A Century-Long Soliloquy of Twin Dolls

"A puppet doesn't need tears."

The Raiden Shogun gazed down at the infant curled in her palm. He had skin no different from a human's, yet he had learned to cry the moment he was born. Her blade-sharp fingertip traced the puppet's chest, hollow as a dried-up well in the depths of winter. "Defective." The divine verdict struck like thunder, and she abandoned him at the Shakkei Pavilion. Maple leaves drifted down like blood. For the first time, the swaddled Scaramouche felt the weight of the world: it came not from the gaze of his creator, but from an unfamiliar voice suddenly sounding beside his ear.

"Don't be afraid. I'm here." A girl's murmur seeped into the depths of his consciousness like fireflies.

That was the soul of a girl from another world, Fu Hui. She had died in a car accident, and her consciousness had been swept into Teyvat, becoming a stubborn ray of light within Scaramouche's chaotic mind.

When Katsuragi's katana broke the seal of the Shakkei Pavilion, Scaramouche was staring blankly at the spiderwebs on the window lattice. "You should go with him," Fu Hui's voice said, clearer than the morning dew. The puppet froze, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the golden feather. For the first time, he made a choice "of his own": he took the samurai's hand and stepped into the world of mortals.

The furnace flames of Tatarasuna lit up the Wanderer's smiling face. As Niwa taught him to forge, Fu Hui hummed songs from another world in his mind. When Nagamasa scolded him for his clumsy dancing, she laughed more brightly than sparks flying from a blade. "Human emotions are like forging a blade. They need to be quenched before they take shape." She turned lines of poetry from her memories into words of wisdom.