Undercover in Snezhnaya, My Teyvat Spy Life [63]

“Doctor!!”

The lines on Varka’s face grew even deeper.

His earlier worries had finally come to pass.

The Doctor before him—

That unique round mask marked him as the so-called “Mad Medic” clone. An expert in Cryo manipulation. Rarely took action, but every time he did, the results were catastrophic.

Artem had speculated: this was one of the top three most dangerous segments of the Doctor. At the very least, someone approaching the power of a god.

And of all the Doctor’s clones, this one was the most deranged, the least inclined to see people as people.

In his eyes, humans were no different from machines—just parts, to be taken apart and put together at will.

His favorite pastime: dismantling a living person, reassembling them, and then enhancing the result with bizarre drugs or machinery.

He ran the Fatui’s human modification program. He’d started the conscription project in Mondstadt. The Mondstadt folk the Fatui rounded up? All ended up in his lab as “experimental material.”

A lunatic with overwhelming power, with nothing but malice for Mondstadt, now roaming free.

Varka’s every instinct screamed danger.

Compared to Artem, who had come seeking vengeance, the “Mad Medic” could devastate Mondstadt in a dozen ways. Make him angry, and the whole city could turn to ash.

That thought made Varka’s smile brittle. He changed his expression in a heartbeat, putting on a friendly face as he reached out his hand.

“So it’s The Doctor. Please forgive our poor hospitality.”

“What happened just now, all a misunderstanding—truly. We’re willing to compensate your soldier. Medical bills, emotional damages, whatever you ask. You have my word.”

The Doctor had no interest in shaking his hand. He just sneered, clearly impatient.

“Do whatever you like. I’m asking you: one, you killed my servant; two, you disrupted my experiment. How do you plan to settle that?”

“What are you rambling on for? Wasting my time.”

The sharpness in his words silenced the square.

Varka’s sudden, obsequious tone made it clear to everyone—this young Harbinger was not to be provoked. Far worse than any diplomat Snezhnaya had ever sent. The Grand Master, of all people, wanted nothing to do with him.

Varka’s face tightened.

He’d expected no courtesy from the Doctor. As Albert—Artem—had warned him, this man acknowledged no one but the Tsaritsa herself.

But with the Doctor pressing so hard for an answer, he realized just how much trouble he was in.

Varka regretted his earlier outburst bitterly. He should have waited for Albert to handle The Doctor before breaking things off.

Now, with Albert gone—no one to mediate between Mondstadt and the Fatui—he’d have to bleed for it.

---

The Artem, Varka was cursing, meanwhile, was hiking through the mountains with Eula.

Whatever was happening in Mondstadt was no longer his concern.

With The Doctor in town, he had the perfect shield.

As long as The Doctor was in Mondstadt, Varka had to keep every ounce of focus on him. Artem could have killed Seamus Pegg—or leveled the Knights’ headquarters—and still walked away untouched.

“Heh—”

Imagining Varka getting humiliated by the Doctor, Artem couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Eula turned, still absently kneading a Hydro Slime in her hands.

These little slimes weren’t dangerous—most people just used them as portable water sources out in the wild. Artem had told her they’d be roughing it for a few days, so she’d collected some: Hydro Slimes for water, Pyro Slimes for fire, Cryo Slimes for food preservation, and Anemo Slimes for quick escapes.

You just had to keep them separated—mixing them was a recipe for an explosion.

“Oh, just thought of something amusing.” Artem’s smile didn’t fade.

He’d finally uncovered his origins, understood why he’d been treated as a pariah despite his supposed genius, and found his father’s killer.

He couldn’t take his revenge yet, but the knot in his chest had finally loosened. The burden he’d carried was gone. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt at ease.

“What’s so funny? Let me in on it.” Eula tucked the slime into her bag and looked at him with curiosity.

“Varka’s about to get his ass kicked.” Artem’s words were blunt but positively cheerful.

“Oh.” Eula caught on and grinned. “Yeah, that is something to be happy about.”

After what she’d learned about the Lawrence clan and Artem’s history, she had nothing but contempt for the Knights. The only thing keeping her in Mondstadt was the word “hometown”—and maybe some guilt over Amber. Everything else, she’d already let go.

As for the “star from beyond” business, Artem hadn’t bothered hiding it from her. No real point—everyone in Teyvat knew of the Travelers.

And as for being a calamity? Eula couldn’t care less. Artem wasn’t her disaster, and that was all that mattered.

After several days of travel, they reached their destination: Brightcrown Canyon.

The winding valley opened onto a vast ancient ruin, encased in a wind barrier, with a solitary tower piercing the clouds at its heart.

It wasn’t Eula’s first time here, but she always found herself awed by the sheer scale and craftsmanship.

Seeing her get lost in the sight, Artem snorted. “You know who built these ruins?”

“Of course,” Eula replied, as if it were obvious. “Decarabian, Lord of the Tower of the Wind—called the Tyrant King.”

“Tyrant King?” Artem scoffed. “Tyrant, King of the Tower—history’s written by the winners.”

“Oh? You know about three thousand years ago, too? Tell me. I want to hear it.”

Eula was instantly interested—Decarabian’s story was ancient history, pieced together from dusty records and half-remembered songs. There weren’t many reliable sources left.

Artem strolled ahead, recounting a history almost no Mondstadt native knew.

“About three thousand years ago, Mondstadt was gripped by winter. Bitter cold covered the land, the north wind howling, freezing everything in its path.”

