Content Warnings for this Chapter: Minor Mentions Blood

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Dougier's cheek gives a satisfying crunch underneath the impact of Wriothesley's fist.

The man reels, staggering back, barely catching himself on wobbling feet before Wriothesley's other fist darts out with quick succession. The left hook nails the sweet spot of Dougier's nose. Another crunch, the bone giving way, and Wriothesley pulls back, shaking the impact out of his hands.

A scream of rage fills the ring. "You bastard! You—" Dougier's nose is now crooked, tilted at a very distinct angle that it previously lacked. Blood streams freely down his face and into his mouth. He rubs at it, hissing, and when he meets Wriothesley's gaze again, his eyes burn red with fury.

Wriothesley is relaxed. He clicks his teeth, and huffs. "Now, isn't that a good look for you? It's about time that someone worked out that kink in your nose, but I would've gone to a real doctor. You know how it is when you resort to black market hack jobs."

"You'll pay for this!"

"Will I?" Wriothesley raises an eyebrow. "You brought the fight here, not me. I was more than content to leave you alone and do my work in the shadows."

The Pankration Ring is one part entertainment, one part vigilante justice in the depths of Meropide. In Teyvat, there are few rules, The Heavenly Principles—the laws by which life is lived—but most importantly that death always comes in fours.

Meropide runs on its own laws. Down here, in the ocean, in the fathomless depths of those waves, folks are forgotten save for when needed as fodder. But that is a thought for later, thinks Wriothesley. His current problem is more immediate.

"You're bleeding all over my ring," he taunts.

"Your ring?"

Oh, Dougier sounds pissed. It just makes Wriothesley's smile widen, curling across his face, haughty.

"Remind me of how many wins you have? Is it you with the wealth around here, or am I the one with skin in the game? Last I checked it's my Coupons paying for the renovations around here, so yes, it's my ring."

Dougier doesn't need to be reminded of the hierarchy down here. He knows the power that Wriothesley holds as well as anyone else in this damnable place. But he's the sort to pick fights, and because Wriothesley poses a threat to his gang, Wriothesley is a target.

"I think I even paid for those stupid hats the lot of you wear."

"Berets! They're berets, and you—you—" Dougier whines when he can't ignore the pain of his broken nose any longer.

Wriothesley can't help but feel smug. "I know that stings. Maybe you should get the little lady to look at it."

Dougier can't afford it. Wriothesley would bet a month's wages that he'd laid down most of his bank on this fight. A fool thing to do. Wriothesley would never, even knowing he'd win.

"Fuck you," snaps Dougier, spitting a glob of red-tinged saliva to the ground.

Wriothesley eyes the spot and sighs. "Now that's just extra work for me, not to mention the cost. Maybe I should make you scrub it out with your toothbrush."

Dougier lets loose a snarl, but it's all bark and no bite. He heels. They always do. Wriothesley has yet to be called on his bluff, and he's more than doubled in age since he first stepped foot inside these metal walls.

Still, Wriothesley gives the man another chance. "Planning on a second go? Or has this argument been settled?"

It was less of an argument and more of a turf war. Not that Wriothesley would call his men a gang—they lack a fancy name a la The Beret Society, but he supposes they are a group nonetheless. Misfits. A family. Blah blah; it's all the same down here.

Wriothesley doesn't want territory. He doesn't want that sort of responsibility; he just keeps an eye out for himself and his own. Food, blankets and clothing, enough Coupons to be shared mostly-equally—these are the things that keep them comfortable enough. If Dougier wants to run the damn place he can, as long as he follows the same rules everyone else does.

Dougier levels Wriothesley with another look and spits onto the ring floor again before stalking off like a wounded bird.

Wriothesley sighs, exhaustion creeping up his spine despite the adrenaline that still rages through his veins. There really isn't anything like duking it out in the ring. He'll take the thinly-veiled threats and vies for authority if it means that he will get to stretch his limbs and bruise a few bones.

His hand twinges, knuckles sore across their top ridge, but it's a good kind of sore, one that reminds him he's still alive. Meropide sucks the life from folks, but Wriothesley—he feels a rush in moments like these, so he treasures that sting all the more.

"Wriothesley!"

He winces at the high-pitched screech, bracing himself for an onslaught of berating words, and the impact of a woman barely a meter and a half tall.

But she does not careen into him. No, she comes to a stop right at the edge of the ring and falls suspiciously quiet. Bad news. There's one person in this entire fucking place that Wriothesley is scared of, and it isn't Dougier and his funky hat.

