The Dawn Knight's tale carried a shadow of sorrow, etched in Mondstadt's grim past.
Under the Lawrence clan's iron rule, a wandering troupe fought for light.
Their song, "The Ballad of the Squire," echoed through that bleak era.
It was a time of nobles lording over a broken land.
The troupe's rebellion faltered, their swords no match for chains.
A female swordmaster fell, dragged alive into the gladiator pits.
Shackled head to toe, she sang defiance through the dark.
Her voice wove freedom's thread, a dawn beyond towering walls.
The melody stirred hearts, a fragile yet piercing cry.
Her end came in the arena, blood staining the sand.
The young Dawn Knight retrieved her shattered flute and blade.
He stood silent, grief carving his resolve into stone.
From that loss, his title bloomed—dawn after endless night.
Readers nodded, memory sparking as the tale clicked.
"Right—I recall that story now!" a baker exclaimed.
"Vanessa forged the Knights, and Ragnvindr shone bright," a guard added.
"The Dawn Knight made the Ragnvindr name a Mondstadt pillar," a poet marveled.
"To think their kin fought so fiercely 2,600 years back!" a seamstress gasped.
Awe rippled through them, pride swelling for the lineage.
The Ragnvindrs still stood tall, wine flowing from their hands.
Dawn Winery's fame reached every corner of the city.
Even kids could recite its lore, grinning with tales.
Another detail snagged their eyes—the Windflower code.
"Windflower as a rebel sign? That's wild!" Flora blinked.
Her flower shop thrived, steeped in Mondstadt's blooms.
The Windflower Festival was her lifeblood, a cherished rite.
It was Mondstadt's carnival—love and liberty entwined.
Folks offered Windflowers to Barbatos, a tribute of devotion.
Lovers swapped them too, petals whispering affection.
The flower embodied freedom's spirit, a sacred emblem.
An unspoken rule held sway during the fest.
Unwed Mondstadters couldn't be roped into tasks.
Outsiders stumbled, baffled by the idle cheer.
Even the Adventurers' Guild ground to a halt.
It was peak relaxation—King of Sloth approved.
Yet history gaped—when did Windflower begin?
Flora guessed her grandmother's time, maybe centuries.
Now, 2,600 years stared back, rewriting her world.
"Ye Ruo's tale feels too real," a merchant murmured.
"It's like he saw that age unfold," a guard agreed.
Details painted vivid scenes—empathy swallowed them whole.
They felt the gales, the chains, the flicker of hope.
Could the Wind Knight have witnessed it himself?
Suspicion flared—a wild, electric thought struck.
"What if Ye Ruo's Barbatos in disguise?" a smith whispered.
Horror and wonder widened his eyes as it sank in.
"Living among us, guarding Mondstadt all along?" he stammered.
Barbatos, ever-present, a shadow in the breeze?
The notion thrilled them—their wind god so near.
"Always loving us, watching in secret," a florist sighed.
Debate erupted over the Windflower's true face.
"No clear pick—what's it supposed to be?" a kid pouted.
"Dandelion—tough, riding the wind afar," a brewer argued.
"No way—windmill flower's our free symbol!" a miller shot back.
"Look at Mondstadt's windmills—pure orthodoxy," he insisted.
"Cecilia flower fits—gentle and wild," a nun ventured.
"Cecilia? You're dreaming!" a farmer barked.
"Get real—no chance it's that!" another scoffed.
Voices clashed, each clinging to their bloom.
No record pinned it—history left them guessing.
Passions flared, a friendly war of petals.
At Ye Ruo's home, Noelle blinked, searching the quiet.
Her senior had vanished, leaving her puzzled.
She found him outside, chatting with an old man.
Curiosity tugged her closer, ears perked.
"Here's your signature, Wind Knight—four houses are yours," the man said.
Relief warmed his tone as he handed over deeds.
Noelle approached, bemusement creasing her face.
"Senior, more houses? That's ten now," she sighed.
Ye Ruo grinned, carefree as a spring gust.
"Mora's piling up—why let it sit?" he shrugged.
"Smash 'em down later—build a villa, a garden," he dreamed.
"This spot's huge—perfect for something grand," he added.
His wealth sprawled, a quiet empire in brick.
Novels fueled it—3,000 to 4,000 Mora a pop.
Most books hovered at 1,500, pricier ones hit 3,000.
It held true from Liyue to Inazuma—standard rates.
A hundred thousand copies? Three hundred million Mora.
Subtract printing, labor—still two hundred million left.
A golden craft, his quill spun riches.
The system thrummed, fame a gale at his back.
Mondstadt buzzed, caught in his woven past.
***
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