Mitya

Regular theatergoers across Snezhnaya know the scene well. Beyond the familiar stars gracing the stage, there is always an eye-catching spectator in the audience. Sporting an unmistakable hairstyle, a lively scarf draped over his shoulders, and a notebook clutched in hand, he can also sometimes be found fleeing the scene, a towering, stern-faced officer hot on his heels. His conspicuous, comical antics easily rival those of an obscure performance artist, while his close ties to the troupe's two lead performers make him look like one of their peers. What is more, some even guess he might be a writer or some kind of researcher. After all, ordinary people don't usually go around clutching a notebook and burying themselves in writing. Naturally, the remark only drew laughs from those nearby, who scoffed that great Snezhnaya's researchers were meant to be solemn and dignified, not the sort with such a restless demeanor. Little did they know that the man right before their eyes was none other than Mitya, an energy specialist of brilliant mind and boundless zest for life, who nevertheless spent his days buried in urgent work while actively avoiding it. Still, Mitya had to admit that he had troubles of his own. Why was such a diligent researcher always being hunted down by a terrifying "demon king"? And so, after watching a performance of The Firebird, Mitya slipped yet another letter of self-defense into the end of his report to his superiors, which read as follows: "Snezhnaya is so vast. How could anyone lock a man away in a cage called a schedule? "The spark of science is more elusive than the Firebird itself, so how could anyone dream of tracking it down by merely languishing at a desk? "The golden apple is nature's finest creation, so how could it ever fall into the hands of those who let the colors of the world pass them by?" To this, Supervisor Snegiryov, tasked with reviewing experimental data and procedures, penned his reply: "Noted. This passage does not belong in a research report and has been forwarded to Major Valeriy. Furthermore, The Firebird is primarily a celebration of vitality and love. Between the two, you have no shortage of the former, and no use for the latter at this stage. Make sure you actually understand a work before quoting it. Do this again, and I won't be getting you any more tickets. Sincerely."

Mitya had a happy childhood. His good fortune began in Teplo Oasis, where sweeping fields, pastoral scenery, and simple, honest folk rarely found in this frozen realm freely nourished the little beetroot. In his memory, the rolling wheat was a golden expanse made for running wild, and welcoming peddlers were always arriving with curious treats. Madame Sezhna's juices and pastries smelled richly of honey, while his father's study, piled high with blueprints, became an everyday playground under Mitya's own "diligent research." The world was wonderful, except that life was so predictable it ended up feeling a bit dull. "Life is good, but it would be even better if something new happened." Leaning on the windowsill of Mr. Urkin's workshop, little Mitya made his wish to the spinning gears... As if in answer to his wish, a small ripple stirred in his life... Like every other morning, little Mitya ducked through his Domovoy neighbor's door to help Mr. Urkin pick the day's fruit and dump it all into the juicing machine. But today, Mr. Urkin caught his arm. Only then did Mitya notice that the workshop seemed far too quiet. "Hold on, leave the fruit for today. The machine's busted, so take a breather for a couple of days." "Dear Mitya! I've got your favorite biscuits right here. Come have some!" Madame Sezhna called out from the back room... One day passed, then two, then three... Mr. Urkin and Madame Sezhna were as gentle as ever, but Mitya could sense the worry and gloom quietly creeping across their brows. "When will it be fixed?" "In a couple of days. As soon as the repairman arrives, everything will be back to normal. I'll let you know then, and we'll pick fruit together again." That same conversation was repeated again and again, and Mitya walked back and forth between the village entrance and the workshop over and over. The familiar rumble never returned, and fewer and fewer traveling merchants came knocking. A repairman? Mitya never saw a trace of one. Through the careless whispers of his playmates, he slowly pieced together the truth. The Domovoy couple had run into real trouble. Without the fragrant scent of fruit, their little family winery could scarcely draw any customers. Little Mitya did not yet understand why the gang bosses, who were itching to monopolize the liquor trade, kept blocking repairmen from coming to help. To him, this was just a small problem brought on by a careless wish. In that case, he would simply put it right himself. Yet what could a child's two hands do against such complicated machinery? Mitya turned it over in his mind... Perhaps what his father had taught him could come in handy? And so, a storm swept through the room, turning the study into a chaotic mess. Outside the door to this new "storage room," Mitya's parents quietly watched on... "Our little beetroot has real talent. He'll pull it off, won't he?" "It won't be easy. I checked the machine on the sly. Someone deliberately wrapped beet fibers around the shaft until it jammed tight, and cleaning it out is no easy task." Mitya's father paused before adding, "Besides, what if he actually fixes it, and those bootleggers come looking for trouble?" "You can't keep the beets from sprouting just because you're scared of a few birds. Besides, if even you couldn't fix it, who'd ever believe a child did it?" "Haha, true enough. Since he's got both the talent and the interest, why not let him give it a shot?" From that day on, Mitya had a "mentor," and two figures, one tall and one small, became a familiar sight in the workshop. ... After another fruitless attempt, his father began gathering the scattered tools. Beside him, Mr. Urkin sighed softly, silently bracing himself for the worst. A dead silence hung over the dim shed, until a jarring, raspy rattle suddenly tore right through it. Right behind it came a sharp, brittle snap, followed by the high-pitched whine of the juicer's main shaft spinning at high speed. By the time the two adults rushed over, a thin haze of icy white powder was drifting through the workshop. Mitya stood beside the running machine, rubbing his cold, reddened hands. Before him, freed at last from the tangled fibers, the machine once deemed beyond saving was running smoothly. Looking at the refrigerant packaging discarded on the floor, his father understood at once what had happened. True, when soaked with water, the fibers were naturally tough and stubborn to cut. But what if that moisture was taken away and they were frozen solid? At that point, with no need for any extra handling, the sheer power of the machine alone could easily shatter them to pieces. The principle was simple enough, but turning it into a workable solution called for not only talent, but every bit as much ingenuity and courage. And what about little Mitya? He seemed neither overjoyed like Urkin, nor eager to show off as his father had expected. He simply gazed in silence at the spinning mechanisms, his clear eyes reflecting the faint gleam of whirling metal. His father could never have guessed that within that small chest, a young, vibrant heart was pulsing along with the wild energy driving the machine.

