Mondstadt's readers gasped as Old Mond unveiled the Royal City's ancient roots.
That forsaken ruin, crumbling near Stormbearer Point, flickered in their minds.
Once a sturdy relic, it stood prouder before some force blasted it to rubble.
No one knew who or what had leveled it—time cloaked the truth.
Adventurers flocked there, drawn by its eerie, windswept allure.
Wagner, the blacksmith, mined its crystal veins when the mood struck.
Most shunned it—centuries stripped it bare of worth.
A stray gust from Dvalin could seal it off, a storm's cruel whim.
Yet Ye Ruo's tale breathed life into its origins, a jolt of fascination.
This glimpse of Old Mond's life stirred a thrill in every heart.
Fiction or not, it rang true, mirroring their faint memories.
The clash of demon gods unfolded next, gripping readers tight.
Andreus, the Northwind Sovereign, hurled his might at Karlafian's tower.
The Tornado Demon's wind walls stood unyielding, a fortress of gales.
Andreus faltered, his power dwarfed by Karlafian's relentless storm.
"Karlafian ruled then—Andreus couldn't touch him," Irene murmured, awed.
"Demon gods vary wildly in strength," a baker nodded, eyes wide.
"The Tornado Demon outclassed the Northwind King by leagues," a guard agreed.
Readers marveled—Karlafian seemed poised to claim the crown.
Victory felt certain, his dominion over Mondstadt absolute.
But they knew better—Barbatos, not Karlafian, wore the wind's mantle.
The tale would pivot, a dance of tyrant and god yet to come.
The pages turned, revealing Karlafian's flawed reign in stark relief.
He boasted his winds banished the ice, a savior to his people.
Blindly, he missed the prison he'd forged with each howling gust.
The wind wall choked out the sky, trapping all in a storm's grip.
Birds vanished, carols faded—only despair echoed in the tempest.
"A cage of wind, not salvation," a seamstress whispered, chilled.
Karlafian saw their bowed heads as love, not fear's heavy hand.
He reveled in his grandeur, deaf to their silent pleas.
Self-delusion fueled him, a king lost in his own myth.
"The wind shielded them, but broke their spirits," a poet sighed.
Tyranny crept in, the Lonely King's title taking bitter shape.
He ruled unchallenged, oblivious to the anguish below.
Some fled, choosing frost over chains, a desperate bid for freedom.
Among them, the Gunnhildr clan rose, leading their tribe away.
Ye Ruo skipped the Fahnenir's flight to Dragonspine's doomed refuge.
Their silver tree and nailed fate strayed from his core thread.
The Gunnhildrs stole the spotlight, a name Mondstadt cherished.
Readers beamed—here was their pride, etched in ancient ink.
Unlike the fallen Lawrence, Gunnhildr's oath held firm.
For millennia, they birthed knights and healers, a steadfast line.
Jean, their current torchbearer, led with unyielding grace.
Her lineage traced back to this exodus, a revelation that stunned.
The tale darkened, painting the Gunnhildrs' brutal trek.
Free of Karlafian's yoke, they faced the icefields' wrath anew.
Sheltered in Old Mond, they'd known only wind, not snow.
Unprepared, they stumbled into a frozen hell without supplies.
"Too harsh—modern folk would die out there," a merchant shuddered.
Even adventurers balked at Dragonspine's fickle, deadly chill.
Three thousand years ago, it was a merciless slaughterhouse.
The Knights warned against such risks, a plea often ignored.
Readers' hearts sank, the Gunnhildrs' plight a visceral blow.
Most who fled perished, swallowed by the endless white.
The clan teetered on oblivion, their survival a fragile thread.
Ye Ruo's words wove despair so thick it clung to every soul.
The system thrummed, fame surging with each heavy breath.
He'd cracked open Mondstadt's past, and they felt its icy weight.
Barbatos loomed ahead, a savior yet to rise from the frost.
***
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