whistles. It's easy to forget that days ago, they had no means to propel projectiles at supersonic speeds - now they can do so four times in a row with reload under four seconds.

It could blow up in any moment, but if even a seasoned knight struggle against a dozen hilichurls, crafting components to last a thousand rounds seemed overkilll - if any knight is even expected to kill a thousand throughout their career. Or lifetime.

"So Ematol's launcher and mine were... what, test runs?" John handed Phonia's pistol back.

"Hers was to test a lathe we... procured from a clocksmith that we modified. Once refined to... some extent, yours were bored for combat trials." She ejected the spent brass and reloaded. "Our cost-benefit analysis favored firepower over accuracy. Rifling machines requires skilled artisans."

John shrugged, hiding his suspicion to her pause. "So if you'd gone the other way, instead of repeaters, we'd be stuck with single-shot breechloaders for who knows how long.

Much less arming an entire logistics division with them.

"Exactly."

He grabbed the mitachurl's axe, its head wide as a shield. Straining, he managed to lift the handle a few inches before dropping it. "Yeah, no. This thing's a monster."

Smoothbore or not, their repeaters worked—and they were leagues ahead of their muzzleloaders, and worlds apart to any bows or blades.

"They wanted to scrap the test piece, but it felt like a waste," Ematol said, reloading her rifled grenade launcher from the muzzle. She untied a pouch, poured in the propellant, then used a stick to ram a cloth-wrapped red crystal down the barrel.

John grumbled. "To recall some things, we're here to destroy blockades before meeting up with Captain Hertha—or vice versa, whichever comes first. Is there anything I haven't been told that I'm allowed to know? Something useful?"

"Nothing strategically important," Phonia replied. "But if you're curious about our manufacturing methods, I can provide details."

"It's not srategically important to tell me I've got the only rifled gun at the start? Well, sans Ematol's?" John threw his hands up, his exasperated smile stretched thin. "I could've dropped one of those things at twenty or thirty yards instead of waiting for all three to get close. Which, by the way, was a fucking nightmare."

He took a deep breath. Even a panicked shooter could hit a person at ten yards with some luck—let alone a monster twice the size. If he'd taken one out earlier, they could've saved some of their precious ammo.

"Thirty yards?" Phonia blinked, thoughtful. "Ah. I see... As an experimental unit, we didn't consider rifling significant in a team composition. We couldn't base our collective performance on a single specialized asset. And, mind you, we've never attempted tactics this bold before."

John exhaled, letting go of his frustration. That was fair. He wasn't officially part of this unit. They need feedback and an outlier skewed their data. "Sorry. Guess I'm being hotheaded."

Volley fire. With repeaters. Ha.

John might've forgiven dumping all their bullets into those tanks on legs—if they hadn't frozen like statues! A thumb-sized bullet to the chest should've dropped them easy, and their smoothbores couldn't be that inaccurate.

In the background, Ematol huddled with the others, sharing feedback and pointing out flaws. The squad had unrolled a small mat and arranged torches into tripod-like structures, giving them the eerie look of voodoo practitioners mid-ritual.

Like they were having a picnic. But instead of baskets and bottles, it was disassembled pistols and measuring tools. Half of them held calipers, the other half magnifying glasses, fiddling with parts like kids with toys.

Truth was, their guns were a stopgap with the haste behind its development and deployment. Which made this mission less of a combat operation and more of an on-field weapons research. Just that their targets are real.

These people either stupidly smart or stupidly brave dissasembling guns with possible threat of ambush... until he remembered the Katzlein are watching their back.

Wait, where are they? Did they run off? John took a deep breath, then sighed just as heavily. Time-sensitive mission, my ass. We've been here for... huh? Barely a minute and a half?

His System HUD flashed a list of event timestamps... that he swore was longer than that. Killing those mitachurls had felt like hours, but the slaughter had taken nineteen seconds—from the moment they'd caught their attention to the last shot fired.

Well, what's the harm in staying another minute or two? Better to check everything now than lose a life to a malfunction later.

Credit where credit was due—it took guts to bring guns that could fail at any moment.

... But an inspection after a few shots? Is it that Elemental energy affects metal in a... magical way? Whichever the case, magic interacting with science wasn't a consideration he'd thought to... well, consider.