Wisdom is oil-soaked kindling that takes only a single spark to burst into furious flame. And the Armory Palace, where the brightest minds in Snezhnaya gathered, was an ammunition depot, waiting only for the firing pin meant for it. The one who detonated this "depot" was not some eminent scientific giant. He was just an ordinary specialist whom the Energy Commission couldn't wait to ship off just to buy some peace and quiet. And yet, he had unwittingly lit the dawn of a "new era." During his first few months reporting to Glupov, Mitya had yet to make much of a mark. Most of his colleagues' impressions went little beyond "cheerful and friendly," "easy to get along with," "exceptionally capable," and "keeps an odd scarf for a companion." These judgments are superficial, certainly, but only to be expected. In this sunless prison where pressure formed the bars and deadlines the shackles, everyone had their hands full just looking after themselves, let alone sparing the energy to dig into a newcomer's past. After nearly two weeks of exhausting overtime, someone staring down at the cafeteria's potatoes and rye bread finally let out a weary complaint: "The same old menu again! *sigh* I could really go for some Snowrealm Okroshkas. I still miss how every single spoonful had a completely different texture. If only I could have a spoonful right this second..." "I know the recipe, and we're not short on ingredients," a colleague chimed in casually. "Only problem is, the process is way too much hassle. You'd need specialized cookware just to simmer a clear broth, and I doubt the Fatui cooks keep that sort of thing around." "Forget about it," someone nearby shot it down. "If Sereda really had kitchenware like that, we wouldn't be stuck eating nothing but rye bread and potatoes. Come on, let's go. We still have two lab reports to turn in." Just as everyone was chatting, a rich, savory aroma drifted over and wafted into everyone's nostrils. They looked up to see the newcomer from the Energy Commission cradling a bowl of hot soup no one could name, while his "scarf" companion waved enthusiastically at everyone staring their way. It was a warm, clear broth. It was neither the Snowrealm Okroshkas they had just been craving nor the familiar borscht everyone grew up with, yet it was still enough to drive the whole room wild. After peppering him with questions, they finally pieced together how the hot soup was made. Mitya had first used a thermal reactor to simmer and stir the ingredients down into a liquid, then run it through a centrifuge to spin out the fat and bone fragments. A few more steps like that, and out came the finished bowl sitting right before their eyes. Everyone was stunned. So it could be done in that way? And right there in the Armory Palace, the ammunition depot called "wisdom" was detonated at last. That night, the thermal reactors and centrifuges in the lab roared without pause. The air was rich not just with the mouthwatering aroma of soup, but with the researchers' long-suppressed creativity, none more so than Mitya's. Yet once the revelry died down, the Security Department was quick to call them to account. Confronted with the charges, Mitya was far from repentant. Having gotten a taste of it, he only took things further, launching fresh attempts to break free from this regimented existence. This sharp "tremor" rippled outward from the Armory Palace, carrying so far that even "The Jester," Director of the Fatui, felt a faint stir. ... More than half a year later, after stirring up a string of disturbances, Mitya was ushered into the office, where the Jester's desk was already piled high with his letters of defense. "So, Mr. Mitya, I still fail to see what the attendance policy has to do with hot soup." Swatting away the "scarf" as it tried to cover his mouth, Mitya replied with utter conviction: "Lord Jester, if our attendance policy were a little more reasonable, everyone would be far more productive, which is surely what you want to see. Look, thanks to my appeals, everyone has gotten so much more creative. They even figured out how to make ice cream with a compressor! That right there is living proof of how the attendance policy holds people back." The Jester knew full well that when it came to Mitya alone, a little flexibility with attendance might genuinely boost his efficiency. He had read Mitya's research reports, and the results spoke for themselves. Yet brilliance and eccentricity often went hand in hand, and Mitya stirred up several times more trouble and disruption than anyone around him. He led the charge in flouting rules, altered schedules on a whim, skipped work, and gave the Fatui the slip to travel alone. Every one of these habits posed no small risk to workplace morale and operational security. "I have heard your case. I will give it serious consideration." Once Mitya had left the office, the Jester summoned his secretary and handed down his decision: "From now on, as long as they don't cross the line, you may simply look the other way on minor matters like this." "And... My Lord, should we still have someone tailing Mitya?" "That won't be necessary." The Jester considered this for a moment, then lifted the steaming cup from the corner of his desk and blew gently across the rim: "Still, just as he argued in his report, he needs a few 'ripples' to produce his best work. We might as well offer a little help. Have Major Valeriy take charge of this."

