The Feiyun mine sprawled modest and abandoned, its workers fled from the chaos.
Over thirty hillichurls swarmed the site, a motley band of Teyvat's pests.
Most wielded crude clubs and shields, others notched arrows to rickety bows.
Three hulking axe-wielders loomed, flanked by two shield-bearing brutes.
A pyro shaman crackled with embers, a hydro one glistened, and an anemo conjured gusts.
Not a vast horde, but their ranks boasted a balanced, nettlesome array.
Common hillichurls scraped by at D-tier, barely above a farmer's might.
Thugs and shamans climbed to C-tier, a notch below Xander's own B-grade.
No hillichurl king graced this rabble, leaving them ripe for his blade.
He launched a phantom sword at the pyro shaman, teleporting to its side.
A swift slash beheaded it—Xander despised their thorned, fiery curses.
In games past, those buffs had singed him one too many times.
First blood drawn, the horde stirred, alerted to their intruder.
Two axe-thugs lumbered forth, cleavers raised high for a crushing blow.
Xander darted forward, blue sword-energy flaring in his wake.
He wove between them, a blur, their axes snapping mid-swing.
Blood sprayed as their chests split, bodies crumbling to ash.
The leylines drank them in, reclaiming their fleeting forms.
A hydro shaman summoned healing rain, too late to mend its kin.
Club-wielding grunts charged, met by Xander's casual blade toss.
Sticks and shields parted, their wielders felled in a single arc.
Archers atop platforms nocked arrows, only to catch phantom blades in their skulls.
In-game, those spectral strikes grazed; here, they pierced with lethal grace.
Vitals struck, weak foes dropped—precision was his ally.
The anemo shaman spun a wind-ring, small twisters snapping at his heels.
Xander answered with a phantom sword, skewering the hydro shaman's head.
He flashed to the anemo caster, a single cut ending its whirling dance.
Ten phantom blades followed, pinning it like a grotesque trophy.
The last grunts and thugs fell in minutes, dust beneath his boots.
This was power, the thrill of mastery over Teyvat's wilds.
Strength to seize fate, to stand unbowed by any hand.
"You've trailed me long enough—show yourself," he called.
His voice cut the silence, aimed at a ore heap ten meters off.
A figure emerged, clapping slowly, a smirk curling his lips.
"Impressive, truly befitting a wanderer from beyond," Tartaglia praised.
"Fancy a duel with me?" he proposed, eyes alight with battle-lust.
Xander had sensed him since the west gate, his intent clear.
No grudges bound them, no ties—just a harbinger's thirst for a fight.
"If I refuse, you'll pester me anyway, won't you?" Xander sighed.
He shrugged, resignation settling over his reluctant stance.
Tartaglia's obsession with combat was a relentless tide.
Outwardly coy, inwardly a maelstrom of violence, he pressed on.
"Ha! Straight to the point—I like that!" Tartaglia laughed.
He drew his bow, loosing a salvo of shimmering hydro arrows.
Xander rolled his eyes, sidestepping the watery barrage.
A phantom sword shot back, his retort to this unwanted dance.
Where did this fool glean his cheerfulness from, he wondered.
He'd rather spar with a fair maiden till dusk than this.
The Shadowfang Blade thrummed, a partner in his brewing ire.
Tartaglia grinned wider, unfazed by the counterstrike.
Hydro met arcane, a clash igniting the quarry's dust.
Xander's new home waited, this detour an irksome snag.
Liyue churned beyond, blind to the storm flaring at its fringe.
The broadcast slept, its next jest a whisper yet to form.
Tartaglia's challenge stood, a gauntlet he couldn't sidestep.
***
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