What on earth were they looking at?
Seino Yaku could only guess. Along the path, he saw…things. They looked like marble statues, but the texture wasn't quite stone—there were no natural veins or reflective surfaces you'd see in rock.
Instead, these figures were formed by delicate crystalline grains.
Their bodies were stark white; the faces twisted with agony. Each wore the expression of someone contorted in pain—a hand stretched out desperately, muscles strained in a final, frantic gesture. It was all frozen forever here in the depths of the ruins.
Salt…? Could these be bodies turned to salt?
He tried cautiously touching one of the "statues," and at the lightest contact, it dissolved instantly—like fresh snow collapsing. Crystal grains scattered into the air, catching what little dim light there was.
Yes. This was indeed salt. Seino Yaku rubbed the residue on his fingertips. He frowned and looked ahead.
Farther down the long, ancient road stood more of these salt statues—rows upon rows of them, as if they were grave markers carved from salt, stretching on into the darkness. The entire place felt macabre and deathly silent, suffused with a cold, unsettling atmosphere.
Even Lumine, normally so fearless, had nothing witty to say in the face of such an eerie sight; she clutched the hem of Seino Yaku's shirt instinctively.
Recalling Zhongli's earlier remark about "the truth" being a punishment for Wanyan, Seino Yaku had a strong hunch: these weren't sculptures, but bodies.
Salt corpses.
He noticed each salt corpse still wore a weapon at its waist.
How had they come to be? He and Lumine exchanged a look without speaking, each suspecting the same grim possibility.
No wonder Zhongli had said that "the truth" would be a penalty harsh enough to break someone's spirit.
They quickened their pace, walking past one corpse after another, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous interior.
Eventually, they reached the heart of the ruins: a great hall encrusted with salt. Steps, roof beams, ceilings—everything was coated in a chalky layer of salt blooms. A single, sputtering torch cast a harsh white glare on this colorless scene.
"No…no…that can't be…"
Wanyan stood in the middle of the hall.
Seino Yaku watched her. Her cobalt-blue eyes, so bright with pride and energy just half an hour ago, now looked dull—ashen, like the rest of this place.
She kept mumbling, her lips cracking and white, the once-articulate tongue that had lashed out at others now unable to form a coherent sentence, only muttering over and over:
"Not…this can't be happening."
Following her line of sight, Seino Yaku saw a salt corpse struck in a bizarre pose, presumably male. Even as a featureless salt form, his expensive attire was just barely distinguishable, hinting at a position of high status among the Salt People.
His hands were raised as if gripping a sword, muscles straining from the effort of a forceful thrust. His features, though contorted in fury, were frozen that way.
But where was that sword?
Wanyan knew. Seino Yaku knew.
Her hands shook violently as she retrieved two broken shards of a blade from her coat. She'd guarded these fragments carefully in her arms. She had even broken her own word for them, convinced they were the God of Salt's sword. Now, she stared at them as though they were demonic.
Pure horror…unmatched terror.
And dizziness.
She staggered backward, falling to the floor. The two shards clattered down, and she scrambled away from them in a panic.
In her mind's eye, she could see the blade's tip still dripping with blood—vivid, crimson, horrifying—pouring out, threatening to engulf her.
It wasn't the despised Bosacius who had killed the God of Salt. It was the Salt People themselves, the very ones she had been so proud to descend from.
She wasn't the noble heir of the Salt People—she was the descendant of butchers.
"This is the blade the Salt People used to kill Havria," came Zhongli's calm voice behind her. "When Havria's form and spirit dissipated, her final moments became etched here. The divine power that spilled forth turned these rebels to salt. Fearing the god's remains might curse them, the Salt People returned, broke the sword, and enshrined the pieces here—hoping to appease her lingering wrath. But a deity so gentle she let herself be murdered by her own people…was she truly likely to curse them?"
No more explanations were needed. The silent scene spoke for itself.
For all Wanyan's rhetoric about seeking the absolute truth, now that she stood before that truth, she could no longer accept it.
She wasn't pursuing the actual truth—only the version that gratified her imagined ideals.
And so this devout, almost fanatical believer was forced to witness the collapse of everything she had believed in.
"Then how does Bosacius fit into this?" she murmured. "That so-called sinful immortal—didn't he massacre the Salt People? Wipe out Sal Terrae?"