"Hey, Mitya! Those days are over. No more running off to fool around whenever you feel like it! Now hand over that escape formula!" According to Mitya's notes, that seemed to be his very first impression of Valeriy. As it turned out, while this account was riddled with bias, the escape formula itself was undeniably real, governed by several criteria: First, an escape needed dense crowds to throw off pursuit, which made a bustling central train station the ideal choice. Second, gathering ample intel beforehand was essential. For example, lying low at the Podvorye Restaurant required knowing the guards' shift rotations and patrol routes inside out. Finally, and most important of all, the hideout had to offer rich "color" and plenty of personal space, so that nothing and no one could interrupt you whenever a burst of inspiration hit. Thanks to this formula, Mitya had always held the upper hand when tangling with the rest of the Fatui. This is probably why, when facing the newly arrived Valeriy, Mitya felt bold enough to deliver that classic line: "First, you have to catch me." Of course, the "Special Assignments Battalion Leader" didn't give Mitya that chance. That day, he changed the guards' patrol routes and took up the pursuit. Faced with this sudden strike, Mitya pulled out his best trick. Before his pursuers could close the net, he spun on his heel and plunged straight into the massive street festival along the road. By his calculations, the Fatui had to keep a low profile, so they would never dare use force out in the open. Their hesitation would buy him a few precious minutes, just enough time to adjust his plan and slip away. Yet he had overlooked one key confounding variable: Street gatherings like this usually had a specific purpose. Right at the heart of his makeshift haven stood an unassuming sign: "A Fan Panel on the Classics of the Korolevskiy Troupe." Unfortunately, things had strayed into territory Mitya knew nothing about. Worse still, his restless movements caught the eye of the host, who pegged him as a "diehard fan" eager to speak his mind, and enthusiastically invited him onto the stage. Any other escape artist would probably have slipped away right then and there. But the man standing in the square today was Mitya, a young fellow who hated turning anyone down and was always eager to join in the fun. Blowing his cover meant getting caught, but letting the crowd down bothered him far more. So, the moment their eyes met, Mitya strode forward without a second thought and stepped right up onto the stage. ... "You were terrible up there! Nothing but tired clichés straight out of the papers. Anyone can see you've never watched a play in your life, and you just threw away a golden opportunity! Here, take this ticket. Both Miss Odette and Miss Vodyanitsa will be performing, so you go and get yourself a proper education! Keep your eyes wide open, and watch with your heart for once!" Unfortunately for Mitya, Supervisor Snegiryov happened to be right there in the crowd. As an ardent lover of the arts, he had watched the entire disastrous interview. Half exasperated and half furious, he shoved a set of tickets into Mitya's hands. And just like that, left with no room to argue, Mitya found himself bewilderedly in a blue velvet seat inside this temple of high art. "Looks lovely, sounds wonderful, and fits right in with the theater's refined atmosphere. Couldn't make heads or tails of it, though." That was Mitya's very first note on this artistic experiment. The pages that followed were packed with derivation formulas, diagrams, and calculations, yet you wouldn't find a single word about the art on stage. Without question, if measured against Snegiryov's expectations, the experiment was a total failure that "yielded no valid conclusions." Yet from the broader perspective of the Armory Palace's plans and Mitya's own standpoint, it seemed a genuine success and was worthy of being labeled "the discovery and articulation of core principles." The researcher observed that the theater perfectly met all three criteria laid out in Mitya's escape formula: Dense crowds to blend into, advance tickets required at the door which kept the Fatui from swarming in after him, and an environment offering both rich inspiration and personal privacy. Of course, the researcher also noted in his log: "A conclusion can only be considered valid once repeated trials have confirmed its reproducibility." And so, after slipping past the guards once again, Mitya slid smoothly into his theater seat, and thus began a new round of experiments. From that day on, the theater gained a loyal, if peculiar, regular. The second time, the third, and through the countless visits that followed, whatever was performed or sung on that stage never seemed to leave much of an impression on him. Yet one thing was certain. Each time he settled into his seat, the notebook he kept for inspiration was sure to gain plenty of fresh ink.

