Undercover in Snezhnaya, My Teyvat Spy Life [64]

After the Dragon of the East flew off, the storm gradually subsided.

Silence returned.

The vast ruins of the Storm King’s city—no, they called it Stormterror’s Lair now—were in a state far worse than anything you’d see in the game.

Artem’s calculations had been precise. Every bomb had been placed to trigger the maximum chain reaction. With Alice’s handmade explosives, it had only taken ten to nearly obliterate the entire ruin.

Even Decarabian’s once-mighty tower was riddled with holes.

Of the devastation now on display, Artem alone was responsible for at least seventy percent. The rest? The wrath and anguish of Stormterror—Dvalin—had taken care of that.

“…Was that just now—?”

Eula still hadn’t quite recovered from the shock. The sight of the Dragon of the East's power and sheer destructive force had left a deep impression on her.

“That’s the Dragon of the East, Dvalin, the one the Knights of Favonius love to praise so much.” Artem couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “But as for whether it’s the faithful Four Winds Guardian of Mondstadt, or just a monster bringing storms and calamity—who can say now?”

Seeing Dvalin in its current state, Artem had no doubt: when it swept over Mondstadt, people would see a monster, not a guardian. Even with Varka and the Gunnhildr clan to vouch for its identity, that wouldn’t save it.

No amount of explanation would help.

Mondstadt had always been like this.

They only cared that, thanks to Dvalin’s rampages, they couldn’t leave the city, couldn’t work, couldn’t even get a drink.

When Dvalin bled for Mondstadt, they called it the Dragon of the East, offered it praise and love.

When it brought disaster, they’d insist it had fallen, forgotten the Anemo Archon and Mondstadt, and slap the label “Stormterror” on it without a second thought.

Not even the Knights could defy public opinion.

Unable to kill Dvalin, the Knights—ostensibly fellow guardians—would have to drive it away by force. That sense of being abandoned, the grief of a forgotten protector, would only worsen the pain of Abyssal poison, and drive Dvalin to the brink of true madness.

The dragon disaster would never end—at least, not before the Anemo Archon returned.

As for Varka somehow talking Dvalin down?

Artem didn’t worry.

With the Doctor in town stirring the pot, Dvalin would only grow more agitated—he was even more effective than an Abyss mage’s whispers.

The thought made Artem suddenly spread his arms wide, yelling up at the tower.

“Hey—Barbatos!”

“Your friend is suffering from Abyssal poison, forgotten by your people, even hunted by the Knights of Favonius—the other so-called Four Winds Guardian!”

“This is when he needs you most. Where are you?”

The ruins echoed with his voice, “Where are you, where are you,” but no answer came.

Eula looked at Artem, bewildered, not understanding his intentions.

“Come on, there’s one more thing to fetch.” Artem seemed in excellent spirits after his little speech.

Eula scratched her head and followed, still puzzled. “What was that just now?”

“Waking the Anemo Archon.” Artem didn’t even look back.

“Waking the Anemo Archon?” Eula was even more lost. How did he know where the wind god was? You just shout and hope for the best?

“Heh.” Artem just grinned, evasive. “Not something you’d understand. Even if I explained, it'd be hard to understand.”

With that, he gave a whistle and hurried on ahead.

“Hey, at least explain yourself before you run off!” Eula stomped after him, half annoyed, half amused. This guy, always leaving her in the dark, was really asking for trouble.

Their next destination: Wolvendom.

Artem’s target was a certain weapon stored there—a sword once belonging to the The Knight of Boreas, Ravenwood. In-game, it was known as “[Wolf’s Gravestone].”

Legend had it, the sword had been an ordinary greatsword from a blacksmith’s forge—until the time Ravenwood spent with Andrius, the Wolf of the North Wind, had imbued it with the wolf’s blessing. It had become a blade rivaling even the Skyward series—exactly the greatsword Artem needed.

Ever since his fight with Varka, Artem had realized how lacking his armory was. The bow Arlecchino had dubbed [Meteorfall] was certainly a mighty weapon, but a bow was still a bow—hopeless up close. His stalemate with Varka had relied on Varka holding back and the trickery of his bow techniques.

Though Artem prided himself on mastering all weapons, his best close-quarters style was his two-handed, greatsword adaptation of Favonius Swordsmanship. The only problem: he’d never had a greatsword worthy of it.

[The Wolf’s Gravestone] had tempted him for a long time.

Now, with Mondstadt in chaos, he was free to go claim it.

On the way to Wolvendom, Artem didn’t waste time with sightseeing. He devoted every spare moment to teaching Eula everything he’d learned about improving the Favonius sword style.

And Eula was a prodigy.

She grasped each point at once, rarely needing a second explanation. She’d fused her clan’s ceremonial dances with royal sword techniques as a child—now, under Artem’s guidance, her skill soared to new heights. In their sparring, Artem had to take her seriously.

As they traveled through forest and field, they glimpsed Dvalin several more times. From its frenzied behavior, it was obvious: the former Dragon of the East Wind was being driven mad by pain.

Dvalin unleashed the power and authority once given by the wind god, raging across Mondstadt in wild destruction. Forests and homes alike were swept away by its storms.

The devastation dwarfed anything in the game—no comparison between the “Stormterror” there and this living disaster.

Artem’s sharp eyes caught sight of fresh wounds on Dvalin’s body. Deep, bloody cuts—the exact shape left by the Doctor’s signature ice lances.

“So The Doctor got involved? Then he and Varka must’ve gone at it.”

Artem was delighted by the thought. With the Mad Medic’s strength, a poisoned and half-insane Dvalin wouldn’t stand a chance. But the dragon was still flying wild—clearly, the Doctor hadn’t captured it. That could only mean Varka had gotten in the way.

He could only guess at how that fight had gone.

The ideal? Those two tearing each other apart, both ending up the worse for wear.

If they both died, all the better.

Not that he believed he’d get that lucky.

“Mondstadt…” Artem was lost in thought, picturing Varka getting pounded, when he noticed the worry in Eula’s eyes.

Having seen Dvalin’s destructive power firsthand, she couldn’t help but fear for Mondstadt’s safety.

Artem lay on the grass, chewing a blade of grass, arms behind his head, voice full of schadenfreude. “Who cares? This is Varka’s precious Dragon of the East Wind. Whatever happens, he’s stuck with it.”

Eula sat beside him, shaking her head. “I’m just worried about the innocent people who’ll get caught up in this disaster.”

“Isn’t it a good thing for those idiots to suffer?” Artem shot back, irritated. “Have you forgotten how they slandered you last time?”

He scowled. “If I hadn’t been with you, you’d have taken all the blame for nothing.”

That shut Eula up. After a moment, she mumbled, “But your father always told you, didn’t he—not to hurt the innocent?”

“Innocent?” Artem’s tone turned cold. “Are they really innocent?”

“If it weren’t for trying to protect them, would I have been lied to for years by Varka and Seamus? Would my old man have died with his eyes open?”

“There’s a saying where I’m from: in an avalanche, no single snowflake is innocent.”

“This is just the interest.”

“The real payment comes later.”

Eula didn’t reply. Her face took on a distant, thoughtful look.

After a moment, she squeezed Artem’s hand—a silent gesture of understanding.

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This is a fan translation of 提瓦特之我在至冬做臥底 by 曉風殘月聽荷 All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!