Ever.

While checking the springs, Ematol suddenly perked up. "Hey, guys! Where are the hunters?"

"Huh. Thought I was the only one wondering." John scratched his chin, leaning on one leg. "Are their cat ears that sensitive? Maybe the gunfire spooked them."

"Hey!" A young girl popped up from behind a bush, her silhouette marked by two distinct triangular ears. "You think we're a bunch of scaredy-cats!?"

Phonia and John exchanged panicked glances.

"Oh, fuck," John whispered, leaning closer to Phonia. "You think they heard everything?"

"Perhaps. It is strange they didn't come to meet us sooner."

"Yeah! We're not dea—"

"Ah! Argh, my ears!" Draff clamped a hand over his daughter's mouth, cutting her off mid-protest. "Sorry. We were just... really surprised by the sheer power of your thunderous weapons."

The Katzlein hunters emerged from hiding, keeping a respectful distance from the knights. They stared at the weapons with a mix of childish wonder and healthy fear, their straight tails betraying their complicated emotions.

"I've never seen three brutes taken down so easily in my life!" Draff said, his expression bright. "I thought that Favonius Captain was exaggerating, but lo and behold!"

His eyes lit up at the sight of the two massive axes left and the shattered wall shield.

John glanced at the hunters' recurve bows, then back at their guns. There was something surreal about knights in medieval armor tinkering with mid-19th-century firearms while cat-eared hybrids armed with bows watched in awe.

Fantasy with a dose of reality. Two worlds so far apart yet so close together.

"I've heard tall tales from Fontaine," Draff continued, "of ships that need no sails and soulless clockwork men. Never believed 'em myself, but after seeing your weapons in action, maybe there's some truth to those stories."

The hunters murmured in agreement, their chatter filled with awe.

"Fontaine," John whispered. That was the country Captain Hertha had mentioned. Sailless ships and clockwork men—powered vessels and robots in a world that seemed so primitive and fantastical at the same time.

How Mondstadt was so far behind the tech tree was beyond him.

"I've heard the Katzlein Lineage are masters with bows," Ematol said, addressing Draff. "Seeing you in action is an honor! They say even our finest archers can't hold a candle to you hunters, and it shows!"

"Oh, please." Draff puffed out his chest like a proud pigeon. "You took down those mitachurls faster than we can clear a hilichurl camp!"

As the knights and hunters exchanged compliments, John's mind wandered. The words blurred into muffled sounds, going in one ear and out the other.

Then his ears began to ring. He winced. His HUD flashed a notification of his body's health status, presenting his silhouette where his ears flashed orange like traffic lights.

...Huh. I thought my body was immune to this. Fuck. I should've brought ear protection.

"What are those things!?" one of the hunters blurted out, pointing at Ematol's grenade launcher. "They're like... like crossbows, but they spit fire and thunder!"

"No string, no arrow," another muttered, her scarred ears twitching. "Just a metal stick that roars like a storm. Is it magic? Alchemy?"

John smirked, scratching his ear. "Huh? What? Magic? Nah, no magic. Just good old engineering. Well, mostly. There is a bit of alchemy in the propellant, I guess, but—"

"Engineering? Alchemy?" a young hunter interrupted, his tail flicking excitedly. "You mean like... gears and... and glue and stuff? But how does it shoot? Where do the arrows go?"

Phonia chuckled, holding up her pistol. "No arrows. Just pull the trigger. The explosion inside the barrel propels the bullet forward."

"Explosion!?" The hunters collectively took a step back, their ears flattening. Draff's daughter stared at the gun with wide eyes. "You're telling me you're holding explosives in your hands!? That's insane!"

"It's not as dangerous as it sounds," Ematol said, though her tone was less than convincing as she reloaded her grenade launcher. "Most of the time."

The hunters exchanged uneasy glances. Draff stepped forward, his curiosity overcoming his caution. "Can I... can I see one? Up close?"

Phonia hesitated, then handed him her pistol, grip first. "Careful. Don't touch the trigger."

Draff held the gun like it was made of glass, his calloused fingers tracing the barrel. "It's so... small. And light. But it packs that much power?" He glanced at John. "And you just... point and shoot?"