Mitya was a rather unusual young man, the sort who never failed to leave quite an impression on those around him. It was he who sparked the Energy Commission's desperate craving for peace and quiet. It was he who showed Valeriy just how much earnest dedication and ingenuity a brilliant researcher could pour into dodging check-ins. And this time, Snezhnaya's Prima Donna was about to experience the lecture known as "Mitya." Picture this: For a celebrated singer who had won over countless fans through talent, what could be stranger than seeing someone in the audience staring only at a notebook and never watching the performance? In fact, there was. While he never truly listened to the singing, this man bought a ticket to every performance without fail. Whether people dropped subtle hints or told him straight out that it was bad manners, he was always in his seat, and never listened for once. He could scarcely recall what was on the program, and he always had a Fatui officer in tow. Who knew what to make of him? A devoted audience, yet utterly deaf to her singing and downright rude! Vodyanitsa certainly had words for him, but she couldn't be too harsh. The lady singer had a discreet identity of her own that she could hardly afford to compromise. The silent standoff between the prima donna and her insolent patron was finally called out by the dancer Miss Odette, who found the whole thing neither surprising nor offensive. "Why trouble yourself? At least his scarf has lovely manners, and it's not as though our audience has shrunk." How could any self-respecting artist simply let such a thing slide? Detective Miss Water Imp instantly decided to entrust the investigation to Alyosha, her fellow Rokot member adept at hunting. "At ten in the morning, the 'Nochhornowl' avoided the sight of the 'Bear,' scaled the outer wall, and slipped away from the 'Nest'..." In an overlooked corner backstage at the theater, Alyosha was sharing his latest observation notes on Mitya with Vodyanitsa. "Slipping out of the Armory Palace without even using the front gates? I knew there was something suspicious about him." "At eleven, the 'Nochhornowl' arrived at the Podvorye Restaurant and took a seat at an occupied table. The two talked back and forth quite a bit throughout the meal..." That second note only convinced Vodyanitsa that she was spot on about Mitya: "What normal person hits it off like that with a stranger? He was definitely meeting a contact!" Before Alyosha could read another word, Vodyanitsa cut him off one step ahead. "And next came the three o'clock show, didn't it? I saw it all from the stage! Just like always, he kept his head buried in that notebook and scribbling away. If you ask me, the man is a Fatui spy sent here specifically to dig into us." Alyosha took the opportunity to add, "Oh, and one more thing! When the performance was over, Mitya went to see Mr. Kuzmichev. He tore a page from his notebook and handed it to him. I couldn't get very close, but I could make out it was covered in strange symbols that made no sense at all." "Mitya is one thing, but I order from Mr. Kuzmichev all the time and know the man well. There is no way our blacksmith is a 'hound'." Alyosha finished his report in a low voice and fell silent. Ever the keen observer, he could tell at a glance that Vodyanitsa was already swept away by the hunt — caught between the fever of cornering an adversary and the smug satisfaction of uncovering the truth. Our Miss Water Imp, now perched on a wooden crate and swinging her legs, insisted that Alyosha invite Mitya, the Fatui spy, backstage under the guise of picking a lucky audience member. Whatever that wretched villain was up to, the Rokot would surely crush him. A few days later, Mitya made his way backstage, clutching a heavy wooden crate to his chest. His expression was grave, his steps staggering under the weight. Vodyanitsa's eyes narrowed... He was definitely carrying something explosive! Ha! It was straight out of the fae gangs' playbook! But did this scrawny boy really have the nerve to detonate it? Vodyanitsa adjusted the folds of her skirt, then turned to welcome her devoted fan. In her mind, she had him pegged as a frail little informant, an artless boor with no ear for music, and a contemptible sneak. Yet she still took his hand in both of hers and gave it an earnest shake. She had heard he played the part of a fan to sheer perfection, so much so that the host of a recent street event had actually invited him on stage to say a few words. Mitya set the wooden crate down and brushed off his coat. They say that speaking first means surrendering the high ground in a conversation, but that sort of logic was completely lost on him. Instead, he just looked around backstage and said happily, "Whoa, you figured it out before I even mentioned it! As expected of real hunters, nothing gets past you, huh?" With that, he casually flipped open the lid. "Now, this right here is a 'gift' I brought for everyone. There's plenty to go around, even for the little dog over there! Don't worry, it's completely 'safe' and 'clean'." An azure glow flared through the crack, and Vodyanitsa's eyes went wide. Was this pint-sized spy really reckless enough to set off a bomb with no regard for his own life? On pure reflex, she drew a deep breath, an ear-piercing sonic blast poised to tear straight from her throat... Suddenly, an ice-cold hand reached out from the dark and clamped hard over Vodyanitsa's mouth. In sheer horror, the Water Imp saw that the dancer Odette was half hidden in the shadows. The Fatui were skilled at weaponizing just about anything, and Odette was particularly adept at turning backstage props into razor-sharp blades. Yet right in that moment, both leading ladies stood frozen to the spot. They had given up on running, or perhaps forgotten to even try. Alyosha, standing closest of all, could only stare as his wide pupils mirrored that serene, lovely, and stubbornly unexploding blue glow. With a helping hand from his "scarf," Mitya pulled two handcrafted Prime Ice cups from the wooden crate. Then two more. And then two more... "Aren't these beauties? One for Alyosha and one for me, one for the pup and one for the scarf, one for Miss Vodyanitsa and one for Miss Odette! I even bought an extra one for that gentleman who follows me around every day. You've probably seen him, right? Really tall fellow... Wait, why is nobody saying anything?" In the dead silence that followed, Alyosha picked up one of the cups and examined it closely. The patterns carved into its surface were an exact match for the sketches on that sheet of paper he had seen that day. "Do these numbers and symbols actually mean something?" "That's the introduction to my research paper. Don't worry, all sensitive content has been censored." "A paper? But why?" Alyosha's confusion visibly deepened. "Hehe, to boost its 'sip-tation' count, obviously!" After another beat of awkward silence, Mitya and his scarf reached up together to scratch his mop of fluffy, cabbage-leaf hair. "No way, was it really that bad? I only just heard it from a colleague..."