"Sige—"

"Don't you Sige me," she snaps. Wriothesley can hear the tap tap of her boot against the concrete floor. "What's the damage?"

His gaze drops to his busted knuckles. He may have broken Dougier's nose but likely cracked a few of his own bones in the process. Wriothesley sucks in a breath, steels himself, and turns on his heel, that grimace of his morphing into a sweet smile.

"Miss Sigewinne," he says politely.

Sigewinne does not return the smile. Sigewinne stands there, below the ring, looking up at him with an expression that would put the fear of Celestia into even the most hardened criminal. It doesn't matter if she's prone to slapping stickers across every surface of her office, her fingers aren't tenderhearted unless she wants them to be.

She holds out her hand, and Wriothesley knows that it's going to hurt, no matter what he says. He should've listened to her warning the last time. "You'll regret this, Wriothesley," she told him. "The next time I have to splint your knuckles, I'll make sure it stings."

"So look," he says, "it was to settle a—"

"Of course, it was." Sigewinne rolls her eyes. "Celestia above. Men."

Wriothesley considers telling her that this isn't a man problem, but rather one of the institution, but something tells him that she isn't in the mood for semi-quasi-political debates that criticize The System.

"You stayed quiet. Good." Because of course, she'd notice and call him out on it. Sigewinne is not only smart but a master at reading others. Even Wriothesley can't escape her sharp eyes. "Hand," she says, holding out her palm expectantly.

Wriothesley offers it to her with a soft grumble. "It's no biggie. Dougier just had a disagreement with my fist."

"A disagreement that I suppose I'll have to follow up on?"

"I'd be surprised if he could afford a visit from you."

Sigewinne hums.

"And, for the record, he started it. I was content to let him do whatever he wanted, but he went and picked a fight with me instead—"

"So the natural response was to break his nose."

Yes. It's been his natural response for two decades. Wriothesley snorts as she tilts his hand over, trailing her fingers across the backs of his knuckles. The Hydro that coats her fingers is cool to the touch, and he groans softly as she pulls it over his busted skin.

"What did he do?" Wriothesley knows better than to think it's mere curiosity; Sigewinne keeps a careful eye on every inmate here, and there isn't anyone with as much, or better info than Wriothesley.

"Not so much do," he grouses, "but more wanted. Said he has some dirt on Mishka and demanded his tailoring skills. I told him to buzz off and pay him like everyone else, and he didn't like that."

Besides, Mishka isn't a spring chicken. Mishka can handle himself just perfectly fine. There's a reason he's here, and it comes in the form of ten-inch tailor's shears, and very, very, good aim.

Sigewinne's mouth tilts upward at one corner. "I'm sure that he didn't. What're you going to do when he finds out that you defended his honor?"

"Buy him off with some Coupons."

She laughs at that, still pulling that Hydro over the back of his hand. Sweet relief sinks into Wriothesley's skin, spreading across it like a damp compress. "You're tense," she mutters, smoothing a thumb over taut muscles, tracing his fingers and wrist.

He groans, head hanging at her gentle treatment. "Sige, you know why."

Same reason as everyone else in this gods-forsaken place. There's often an underlying current of nervous energy, but this day, in particular, leaves an anxious coat across every inmate.

Sigewinne's hand pauses. The weight of it is comfortable, and Wriothesley likes how his hand is trapped between her palms. "You'd think that after centuries I'd be desensitized to it," she murmurs, pulling her thumb across the rises and dips of his knuckles idly. "But it's always the same. Different years, different faces, but always the same."

The Travails. Every four years, twenty-eight lucky Tributes are plucked from the seven regions of Teyvat for the honor of fighting to the death. In remembrance of the Cataclysm, they say, instead of calling it what it is—punishment.

There are no trials in Teyvat, only the expectation of submission. Khaenri'ah rose up and fought back, and look what happened—the place was razed to the damn ground. It should be lost to the history books but Celestia doesn't forget, and the Heavenly Principles are cruel.

"It'd be better if they'd just make the damn announcement already, then I could mark my calendar, and carve out some Electro Screen time."

Sigewinne rolls her eyes again. "It'll be the same as always, just with a few more rules. Even if we're in the pool the same as anyone else, it's far less likely for one of us to be culled."