Her faith lay in ruins, so she needed another thread to cling to—a scapegoat. Bosacius had to be the villain. He had to…
"Let me repeat what I've said," Zhongli replied, voice low. "Bosacius was never a traitor."
Silence.
Zhongli's gaze shifted slightly. At last, he went on, "On the contrary, Bosacius was likely the God of Salt's only friend."
Bosacius was the God of Salt's only friend.
Wanyan's heart felt as though it had stopped.
What…?
What, what, what…?
Friend?!
Bosacius was her only friend…?
"You call it 'massacre,' but it was more like vengeance, for the death of a friend," Zhongli said grimly. "He specifically hunted down and killed the conspirators who stabbed their own god, along with the leaders responsible. Apart from that, he spared anyone who was innocent—because Havria loved her people, and Bosacius respected his friend's feelings."
Zhongli left an unspoken detail, though:
By that time, Bosacius had nearly been consumed by karmic darkness, but despite that, he refused to harm the weak or innocent.
"Furthermore," Zhongli went on, "those old men, women, and children who lost Havria's protection needed a new home. Bosacius wrote them a letter of recommendation for Morax, urging them to settle in Liyue. Even though the Salt People had betrayed their god, Bosacius still took pains to ensure their survival."
Another fact remained unspoken: this letter was the final one Zhongli received from Bosacius. In other words, it was essentially Bosacius's last written words.
By the time the Salt People delivered it, Bosacius was dead.
Zhongli had never forgotten that letter, how unassuming and plain it was for a final testament, and that it hardly mentioned Bosacius himself at all—no personal regrets, no pleas. It spoke only, line by line, of the people.
Havria's people.
Liyue's people.
More akin to a love letter to the world than a will.
"He never betrayed anyone," Zhongli said, regarding Wanyan's near-hysterical eyes with composure. "Wanyan, he even did right by you, a descendant of Sal Terrae. In fact, it's because of him that you could become a scholar, study in Liyue without prejudice, and climb the ranks of Yinyuan Hall—only to stand here and hurl insults at Bosacius, calling him a traitor. Ironically, you owe that freedom to him."
What an absurd revelation.
Wanyan mumbled incoherently.
Zhongli explained calmly, "He knew that once news got out that the Salt People had murdered their own god, no country would trust them. Even if Morax took them in, ordinary citizens of Liyue might despise them. They'd face rejection and scorn. But in reality, you never did—did you, Wanyan?"
He exhaled softly. "That's because Bosacius made a new contract with them."
He bore the sin on himself—God of Salt's murder, Sal Terrae's destruction. He forced the Salt People to maintain that story. And in the letter to Morax, he demanded the same. It was the final, stubborn wish of a fool.
"This is the historical truth you sought," Zhongli concluded. His golden eyes settled on the trembling young woman, whose worldview was crumbling before her. "Yes, Morax rewrote history. Bosacius rewrote history too. They turned a hero into a villain. Half a month later, Bosacius died."
He paused, then said quietly:
"No one shed a tear for him."
And thus ended the punishment—Wrath of the Rock.
No…
No, it couldn't be.
Bosacius… was never a traitor?
They were the real betrayers.
He had helped them, endured their curses. He'd borne the world's revulsion so the Salt People could have a future.
Yet here she was, living off his sacrifice, smugly proclaiming her moral high ground—while slandering the very one who'd rescued her ancestors.
Such arrogance.
Such hypocrisy.
She was no historian. She was a fool—just like those rebels of two thousand years ago, who raised weapons against the god who had once cherished them.
Wanyan felt she no longer had the right to call herself a scholar.
This was truly the harshest punishment: in a mere instant, everything she believed in was shattered.
Her heart pounded frantically, as if trying to break free from her chest. Terror threatened to swallow her whole.
She trembled, tears stinging her eyes. She lifted a hand numbly to brush her cheek, feeling a chill.
What… was this?
Her body swayed. Her mind spun. She fought just to remain upright.
Finally, she realized:
They were tears.
Wanyan understood that tight, suffocating sensation in her chest—overwhelming regret, so deep it ached in her bones.