"Dear Mom and Dad..." A single sheet of stationery lay quietly on Mitya's desk. It was the opening to the first, and only will he had ever drafted. After coming face-to-face with "death," he had dug out this unfinished draft and placed it squarely in the center of his workspace. Clearly, its author intended to seize what impressions of death still lingered, leaving behind a truly rigorous, practical official template for those who would follow. "My scarf and I are both doing great, so don't worry about a thing. I've traveled to so many places, made plenty of new friends, and my colleagues and superiors have all been looking out for me." Mitya's pen flew across the stationery, just as fast as it had back in the theater. All of this bore out the academic thesis Mitya had stood by to this day: Inspiration springs from accumulating samples of lived experience. The richness of experiential samples he had gathered over time gave him a newfound groove, even in the paperwork he had long viewed with deep distaste. What came to mind as he wrote? Was it the "Demon King's" clear and concise questions about work? Was it the hunter, and the soft fur of those clever hounds? Was it Miss Water Imp's cryptic yet captivating songs? Was it Miss Snow Swan's dreamy, fluttering dance? Was it the grand adventure epic of the golden-haired Traveler and their white-haired companion? Or was it simply all of the above? No one could ever truly know. From Zolnyy to Zapolyarny, from the Central Station to the Korolevskiy Theater, stretching outward from Snezhnograd all the way to the blizzard's edge beneath the aurora, Mitya's footprints had marked every stretch of the vast permafrost. The memories he could call upon in this moment stretched longer than all of Her Majesty's royal titles, and they settled softly over every corner of Snezhnaya. ... After letting his pen run freely until the page was completely covered, Mitya laid it down and basked in his masterpiece. It was about to become the definitive template for every will in Snezhnaya: It would not only silence all those "rigorous" pedants, but endure as a model to be studied and revered by every generation to come. Beside him, his scarf leaned in, hesitated a moment, and tapped the paper twice. Clearly, no matter how one looked at it, this prized "will template" was written in a tone far too breezy which read more like a family letter. Mitya mulled it over. His hand hovered in midair, poised to make corrections, then drew back. There was an inherent paradox in the will: If all went well, it would only ever sit locked away in the bottom of a drawer. Conversely, if the day ever came when it was actually needed, chances were that the witnesses, the notary, and even the recipients would no longer be around. By then, Snezhnaya would hardly have any use for a "will template" anyway. Glancing at the scarf swaying beside him, he bent back over the desk and penned the final lines at the bottom in one stroke: "Love you both, and I promise I'll come visit when I'm on vacation. By the way, give everyone my best. Sincerely, Mitya and his scarf." He folded the letter, tucked it into a plain envelope, and set it on the corner of his desk. Like every other convoluted and pointless work report, the whole template thing was soon cast completely from his mind. In its place was a brand-new proposal. His scarf wound itself deftly back around his coat. Just like always, Mitya kept a watchful eye on everyone around him as he rose slowly from his seat and tiptoed toward the office door... Outside the Armory Palace, the brilliant sun dazzled the eyes. The clamor at the Central Station never ceased. The dining hall of the Podvorye Restaurant was rich with the savory aroma of new dishes. And beneath the dome of the Korolevskiy Theater, soaring arias and swirling skirts still twined and danced. There is far too much vibrant color in this world, all waiting to be cherished by humankind. Boundless inspiration lies quietly in wait, ready to embrace this ever-thriving race. Today belongs neither to "death" nor to the "heaven," and neither shall the future.