"Pretty much," John said. "Aim, pull the trigger, and boom. Mitachurl down."

A boy's eyes widened, his feline ears flicking. "That's... that's amazing! Can I try it?"

"Absolutely not," Draff said, handing the pistol back to Phonia. "Not until we know it won't blow your hand off."

The hunters laughed nervously, but their fascination was undeniable. They crowded around the knights as they reassembled their pistols, peppering them with questions about the guns, their mechanisms, and their origins.

John noticed the hunters' initial fear giving way to awe.

Much to his annoyance.

Call him a killjoy, but did they have no sense of urgency? Their town was under siege—at least according to the reports—yet here they were, firing off questions like kids at a science fair, completely unfazed.

Was it their feline genetics? Or was it the sheer novelty of the guns?

...Probably both. Putting himself in their shoes, mitachurls were terrifying. Their titanic proportions made them seem like monsters that couldn't be killed easily. That's... because they are, dumbass. At least until they saw us take them down like nothing.

But what did he know? He wasn't a native. He'd never lived their struggles. All he'd done was hand them a solution that popped out of nowhere.

"Where'd you get those things?" One asked, his tail twitching, pointing at Phonia's pistol. "Fontaine? They've got all the fancy tech."

Phonia hesitated, her tone measured. She glanced at Ematol, then at John. "Let's just say Fontaine's expertise played a part. But these?" She held up her four-shooter. "They're a... Mondstadt innovation."

"Can we get some?" a young hunter blurted out.

Phonia shook her head. "Unlikely. I cannot speak on behalf of our Acting Grand Master, but we aren't too keen giving these in civilian hands."

John coughed assertively, nodding toward the path to Springvale.

Ematol spoke, "Right now, we need to focus. We are low on ammo, so you handle the hilichurls. We'll take care of the big ones."

The hunters exchanged uneasy looks but nodded, their curious faces turned serious. As they dispersed to the treelines.

Phonia exhaled quietly.

"So..." John stared at the two girls and the rest of the squad with a pointed look. "Mondstadt innovation?"

"We could talk on the move, but-"

"No, yeah." John shook heads. "We'll talk after."


...


The glow of torches from the large hilichurl camp centered in a clearing casted flickers through the trees. The moon barely pierced the canopy. Behind the tree lines, the Katzlein hunters moved like ghosts, their feline agility silent and precise, their every steps as soft as pillows.

Despite their pace, arrows in their quivers did not rattle. They slowed, splitting their group, spreading in various positions, crouching behind bushes, with some perching on trees like birds on branches.

The hunters' eyes glinted in the dark. Their tails flicked; subtle signals as subtle gestures.

Draff drew an arrow from his quiver. His bow creaked like a croaking frog.

The hilichurls fortified, building barricades and planting stakes. An arrow pierced a working hilichurl's skull. It dropped dead, the planks it carried made noise.

With thwips and twangs, arrows hissed through the air, striking hilichurls before they could raise their crude shields.

Thrown into disarray, the camp went alert. Every monster crouched behind barricades and readied shields.

The hunters paused their assault, but they nocked arrows for any opportunity.

The shooters on towers barraged the treelines with blind abandon. Bolts harmlessly pierced tree barks or flew past the hunters taking cover.

As they were distracted, human silhouettes rushed out of bushes to occupy the grassy roadside.

John crouched behind a fallen log, his rifled pistol steady in his hands. His Pyro Vision glowed faintly. The pistol's iron sights turned red. He lined up a shot at a hilichurl shooter perched on a rickety tower.

A single crack echoed, and it fell off the tower as its crossbow clattered to the ground. Another thunder, another down.

A tower exploded into fire, its supports dismantled into pieces.

Panicked, the shooters clambered down. Vulnerable, they were shot down by the feline hunters. Bodies fell. Few survived.

"Nice shot," Ematol muttered, switching from her launcher to her shotgun, she aimed at two hilichurl berserkers who charged at her, swinging their torches wild. She fired. Two dropped dead.

A cluster of normal hilichurls advanced with shields raised.

Arrows flashed from all over the forest. They shouted in their savage language and stood on their ground.

Slowly, step by step, the hunters herded the hilichurls with their aggressive barrage.

