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Her name is Ai Kefei. This name is like a flower raised in the night, with chill and fragrance, destined not to bloom in the daytime.
She is a woman from Teyvat, but she does not belong to anyone. She was born in the dream of a foreign sea, but was destined to fall into the coldest reality in the world, living step by step.
She has no past, she only remembers that when she woke up, there was fine snow in the sky, the crystal beach under her body, and a emerald conch in her fingertips – she knew that it was called the beryl conch, which was her first destined sacrifice.
Fate never gives people choices, only paths.
Some people ascend to the throne of God by blood talent, but she can only rely on collecting, sacrificing and stacking, forging her own value in every cold night.
She wants to become stronger, not to conquer anyone, but not to be swallowed. This world is too cold, even the wind is like a rusty knife, grinding marks on the skin.
Aikefei knew that to live as herself, she had to live as a “character” first.
She started her first ceremony – to reach level 90. It took six breakthroughs, and each time she had to peel off a layer of skin in a bloody way.
She was not a human, but a monster made of gears and secret source gas throats. Her heartbeat was struck by mechanical spur gears. Her blood was a liquid fused with polluted water and holy dew drops.
She wanted 168 beryl conches.
She went to the beach to pick them up at night, and her nails were scratched by the reefs and bled. Her skirt was soaked, sticking to her skin, with a layer of sea salt. But she didn’t cry out for the cold, she just softly chanted the spell in her mother tongue. She said: “Every conch is a night of tenderness I lost.”
She needed 1,672,000 experience and 7.05 million Mora.
She once thought that love was priceless, but later she realized that Mora was the most ruthless lover. If you can afford it, he will smile. If you have nothing in your pocket, he will turn around and leave.
She brushed dungeons until her fingertips were covered with calluses; she played Zhou dungeons until her back was bleeding; she upgraded her talents until her eyes were confused. She gritted her teeth and read through the “Philosophy of Justice” one by one. But she knew in her heart that justice was never for understanding, but for use.
She was not a scholar, but an alchemy furnace, a sacrifice, and an immortal flower made from living people.
The weapon she wanted was called “Fragrant Music Player”. A magic weapon, like a beautiful dream, relying on “the dregs of pure holy dew drops” to make the dream frame, “the alien sea condensed beads” to make the dream core, and then using polluted water to wash away the impurities in the dream.
She refined for nine days and nine nights, and every time she refined, a piece of the butterfly wings behind her disappeared. When she finished, all the feathers on her body were gone, leaving only bare shoulders and the cold and sweet magic weapon.
She wanted to upgrade her skills to level 10. She wanted 9 books of “Teachings of Justice”, 63 books of “Guidance of Justice”, 114 books of “Philosophy of Justice”, and 3 crowns of wisdom.
She once asked the gods what justice was. No one responded. She stopped asking and just collected and piled up. She said, “If the gods are silent, I will sublimate myself.”
She was like a silent statue, cutting herself into materials and kneading a whole life into a cold character panel.
Some people laughed at her stupidity and asked why she didn’t take a new role, clean and easy, without having to suffer so much.
She just smiled, with light in her eyes.
She said, “What you see is the number, what I see is myself. Every time I level up, I break a little bone out of that old dream.”
Later, she finally reached the maximum level. She stood under the snow-capped mountains, her white dress was like the moon, and her magic weapon was like a star.
As she waved her hand, the light of the ice element broke through the sky, and with one blow, the monster was reduced to ashes. People exclaimed: “She is so strong.”
But she just whispered: “I can finally stand and talk.”
This world will not remember what she has paid. It will not remember her tears when she brushed the gears at night, nor will it remember the spells she chanted in front of the altar. The world will only remember the results, and will only remember that she is now a five-star, strong, and can be recommended to others as “worthy of cultivation”.
She stopped talking. She stood on the top of the mountain, looking at the bright lights in the distance, and suddenly seemed to remember something.
“I am just your illusion.”
The wind blew away her voice, leaving only the magic weapon still ringing – that was the sound of the gears turning, the sound she refined from countless fragments.
The voice was soft and cold, like herself.
Like a character, like a woman, like a disappearance that no one knows after blooming.