A mysterious textile that has long coiled itself around Mitya's coat. At first glance, it looks no different from an ordinary scarf, though it was later suspected to be a living creature. Rather than saying "Mitya's scarf has no name," it would be truer to say that the scarf simply adopted the word "Scarf" as its proper name. In other words, calling it a ruff, a knit wrap, a silk scarf, a ribbon, or animal fleece is entirely pointless. It will counter the sheer insolence of being misnamed with a proud, defiant sway. Shaped like a soft, flat and elongated hand, it can handle all sorts of chores for Mitya: Combing his hair, washing his face, fetching paperwork, carrying paper takeout bags, and plenty more besides. Whatever human hands can manage, it does, and then some. On top of that, it understands almost everything people say, with an intelligence rivaling that of a teenage or young adult from Teyvat. Whenever the discussion turns to where this mysterious object came from, scientists, archaeologists, and researchers all point to the same name: Hyperborea, the golden realm. True, the golden realm perished ages ago, and nobody can definitively prove it was the masterpiece of some ancient inventor. Yet that theory sounds rather more respectable than claiming Mitya's father picked up an animate scarf possessing the intellect of a fifteen-year-old youth from a flea market stall. What's more, it shows a subtle reaction whenever Hyperborea is mentioned, perhaps finding something comforting in the sound. Because of his scarf, Mitya developed a little quirk: He always brought it along to meet all kinds of new friends, treating it with the genuine care and respect like a close companion. At the same time, he never stopped drawing on every field of study to dissect this wondrous partner to trace its origins. The scarf itself took it all quite calmly. It would wag its fingers, point to words in the dictionary, and write notes out by hand, all to deliver one single message: "Guess what? I really don't care that much about my family of origin!" "You're my friend, aren't you? You know how it is — if something happens to you, you can let it slide, but if it happens to a friend, you just can't let it rest. That's how I see it, at least," Mitya said. "What kind of clothespins are we using today? Wooden or metal?" The scarf tapped the metal ones. Clearly, it felt that lovely metallic gleam went wonderfully with its own colors. Mitya washed it clean and pinned it to the line, where it gave a couple of squirming twists like someone stretching after a nap, then formed a gesture with its fingers. After years of friendship, Mitya knew precisely what the scarf meant: Things are wonderful right here, and I like it this way. And even if we do stumble across something tied to Hyperborea, so what? I'm certainly never going back. What matters most in life is having the freedom to choose. And a scarf was no different. Mitya gave it a thumbs-up. At times like this, you couldn't just say that things take after their owners. Rather, kindred spirits simply have a way of finding each other.

"Undeniably, elemental energy continues to stand as the oldest, safest, and most pervasive power source known to humankind in Teyvat, holding immense value for both research and practical application. Yet current academic research into its efficient conversion and utilization is, on the whole, still in its early exploratory stages..." So wrote Mitya in the introduction to his upcoming research. "To date, the method of elemental attunement that boasts the most thoroughly studied medium, the most effortless channeling, and the highest conversion efficiency still relies on Visions and their variants. Yet given the pervasive black-box nature of this medium, both in its triggering mechanism (the sensing of 'desires') and its microscopic internal structure, it cannot, in fact, be defined as a stable, safe, and permanent means of driving elemental power." This scholarly argument encapsulated a great deal of Mitya's own personal reflections. Take the Electro Stellar Linchpin in his palm, for instance. His personal logs showed that research on the artifact had run up against two formidable hurdles. First was the reverse mapping of its structure. In the experimental records, this entry remained entirely blank. To this day, Mitya had yet to find any non-destructive means of prying open the Stellar Linchpin's outer shell. Second was replicating the acquisition process. There had long been a rumor across Teyvat: "When a desire is strong enough, the gods will cast their gaze." To verify this hypothesis, Mitya once served as his own test subject and ran a weeks-long "Subjective Desire Intensification Experiment." Through various techniques ranging from meditation to psychological suggestion, he amplified his subjective desire to the extreme: "I need a Vision for an experiment with controlled variables." Yet the experimental log was unsparing: The hypothesis simply did not hold. The high heavens didn't give even the slightest response to the scholar's noble desire, rooted as it was in the spirit of controlled variables. As if to mock the researcher's earnest toil, the gods chose an entirely unremarkable moment to finally cast their gaze. The logs show that the immediate conditions at the moment the Stellar Linchpin descended closely mirrored the present: Back then, the researcher had tucked himself away in the shadows of a quiet corner at the Central Station. He was conducting an aimless observation "aimed at dodging routine work," hoping to fish some so-called good idea out of the freezing wind. In other words, when evaluated by reproducibility, these so-called miracles from the high heavens were undoubtedly the worst test samples. There was an arrogance to them, impossible to reproduce and take apart. They served purely as tokens of individual power, completely incapable of being forged into tools of universal use. As an expert with the Energy Commission, Mitya dealt primarily with broad and concrete problems that genuinely needed solving. A divine wonder like the Stellar Linchpin hardly ranked among his most pressing priorities. For now, he figured, he would simply treat it as a handy accessory whose principles were simply too tough to crack. Who knows? Perhaps this problem could be solved in the future. As the hurried travelers at the Central Station often put it: Tomorrow's troubles are best left to tomorrow. Looking at the wider reality behind that sentiment, the truth was plain to everyone. The threat of the "bitter winter" was all too real, but putting food on the table and staying warm today had to come first. Miracles favored only a chosen few, but the biting winds of winter spared no mortal. Perhaps the gods had the luxury of judging whose ambition was fierce enough. But for ordinary travelers who huddled in the drifting snow and breathed on their hands for warmth, what they needed was far less lofty: just a pipeline that reliably delivered Kresnik Energy. As for the Stellar Linchpin, it channeled elemental power, served as a handy tool, and was well worth keeping. Much like a Mora coin forgotten in a coat pocket, it was sure to prove useful sooner or later. As for the present, his goal was really simple: Tackle a few looming deadlines. Mitya found a fresh, blank page and fluidly penned the title: Optimization of Layout and Routing for High-Efficiency Energy Pipelines