"Form line!" Ematol barked, her voice cutting through the chaos. Eight knights lined themselves with pistols raised, standing seven yards from the mass of monsters.

"One volley! Fire!"

They fired in unison. Bullets tore through shields, piercing layers of bodies. Dozens of hilichurls dropped in seconds. Their shields splintered, throwing off their balance. Unshielded and disordered, the Katzlein hunters shot them down.

Every single one, leaving none alive.

Phonia adjusted her ear protection, her voice loud. "We got new problems!"

She pointed to the other side of the camp, where a massive black mitachurl emerged, its axe glinting in the faint moonlight. Behind, a green samachurl chanted, summoning a wave of thorny vines that snaked toward the knights like an incoming tsunami.

"John!"

"Excuse me! I said excuse!" John shouted on top of his lungs, sprinting past the knights. They scattered, clearing his path. He stopped, aimed, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked in his hands, the bullet tearing through the brute's chest. The massive creature staggered, yet charged like a drunkard with a weak warcry. Its grip on its axe loosened, before collapsing in a heap.

John fired again, but the bullet whizzed past the Dendro samachurl. Its spellwork stopped. The vines froze. It bolted to the treelines, its heavy staff vanishing into the shadows.

"Should I chase?" John gestured at the vine-choked camp

"It's alright. Leave it to the hunters," Ematol said, her tone calm. "Shamans are no threat alone."

"I didn't think they're this smart." John pointed at the camp, his voice tinged with unease. That... shaman knew when to run after recognizing his weapon killed its titanic brethren instantly.

The hilichurls had fortified with primitive barricades of lashed-together logs, rope, and whatever else they could scavenge. Their towers and platforms were given no less care, worsened by the shaman's spell. But worse, the whole path was now a mess, the unnatural growths made it nearly impassable.

It will take nothing less a bulldozer to clear the way in short order.

The forest erupted in noise—cheers, jeers, and the triumphant cries of the Katzlein hunters.

"So... that's it, then?" John said, his voice trailing off as he stared at the remnants of the monster camp.

"The fight is over," Phonia said, gesturing to the defeated camp. "I don't know how else it could be interpreted."

"Just... like that?" John's voice lowered. "Well, uh, that was fast."

"Fast-" Ematol paused, her confusion layered with complexities. She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated, closing it again. Finally, she exhaled deeply. "Yeah... just like that."

"... Sooo... this is how—" John took a sharp breath, his emotions bubbling to the surface as he placed his hands on his hips. "—so this is how things work around here."

"Well... huh?" Ematol turned, her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Everything." John began pacing, his words spilling out in a rush. "Battle. War. Monsters. I don't know. It's... this world is a mess in its own right."

In its own right? What does he mean by that? Ematol asked, her voice tinged with concern, "Are you all right?"

"I don't know! I... I don't know." He kept pacing, running a hand through his hair. "I should be weirded out by... everything. But I'm kind of surprised I..."

"You're surprised you're this capable?" Phonia offered, her tone calm but probing.

"I'm surprised I can just go with the flow, let's just say." John stopped, his shoulders slumping. He breathed deep. "Is this normal? All this... fighting?"

"You're saying that as if this is over." Phonia cut in, her tone matter-of-fact. She pulled out a paper out of her satchel. "According to our map, we still have more to do. More checkpoints to destroy."

"I think what he means is... yes." Ematol gave a more empathetic look. "This is the norm... well, kind of." She paused, then waved her shotgun and launcher excitedly. "Because now we got these!"

"... How was it done before?" John asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Without guns?"

The Katzlein hunters walked out to the clearing, their cheers calming down, but still joyful at their victory.

"I sling bombs." Ematol smiled cheekily. She holstered her weapons. "I can't sling far with my arm strength. If I were to take up a sword, even a wild boar could take on twenty of me."

"As support troops, we set traps," Phonia said simply. "We dig holes. Rig bombs. Plant spikes. Depending on the scale, it took hours. Sometimes days. Or weeks if we're dealing with large tribes."

Ematol nodded, picking up the thread. "Before this, we rarely fight in the frontlines. If we're dealing with something serious, we called in the cavalry. Anything worse, we sent mages and Vision holders. We fight skirmishes so they could focus on the real fight without distractions."