"I'm sorry…" she murmured, head hanging, biting her lip until it bled, her voice thick with sobs. "I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…"
"Forgive me…forgive me…"
Seino Yaku had observed everything in silence, listening as if a bystander.
He sensed that Zhongli's story was meant not just for Wanyan, but for him as well.
So, in his past life, he'd gone by Bosacius. What a complete fool, no wonder he ended up dead, Seino Yaku mused with a wry inner laugh. He, on the other hand, wouldn't be so stupid and had every intention of living a long time.
As for Wanyan, crying so desperately… Seino Yaku felt no particular bitterness about her. Once he died, he himself wouldn't care about any slander or curses.
He neither forgave nor resented her—he was simply indifferent.
He realized that in his current life, he found satisfaction in fulfilling these odd vows. Possibly, Bosacius had died content—heroic, in his own way. And Seino Yaku found that sort of death "cool," with no need to feel sad about it.
But Mr. Zhongli said, "This is the truth." Seino Yaku suspected there was more.
He remembered the vow's requirement to find the Salt Jar and Ruler, then "awaken her." The vow specifically referred to the God of Salt, Havria—meaning, apparently, Havria wasn't truly gone.
Yet Zhongli's account insisted she had perished.
Something else must have happened two thousand years ago—maybe Bosacius (his former self) had done even more than these revelations suggested.
The deeper truth lay hidden within the deeper truth…
The journey was over now, or so it seemed, and they prepared to leave the ruins. Wanyan, overcome by shame, had no wish to remain.
Zhongli reminded her of their new contract—that she keep the day's revelations buried in her heart, telling no one.
Half an hour ago, Wanyan had mocked it as a pathetic attempt at secrecy. But now, signing this new contract, she felt her heart convulse in pain. She understood all too well how heavy a price this promise carried: a curse on her conscience, symbolizing Bosacius's ultimate sacrifice.
She would bear that curse alone, unable to share it. The guilt would likely haunt her the rest of her days.
And so Wanyan departed by herself. The fading dusk spilled into fractured reds and golds across the sky, illuminating her lonely silhouette.
…
Before leaving, Seino Yaku finally voiced his confusion to Zhongli—without mentioning the vow:
"Mr. Zhongli, did the God of Salt truly…pass away?"
Did Havria really die?
Zhongli paused, as though pondering carefully, then answered, "By common wisdom, yes—that is so. Over two thousand years have passed since then, and no trace of her has ever been found."
A moment later, he revised his statement: "But conditions back then were extremely complicated. Even Morax himself found it difficult to be certain. As with any history, one should remain open-minded. It's possible… there's more to the story."
"Mr. Zhongli," Seino Yaku said earnestly, "this journey isn't over yet."
As twilight dimmed, the young man met Zhongli's gaze.
"I still have one last thing to do."
What else had truly occurred in Sal Terrae twenty-four centuries ago?
He glanced up at the sky.
Dark clouds gathered overhead, swirling with deep thunder. A storm seemed imminent in Sal Terrae.
It was raining again.
Bosacius tore his gaze away from the distance.
Recently, Sal Terrae had seen many rainy days—drizzles and heavier downpours. The roads turned muddy and slippery; a misty haze seemed to cloak the sky.
Night fell quickly in such weather.
He held a bamboo umbrella, raindrops pattering crisply on its edges. He paused, stepping along the narrow footpaths, and then continued onward.
[Remaining Lifespan: 30 Days]
He had just returned from Liyue, where he'd secretly visited the other yakshas again and performed the ritual—hopefully without them noticing.
He had also lingered briefly at Mt. Aocang—his home mountain—but chose not to ascend. Otherwise, he feared he might never leave.
All that extra karmic energy he'd consumed had simultaneously made him stronger, but if you ignored the side effects, it might've led him to surpass his current limits—enough to rival the ruling Archons in terms of power.
Of course, that was just fantasy.
He was on the brink of collapse at any moment.
Yet he felt content enough.
In Liyue's harbor markets, he had bought fresh sardines—Liyue was a port town, after all, known for the finest catch. Morax, that guy, never cared for fish… what a pity.
He was dying soon, so his mind wandered aimlessly to trivial things.
Raindrops clinked on the bamboo umbrella as he lifted the rim a bit, gazing into the rainy haze that shrouded Sal Terrae.
That clingy fool was in for a treat tonight.