Good morning, friend! Wait, is it morning? Ah, doesn't matter! Anyway, please step into my office... Great, sit right here. Someone will be right with you. Just tell them you're Mitya, an expert from the Energy Commission. Got that? Okay, that's it. Bye-bye!

Ugh... I'd love to tell you some funny stories from work, but Scarf won't let me.

Did you see the show at the theater yesterday? It was pretty good. It'd be even better if I could remember what it was about...

Nochhornowls don't make a sound when they fly. One nearly snatched Scarf once... You'd better keep an eye on Paimon too!

Please don't rain, please don't rain, please don't rain... Aw, come on!

What blew up!? ...Oh, just thunder? Boring.

You have to watch out for snow that's frozen solid. Kicking it really hurts.

Hello, sun! Charge me up a little.

First thing in the morning, and yesterday's work is already staring me in the face.

Afternoon. I'll be heading to the office in a bit, so don't tell anyone I went to the theater, okay?

We sit beside the tall, tall stacks of paperwork, listening to the desk lamp tell its tales of crunch time.

Handing in paperwork this late is practically the same as handing it in tomorrow. So, tomorrow it is! Good night!

I used to love talking about my life. Then I joined the Energy Commission, and the old hands told me that anyone who doesn't want to be updating their resume in a hurry had better keep a low profile. *sigh* Trouble is, it slips my mind the second I open my mouth. Good thing I've got Scarf.

After I became a consultant to the Fatui, Valeriy warned me that the research I'm working on could change the world. Top secret and all that. I suggested he tell everyone the same thing about their work. Best place to hide a tree is in a forest, right? Then I wouldn't have to be so careful all the time. He said I've never been careful a day in my life. Is that really what he thinks of me? I'm hurt.

Do me a favor. Keep Mr. Valeriy busy for me. Half a day will do. Talk to him about anything. Ask how he's doing, treat him to a meal... If you're really out of ideas, you could always knock him flat. That works too. I've got something very, very important to do. I said that yesterday? Oh... Yeah, um, same thing — very, very important, and it still isn't finished. Right, let's both get to it!

With all the classified work I do, I'm not normally allowed to go traveling abroad whenever I like. Even signing the thickest nondisclosure agreement wouldn't change that. But Scarf proved its loyalty to the organization. They invited it to sign a form appointing it as my guardian... How weird is that? I have Scarf to thank for being free to go adventuring with you.

This thing works great. The only downside is that it won't come apart. I'm confident I could put it back exactly the way it was, but it doesn't seem to trust me much...

Wanna know the best place to cook? The office. Watching some of Snezhnaya's best and brightest figure out how to make soup with a centrifuge... Now that's amazing.

I've seen or heard of at least a dozen different kinds of fae, but the official system still lumps them into just six broad categories. Who came up with that classification system, anyway? At the Energy Association, you'd get fined for work that sloppy.

Miss Vodyanitsa is great. Really great. Lovely singing voice, and she fits right in with the theater's refined atmosphere. Exactly the kind of atmosphere I do my best work in.

Between you and me, Miss Odette might seem frosty, but she's actually easier to deal with than Vodyanitsa. Of course, maybe she just can't be bothered to tell me off. See? The world needs more generous, forgiving people like her. Hehe.