"Mages and Vision holders?" John furrowed his brow, glancing at the fire Vision dangling on his belt. He wanted to ask more but figured they were in a rush.

That was his thought until the hunters chatted animatedly throughout the clearing. The other knights helped the Katzleins gather their arrows. They couldn't move on until the hunters secured their arrows. Or salvage whatever is left intact.

"Why the distinction?" John asked, turning back to Ematol and Phonia. There's no better time to learn of his power before another battle.

"Mages use tools," Phonia explained. "Staffs, catalysts, enchanted artifacts—things that channel elemental energy. As to how that samachurl could do so, we theorize their magic is just... unique to them. Vision holders, though... They're different."

Phonia pointed at his Pyro Vision.

"They are the tool. The Vision lets them - and you - wield elemental power directly, no catalysts needed. It's like... the difference between lighting a fire with flint and just snapping your fingers."

"So, Vision holders are stronger?" John asked. As a test, he snapped his fingers. Without burning his hand, a candle flame sparked. "Cool."

"Not necessarily," Ematol interjected. The weapons specialist hummed thoughtfully before continuing, "It's about versatility. Mages can do large-scale rituals or long-term enchantments. They're powerful, but they need time to prepare and focus. But in a fight? Vision holders are fast and adaptable. They don't need to rely on external tools."

John nodded slowly, processing the information. "And you guys? Where do you fit in?"

"We're the bridge," Phonia said, her tone firm. "We handle the groundwork—traps, barricades, fieldwork, distractions. We make sure our frontline forces can do their jobs without getting swarmed... but now?" She held up her four-shooter, her eyes pensive. "Now we are the ones swarming..."

"...Well, then what am I?" John tapped his Vision with his four-shooter, his tone half-serious, half-baffled.

Phonia and Ematol exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of amusement and unease.

"You're... something new," Ematol said finally, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "A Vision holder with a gun. But I've read about something similar in Fontaine. As to whether they're powered by Vision is... I forgot. I'll have to check my notes later with you around."

"Don't forget the Fatui," Phonia added, her tone grim. "Them and their Delusions."

"Delusions?" John asked, his brow furrowing. "What's the difference?"

"Visions are gifts from the gods," Ematol explained. "Delusions are... artificial, as far as we know of. They grant power, but at a cost. They drain the user's life force. Slowly. Sometimes not. We don't know much. It's their secret kept to the hightest order, I imagine."

Gods? Artificial? Huh? What? John glanced at his Vision, then at his gun. This world is fucking weird. Hell, what part isn't?

"So... I'm not breaking the mold?"

Phonia said, her voice firm. "No, but you're the first one doing it for us." She crossed her arms, her gaze lingering on John's weapon. "In Mondstasdt, we've fought with swords, bows, and magic for as long as anyone can remember. With Spark Knight Klee and Chief Alchemist Albedo, we embraced explosives and alchemy in our doctrine. To great effects. But this?" She gestured to the four-shooter. "This changes... everything."

"You mean changed. Past tense. With the D." John corrected.

Ematol chuckled dryly, "We're still trying to wrap our heads around it." Her gaze lingered on her handgun. "And honestly? I'm not sure how to feel about that."

"I have sooo much more to ask about," John said, wincing, "Like. A lot. But I think they're better answered after this."

"Then ask," Phonia said, pulling out a pen and notebook. "We're all willing to contribute to your education."

"Trust me, I have a lot of questions. It's better to write them all in a report," John said, half-joking.

Phonia flipped open her notebook. "Sure. Go ahead."

"... Why am I given a Vision? Who gives them? Why isn't everyone given Visions? What are Visions? How powerful are they? Any limitations? What's their service life? Maintenance? What affects a Vision? User's age? Gender? Health? Ideology? Belief? Sexuality? Mine does fire, Jean does wind—are there other types? Can I use other Visions? Can others use mine? Is it destructible? Customizable? Can I get more? What if I get hurt? Sick? Die? Does it affect it somehow?"

John paused, taking a deep, deep breath.

Ematol stared wide with her jaw hanging slightly.

As the Katzlein hacked away at the vines and the knights deconstructed the camp, Phonia scribbled furiously. John took another breath. He barraged her with historical questions of technologies and nations. Ematol nodded along, though her expression grew increasingly overwhelmed.