Being sent to Meropide doesn't remove one's name from the pot; but for all the bustling culture there is the prison, there are fewer inmates here than in the entirety of Teyvat. There is a risk for Wriothesley, or Sigewinne to be culled, but what are a handful of forgotten people in a sea of a hundred thousand?

Still, anxiety spikes. Wriothesley has been on edge all day, the same as anyone else.

Sigewinne pets his hand. "Are you sure that Dougier didn't pick a fight because he's equally distracted?"

No, he isn't sure. And yes, that could have happened. "Doesn't make it okay, Sige."

"Of course, it doesn't. Luck for you, you came out on the better end of this fight—they're bruised, but nothing is broken. I'm going to demand that you rest your hand for a few days, at least."

They both know that he won't. Wriothesley would if he could, but the cogs of Meropide pause for no one.

Silence stretches between them before Sigewinne speaks again. "Look, if you're worried—"

"I'm not." She raises an eyebrow at him, and Wriothesley sighs. "Logically, I know the chances are getting culled are slim, but—'

"The fear is there," finishes Sigewinne. "I know. It's been nearly four hundred years of me wondering if this'll be the year I've got bad luck. Just remember that—"

"Death comes in fours, and there are four times as many folks upstairs," he finishes. A silly saying, but one that caught on in a rare show of solidarity amongst the residents of Meropide. Things aren't bad down here, but there's little trust and a lot of backstabbing.

But this—this is a fear that they all share. When the Culling comes around, everyone drops those bloodied and bruised fists in favor of shaking limbs, and silent prayers to the Primordial One and The Second Who Came.

"Sige—"

The old, busted Electro Screen that hangs above the Pankration Ring flares to life, cutting him off. The fanfare is a tired, sickening thing. Wriothesley's gut sinks as the screen flashes to show a set, and a petite woman standing behind a simple, plain pulpit.

"Wriothesley, it'll be okay," says Sigewinne when she sees his throat bob. She still holds his hand, and now her thumb drags across his knuckles in circles.

"Yeah," he says. "I—" He turns away from the screen, willfully ignoring it. "It's just an announcement. Who cares if it's an anniversary year? The extra rules are always so similar."

Every twenty-five years, the Travails carry special rules. Every time, they've been bitterly cruel, but there is an expectation to the madness. "What was the rule for the two-hundredth game?"

Sigewinne hesitates, which is a red flag. Then, she says quietly, "They culled sets of siblings."

Oh. Oh, that's—Wriothesley's throat is suddenly very dry.

"And other years," she muses bitterly, her gaze trained on the screen past his shoulder where the presenter drones on about the history of Teyvat. "Twice the Tributes. Everyone culled was under the age of eighteen. An arena with no potable water—it could only be gained through Boons. I remember that the bottles of water were actually alcohol."

That was back when Sigewinne still watched the games. She doesn't anymore.

"Brutal," whistles Wriothesley. "Gods, that would—Well. At least they were probably too drunk to think much of it."

Sigewinne gives him a look of disapproval. "Dehydrated, more like. The alcohol only made it worse, not to mention the lakes of seawater, and ponds of poison." They both cringe. "This year won't be any better, I'm sure, but—"

"And so, without further ado, it's time to present this year's additional rule for the two-hundred and twenty-fifth Travails."

"Annoying," says Wriothesley with a huff. "All the ceremony, the pomp and circumstance. You'd think they were running a pageant."

"Isn't it just that, though?" Sigewinne's response is dry and rueful. "They certainly parade the Tributes around as such."

"Now shush," chides Wriothesley. "Don't let the Gardes hear."

"Or what? They'll toss me in prison?" Sigewinne snorts. "The worst that could happen is I get culled—" She stills, her head whipping back to the screen.

Wriothesley stills too, as does everyone in the room. "Sige," he whispers, but then falls quiet. Cold creeps down his back. Sigewinne's hand squeezes at him, her nails digging into his skin. Wriothesley doesn't care about the pinpricks of pain, or the way she wobbles on her feet, or the shuddering breath that falls from her mouth.

All anyone cares about is what that damnable woman on that damnable screen just said.

The slogan 'Death comes in fours' has always been a string of useless words to be made fun of. But now, on the fourth day, of the fourth month, of his fortieth year, Wriothesley feels real and true fear slot deep into his being.

Meropide is deathly quiet. Even the clanging of the pipes seems to have halted for the moment. And then, Sigewinne says what every person is thinking: "Well fuck."

#

It is the fourth day, of the fourth month, after a four year wait.