“In those harsh days, a god named Decarabian answered the prayers of Mondstadt’s ancestors, promising them shelter.”

“He used his power to build a tower and a city, shielding the land from the cold beyond.”

“He let refugees from the tundra into his city, made them his people, and together they built a prosperous city-state.”

Artem paused, voice heavy. “That city—these ruins you see before you.”

Eula, stunned, stared at the vast ruins—bigger than Mondstadt itself.

Artem continued. “Decarabian was proud, arrogant. Not like Barbatos, who listened to the people. He imposed his own ideals on his citizens.”

“In the Storm King’s city, everyone was assigned to the inner or outer ring—no snow, no want, but no freedom either.”

“Without freedom, reverence became resentment. From admiration, to hatred, to the endless branding of him as a tyrant.”

He snorted. “There’s an old Mondstadt verse: ‘The people bow before the King of the Tower not out of love, but because the wild wind won’t let them stand.’”

Artem laughed so hard he doubled over. “And people actually believed that for two thousand years.”

Eula gave him a look, but before she could speak, Artem wiped the tears from his eyes and went on, tone caustic.

“A god who built a city to shelter his people—supposedly just so he could watch them grovel? If the wind really kept everyone crawling, how did anyone live? Did they shuffle around on all fours?”

“What kind of idiot comes up with that excuse?”

“And Decarabian never kept his people prisoner. Anyone could leave if they wanted. How else did the ancestor of the Gunnhildr clan meet Barbatos out in the wild?”

“If Decarabian really was a despot, how did Barbatos ever overthrow him?”

“In the end, it was just a bunch of cowards. They begged for Decarabian’s protection, and then turned on him, blaming him for taking away their freedom. Too afraid to leave, they teamed up with an outsider and murdered the one who sheltered them.”

“And then they called him a tyrant, just to cover up their own betrayal.”

Eula stood silent, unable to settle her thoughts.

The people of Mondstadt had joined with Barbatos to kill their benefactor, branded him a monster, and kept the story alive for two thousand years.

It wasn’t just ingratitude—it was betrayal writ large.

Seeing Eula’s lost, conflicted face, Artem sighed. “You know? Decarabian was a god who truly loved his people.”

“He had many names—God of the North Wind, Lord of Tornadoes, King of Storms.”

“His power was immense. There was a Wolf of the North who challenged him, but try as it might, the wolf couldn’t break through the city’s wind barrier. It had to give up.”

“So how did Decarabian, so mighty, lose to Barbatos, who wasn’t even a true god at the time—just a mere wind spirit?”

After a long silence, Eula arrived at a conclusion even she found hard to believe. “You mean…he…he killed himself?”

“Regrettably, that’s almost certainly the case.” Artem gazed up at the tower, explaining calmly.

“When a god dies, they unleash a power mortals can’t withstand. Even the weakest god would drag everyone nearby down with them.”

“But when Decarabian died, not a single Mondstadt citizen perished. Barbatos, who was never a god before, suddenly inherited the title.”

“How do you explain that?”

“The only answer: Decarabian willingly gave up all his power and transferred his divinity to Barbatos.”

“He held no grudge.”

“You were in the Knights; you must have heard of the legends from Inazuma’s Yashiori Island. Compare that to these ruins—do you see any traces of lingering resentment?”

Eula swallowed hard. “Then why did he do it?”

Artem gave her a long look, speaking with quiet weight.

“I told you—Decarabian was a god who loved his people.”

Eula understood. And found herself lost for words.

A god who’d only ever tried to help—defamed as a tyrant for millennia, just because his way of loving wasn’t what his people wanted.

Is there any justice in this world? Any law?

As they spoke, the pair reached the edge of the wind barrier.

Artem stopped, staring at the magical wall blocking their way. He drew the [Skyward Blade]—taken from Seamus Pegg—and slashed downward.

Under the power of its twin, the wind barrier ripped open.

Eula followed Artem, stepping into the ruins of the Storm King’s city—what today’s maps call Stormterror’s Lair.

Staring up at the sprawling ruins, Eula was left breathless.

But Artem wasn’t here for the view. He raised a hand, releasing ten orange orbs.

With a flick of his wrist, the orbs scattered—some drifting toward the bridges, some clinging to the tower.

Bombs, all set.

Artem turned to Eula, voice gentle.

“Stand behind me. Cover your ears.”

Eula obeyed without question.

Artem snapped his fingers.

The explosions thundered across the ruins, mushroom clouds blooming skyward. The shockwaves rolled over them like tidal waves.

Artem raised a wall of wind before them. No matter how the waves battered them, he stood firm.

Eula, sheltering behind him, watched in stunned silence as the ruins collapsed under the endless barrage.

Such beauty, destroyed—her heart ached. She almost asked why Artem would do this.

But before she could speak, a dragon’s agonized roar tore through the air.

A colossal, six-winged dragon burst from the tower, scales shining turquoise, feathers and armor gleaming. A purple crystal glowed at its throat. Every beat of its wings sent tempests ripping through the ruins.

The dragon wheeled overhead, shrieking in fury and pain, searching for something.

After a dozen circles, finding nothing, it grew even more frenzied. With a piercing cry, it turned and sped toward Mondstadt.

Watching Stormterror’s silhouette vanish in the distance, Artem’s smile twisted.

“So you say I’m a calamity?”

“I’ll show you calamity, then—”

---

T/N: LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOO NOW WAYYYY

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!