His eyes. Ematol noticed his eyes darting around left and right, yet focused. It's like he's reading an invisible book.

John coughed. He took a breath. This time about hilichurls and humanoid monsters. If they are others, sapient or not, and if there are such polities. Phonia's pen raced across the page who stared flat and focused.

John breathed. "Now. About the gods. Do they age... like... in a human sense? Biologically? Anatomically? Psychologically? Do they multiply? If no, how are they born? If yes, do they reproduce sexually? Asexually? What do their sexual organs look like?"

Ematol coughed. She felt like she got punched in the guts.

Phonia's hand moved like a machine, capturing every word or summarizing when needed. She flipped a page.

"If there are humans with animal features, are there other kinds? Are there... magic humans? Elemental humans? Tree humans? Dirt humans? God... God humans? Humans turned god? Gods turned human? Wait, is that possible? If so, how do their anatomy differ?"

Ematol stared at him with expression of disbelief. Next, he asked things about the Fatui. Most are general questions, really. "Are they humans? Genetically? Do they multiply sexuality? Asexually? Do their Delusions make them big? You said Delusions are artificial Visions—so does that mean these gods are just a technologically advanced race?"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Ematol blinked, shaking her hands. "You make it sound like you're thinking of your Vision as some kind of machine."

"That's what disturbed you the most?" Phonia interjected, still scribbling in her notebook. "It's divine. There's nothing else to it."

"Bullshit" John crossed his arms. "I don't believe in magic. It doesn't exist. I'm only using the term strictly for convenience."

Ematol and Phonia froze, her pen halting mid-motion. "...Huh?"

"Like... this can't be magic." John patted his fire Vision, conjuring a small flame and juggling it between his hands without burning himself. "It has to be something... explainable. Like a mechanism."

"I said it's divine, not magic."

John froze, his mind halting. "... Huh?"

Phonia stared at him, her pen hovering above the page. "You're serious? What's your thought process?"

"Tech can be understood. So's science." John said, extinguishing the flame with a flick of his wrist. "If very super advanced tech or unknown science can be understood eventually, how is magic different?"

Phonia hesitated, then closed her notebook with a sigh. "Delusions... they're not like Visions. They're heretical inventions. Artificial. Unnatural. They mimic the power of the gods, but they're... wrong. Twisted."

John raised an eyebrow. "So someone made them. If you can make something like a Vision, then, you proved my point."

Ematol shook her head with mild frustration. "You're missing the point. Visions are gifts from the gods. They're... sacred. Not some... machine."

Phonia frowned. "It's divine."

Phonia and Ematol exchanged a look, their confusion deepening. For the first time, they seemed to realize just how different John's worldview was—and how little they understood it.

"Have there been recorded instances of humans turning into gods?" John asked, his tone casual.

Phonia hesitated, tapping her pen against her notebook. "...There's Natlan's current Archon. That's the most recent one I can think of."

"There we go," John said, shrugging. "If you think Visions shouldn't be made by humans, how come humans can be divine?"

The deconstruction work filled in the silence. Axes hacked wood and debris, while others held torches to burn ropes tying the barricades together.

"Can Vision users turn into a god?" John scratched his chin. His foot tapped in a slow rhythm. "If no, what makes Vision users different from gods? If yes, are there qualifications or conditions?"

Phonia opened her mouth, then closed it, her usual stoic expression faltering. She tilted her head down, her gaze pensive. Meanwhile, Ematol seemed to want to say something, but her dry lips barely parted.

"Hmm... ignore those," John said, shaking his head. "Let's just focus on what we have now."

He turned to the camp, where hunters and knights worked together to dismantle the hilichurls' crude barricades. "Is it a good time to test my Vision? I can burn all this away." He glanced at Ematol. "Is it called a Vision because I can just... visualize my power? Do I just... imagine?"

Ematol sighed, more than willing to switch topic. "The history behind its name is tied to its use. It's said that Visions allow the wielder to manifest their will into elemental power. They first appeared after the Archon War, I think, though their origins are still unknown."

John opened his mouth, then shut it. "Yeah. Archon War. Uh... that'll be another thing on your list."

"Wait!" Ematol stepped forward, her voice sharp. "Fire is dangerous. You could start a wildfire."