Hehe, his dogs are so well-behaved! And you can tell they're smart. Sometimes I get this urge to teach them a little science... N-No, I don't visit him just to pet his dogs! Alyosha's my friend too, you know.

If you're feeling too busy, try Mr. Valeriy's hundredth introductory lecture on time management. If you've got too much time on your hands, give it a try anyway. After all, listening to his lectures is basically killing time.

To be fair, I can't blame Mr. Valeriy for being so fixated on schedules. He's surrounded by unreliable people. They'll spot a problem and do nothing to fix it. A whole group of 'em just standing around telling each other, "Huh, strange, very strange," even as they push the work along in the wrong direction. I'm not one of them, obviously. I have no intention of pushing anything forward.

Miss Vesna's full of tricks, so she's great fun to play games with. And she's so efficient too! She can finish a whole month's work in the first ten days. Y'know, I'm going to follow her example. Only difference is, I'll leave mine until the last ten days.

Full disclosure: I once mistook Miss Danica for a whale fae. You know, something like a Frostfin Battle Whale! Cool, right? Well, I was completely wrong, and the look she gave me was pretty fierce. Miss Vesna was absolutely thrilled when she heard me say it, though. Almost fell over laughing... which worked out nicely for me, since Danica turned that glare on her instead.

Do you know what the Energy Commission said when they sent me to advise the Fatui? "Her Majesty needs energy. We need peace and quiet. That makes this a noise-pollution-reducing new energy solution." So Her Majesty doesn't want things too noisy, huh? I'll keep that in mind.

He's a good guy! I was wandering around the station once and nearly got caught by the army, and he pointed me down a back path. Scarf seemed pretty happy to see him too. Didn't even get around to tripping me, can you believe it? ...Come to think of it, whose side is this scarf even on? I really need to get it under control!

Hi, I'm Mitya. Sorry for the trouble. No trouble, you say? Don't worry. Just give it a minute.

Let's have Scarf introduce itself too. Go on, Scarf, say your lines... Sorry, Scarf's not much of a talker. I'll do it. Allow me to present my dear friend, Scarf. Please be nice to it.

My hair's naturally curly, and when I was little, it puffed out like beet leaves, so Mom always called me "Beettop." I'm not letting some secret slip, by the way! I'm just telling you ahead of time so you won't be surprised later. It's a pretty cool nickname, actually. You think so too, right?

After ten hours of working nonstop, this Beettop will be completely wilted. Remember to carry me outside and water me. If anyone tries to stop you, tell them exactly that, word for word. Most people won't be able to process it, and that's our chance to run!

The old-timers all say our line of work is pretty dangerous, so we ought to update our wills now and then. I haven't even written my first one! I did pick up a pen once, and got as far as "Dear Mom and Dad," but that didn't feel right. That's a letter home, not a will. See, when you actually need a document template, all those "meticulous" old guys suddenly go quiet. Forget it. Same as with tomorrow's work: I'll deal with it if I make it to tomorrow.

The theater, of course. Appreciating the classics. Soaking up the, uh... cultural atmosphere.

Ahh... I want to control Scarf, and I want to control when inspiration strikes. Ideally, that control would be effective round the clock.

Not too sour, not too sweet. Not too spicy, not too salty. Oh, I get it. I like averages!

My face goes bright red if I drink even a little too much. So my colleagues started using me as a human proof tester. Honestly, the things I put up with.

Whoa, this is good! One more bite... Hey, Scarf, quit wiping my mouth. I'll just have to wash you again, so why bother?

Mm-hm... I have now fully identified every component of this delicacy. Now, just wait while I go replicate it.

Uhh... You know what? Scarf would like this. Let's give it to Scarf.

Wow, congratulations! Let's celebrate the day all the good and bad in your life began! Want me to make you a little something? How about I rig you up with your very own "Scarf" helper? Just don't let it hold the handrail for you on the train. One sudden stop, and you'll be sorry.

Charged up and ready to go!

My mind's clear!

No interruptions!

I'm bursting with ideas! Wait, where's my notebook...

Over to you.

Activating default mode.

Steady now!

Pleasure working with you.

Rapid catalysis!

Reactivity monitoring engaged!

Time for a stress test!

Periodic laws... decoded.

Elemental energy, loaded.

Let's see... All inert materials. Nothing dangerous. Help yourself.

Hand me anything flammable or explosive. You can keep the rest.

Give the scarf something to hold. Keeps it busy.

I'm dying here! A little help!?

I was told it was safe here!

Hey, no fair!

Switch to power-saving mode for now.

Fine, fine, I'll do it.

If you'll... please excuse me...

Can I keep the scarf...?

Bye, all... shutting down...

Auh!?

How's that work?

What was that for...?

Hey, knock it off!

Thanks for the invite. So, uh... where are we going?

Come on, let's see what's happening in town!

Reporting in. Where's the energy crisis?