Focalors stands behind the pulpit with her head held high, and a soft, subtle smile spread across her face. She smooths her fingers across the sharp wooden edges of that pulpit, and the Kamera aimed at her takes the moment to focus properly, and adjust to the correct angle.

A gentle clearing of her throat has the space falling silent. "Welcome!" she greets, lifting her hands, holding them out in a broad gesture meant to be hospitable. She likely means to be. Many of the Elites are sycophantic in their praise of Celestia, and Focalors in particular has special love for the Travails and everything that they stand for.

Pomp and circumstance; that is what this is, a show of power and ultimate control. Focalors is the Grand Judge of the Travails, and whilst her word is not law, it carries weight—a weight that settles across the shoulders of everyone who watches the broadcast.

She stands there proudly, relaxed in her posture, a sweet smile plastered across her face. "It is that time again, wonderful citizens of Teyvat! Four years of peace have come and gone, and now comes the time of reflection and remembrance. But first, a history, a carefully painted picture as we think back to those darkened times and how everything we know now shines brightly under Celestia's watchful eyes."

Focalors shifts behind the pulpit, bowing gently in deference. "In the Before there was darkness and there were dragons. These dragons, these Sovereigns ruled to the best of their capabilities but it was for not—the world did not flourish. Their claws rent the ground and killed crops. From their mouths spilled poison that tainted the lands.

"But then the Primordial One descended, and things began to change. Then there was The Second Who Came, and the Third Descender. The Sovereigns saw their goodness and kindness, and laid down their claws, and under their reign came peace and harmony that revitalized the lands."

Focalors falls quiet. The dramatic pause is known and expected for this is the same speech she has given for over two hundred years. "As with many, though, greed is planted. That little seedling grows, and with it comes apathy, evilness, and vile hatred. The Third Descender turned their back on their people, their land, and launched a Rebellion that the ripples of are still felt today."

Another pause. "Their power was no match. The Primordial One and The Second Who Came quelled the fighting. The Third Descender, the Traitor, fell—and with them, Khaenri'ah, in what is now known as the Cataclysm.

"There is no room for such a thing in Teyvat. Celestia is kind. The Primordial One and The Second Who Came descended upon this land and made it better, and yet there are those who fought back? Those who fell, who were lost in their haze of greed and gluttony, cannot be forgiven.

"But, nor will they be forgotten. And so we honor this tragedy, as we are reminded of Celestia's divine might. So The Heavenly Principles were created so that we would never forget, so that the divine might of Celestia would forever hang above us in the sky so that when we look up, we can feel her presence shining down upon us.

"It has been nine hundred years since that fateful day; nine hundred years since those laws were lifted into the sky. The Law governs all. Loyalty brings success and fortune. Calamity awaits those who embrace rebellion. These are the laws that guide our everyday lives."

Focalors drags her her finger down the worn edge of the pulpit, over and over. "But, as I said, we cannot, will not forget this betrayal. And so, there are the Travails, a divine reminder that Celestia can and will strike down those who oppose them. There is a saying we have for this, a simple thing. Death comes in fours, inevitable and unerring.

"And so, every four years we hold these trials. Twenty-eight Tributes are picked—four from each region, two male and two female. They alone will shoulder this burden in a game to the death."

Focalors offers up a bittersweet smile. "Nine hundred years," she muses, going off script. "This is the two-hundredth and twenty-fifth Travails, and as with any other quarterly game, this will be an anniversary that will carry an additional rule. Blessed is she who is Celestia, and our Heavenly Principles in this wonderful opportunity.

"As the winner of the twenty-ninth Travails, I am honored to stand here as the Grand Judge in preparation for this year's momentous occasion. There is no one better than I who understands the importance of this divine duty. And so, without further ado, it's time to present this year's additional rule for the two-hundred and twenty-fifth Travails."

Focalors then plucks a sealed envelope from the pulpit, holding it up, brushing her knuckles across the crisp, clean parchment stamped with Celestia's divine seal. She slides her nail underneath the edge. Pries it open quietly, unfolds the paper quietly, reads the contents quietly.

To anyone else, she is the same as any other Elite; a Veteran, a venerated person of purpose, who delights in her victory. Others though would see her weariness, the tiredness to her bones, the way that her mouth twitches into the most subtle of frowns.

"For the two-hundredth and twenty-fifth Travails, every Tribute that is to be culled will be culled from the Fortress of Meropide."