"Fair enough." John chuckled. "What you need precision firepower."

John closed his eyes, focusing on the image in his mind. He visualized a gun, testing his clarity. When he opened his eyes, a classic Colt M1911 materialized in his hand, its sleek frame glowing faintly with Pyro energy. The heat felt warm. Alive. He inspected it closely. Some details were rough, like the grip texture, but others were crystal clear.

He got carried away. His imagination turned wild.

The Pyro energy in his hands morphed like liquid metal. It flowed and solidified into new shapes, each one distinct and recognizable. The Mauser C96 appeared next, its broomhandle grip unmistakable. Then it shifted again, taking on the rectangular silhouette of a Glock 17, its blocky polymer frame glowing faintly with embers. Then to a Borchardt C-93, believed perfected by its designer's arrogance.

"Woah," he muttered, turning it over in his hands.

Next, a Grease Gun, its simple, tubular design glowing faintly. Then an an Uzi, its compact, boxy form taking shape. A Kriss Vector, a divergent futuristic product. MP5, a solution for elites.

He held the phantom mimic with both hands - one on the grip, the other on the angled handguard - with eyes of awe and wonder completely lost in his own world.

Phonia and Ematol watched in stunned silence as John's imagination explored unbound. The Pyro energy twisted and solidified, taking on forms they couldn't even begin to understand. Alien designs with silhouettes that aroused questions.

"What... what are those?" Emator whispered learning close to Phonia, her voice tinged with awe and unease.

"I don't know," Phonia said, her pen frozen mid-scribble. "But they look dangero-hey what gives!?"

"Shh!" Ematol snatched the pen and notebook from Phonia's hands. She flipped a page. Her hand blurred, sketching furiously as she tried to copy every detail of the alien designs taking shape before her.

With a wide smile, John willed the form into an MG 42, its stamped steel construction radiating heat. Then a Lewis Gun, known for its top-fed disc-mag and air-cooled shroud. Then to its Soviet counterpart, Degtyaryov DP-28. A Chauchat, its clumsy curved construction forgotten in time. An SKS, a short-lived success. Then to its no-nonsense father who mean business, PTRS-41.

Phonia's usual calm demeanor replaced by quiet awe. "Ematol..." she began, but the weapon specialist didn't even give her a glance.

"Shh," Ematol's voice sharp with focus. "This is... this is incredible. Look at the way the energy solidifies. He's not just imagining it like a child drawing with crayons. These details—they're too crisp. Too clear."

Just what are they? Her pencil raced across the page, capturing every line, every curve, in passable proportions and detail. The designs were alien; nothing she had ever - or could - dream of. The four-shooters they'd been issued were revolutionary, but this?

A Steyr AUG, a slender bullpup with integrated scope. P90, a compact solution for its a top-mounted magazine and plastic-injected frame. PPs 43, a simple stamped steel solution.

Phonia leaned in, her own curiosity piqued. "You think he's seen these before? Maybe in Fontaine?"

"I don't know," Ematol said, her voice barely above a whisper. "If he's not making these up on the spot, then... he's pulling these designs from somewhere."

"Somewhere? You mean you've never seen anything like these?" Phonia peered over her shoulder. "Fontaine prototypes?"

"No." The Knights of Favonius alchemist muttered. The weapons specialist flipped another page. "They're too different."

"How different?"

"Everything."

A Winchester 1873, a gun that won the West. Remington M1910, a warcrime classic. M1 Garand, the American workhorse of World War 2. Stg-44, a last stand solution. AK-47, the icon of revolutions and terrorists.

M16, a development that paved the modern foundation.

"...Nothing's changing. He's just staring at it," Phonia murmured, keeping her voice low to avoid breaking John's concentration. His arms craddled a red phantom of a firearm. Where previous designs had cycled endlessly, this one remained static. "What's so special about that design?"

Ematol flipped a page and sketched this one with extra care, her hand moving with precision. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

The sketch resumed even as the weapon before them began transforming. Evolving.

It sprouted bizarre muzzle attachments, the barrel extending and contracting, the handguards slender or squat, strange telescoping devices appearing and vanishing atop the frame in all shapes and form.

"Why this one?" Ematol murmured as her pencil flew. "Why does he keep returning to this configuration?" Her free hand gestured helplessly at the floating armory. "And what in Barbatos' name are these iterations?"

Phonia watched, mesmerized, as the weapon cycled through permutations no smith would ever conceive. "It's like... he's not creating. He's remembering."

Ematol's pencil froze mid-stroke as the implications hit them both.

The weapon before them kept snapping back to the same core design - that strange, angular frame with the curved magazine - despite cycling through countless variations.

"It's like a foundation... but these additions—" Her free hand jerked toward the floating weapon as another scope manifested, its lenses gleaming with unnatural clarity. "—Barbatos' breath, they're modular."

Phonia's breath hitched as realization struck. She corrected quietly. "They're not just iterations. They're customizations."

The pencil tip shattered against paper as Ematol froze.

A terrible understanding passed between them: These weren't imaginings. They were refinements. And that meant—

"That's not a prototype," Ematol whispered, her voice raw. "It's a standard."

Somewhere, somehow, this weapon already existed.

The implication hung in the air—until the rifle dissolved into embers. John swayed, his eyes shutting half-close, then collapsed.

Ematol lunged, barely catching him before his skull struck roots. His Vision sputtered, its crimson glow guttering like a dying candle.

"Stamina failure," Phonia diagnosed flatly, pressing two fingers to his pulse. "His body rejected the energy expenditure." Her clinical tone cracked as she glanced up—

—to a semicircle of wide-eyed hunters and knights.

"What in the hells were those?!" A Katzlein hunter brandished his bow like a ward against heresy.

Ematol's mind raced. Lies. We need lies now.

Phonia stood abruptly, her boots crushing charcoal sketches underfoot. "Alchemical mishap." The lie came smooth as oiled steel. "Fontaine experimental tech. Unstable."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A knight pointed at John's still-glowing Vision. "But that's—"

"—Classified," Ematol snapped, hauling John upright with a grunt. His arm burned against her neck. "Move. Now."

The hunters parted like grass before a scythe.


End


March 31, 2025 - edits, edits, and edits. Someone commented there's too much gun glazing and... yeah. If there's anything I learned, more doesn't always means good. Erased some parts here and there.

Erased 500 words. Compressed some parts. Especially John's questioning scene. Barely learned how to proofread.

April 4, 2025 - minor edits. Corrections.


Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

This chapter took a few revisions. So many versions.

If I hadn't revised this chapter time and time again this chapter wouldn't have shown: a culture shock and exchange; Ematol and Phonia bonding with John; the two never learning much what guns could bring; a bunch more of other stuff and; John being... well, John.

... Anywho!

I got a Ko F! channel in my profile. Wanna check it out? It's got nothing lol.

Also, thank you WHOstEist, Dignified Toast, SpoopyTheScout, and LordChaldea for your kind words!

I'm really glad I didn't get one of those kind of "reviews" and I guess that's why I wasn't demotivated or burnt out. Yeah, I'm back alright!

That said, I'd appreciate for any feedback, both positive and negative.

Do tell, what parts do you dislike here and parts you like?

As for what I think?

So if you're curious of my thought process as a reference... well:

That really long part where John got carried away using his Pyro Vision to "make" guns is... something I'm proud of. It's a scene where Phonia and Ematol, knights who've never held guns in their lives, gets a glimpse of a future they never could have imagined. It's the best part of this chapter in my opinion.

That other long part where the trio discuss the manufacturing of their four shooters? It was a little long, but I had a good reason for an info-dump; they got self-contained repeaters in half a day that... it took out some immersion. So yeah, no rifling. cheap materials. Felt I had to balance it out. I should try to avoid such technical scenes as possible.

That part where John barrages Phonia with questions? I wanted to add John's character. For storytelling, I added System as an ability to speed the tech tree without relying on time skips, but a tool is only as useful as its user. So I've been trying again and again to make John seem smart, this time by showing intense curiosity. Felt a little long though. Will edit it out.

Inadvertedly, I explored Phonia's character too; in her game dialogue, she likens a mere cog in a machine, nothing more. She thinks herself insignificant and she's brutally honest about it. Now with guns...

As for Ematol? Ohhh ohohohoh. I don't know. I feel like she opened up Pandora's box.