Flagellum Dei

A bright summer morning in a Monstadt bordertown. And, as is now tradition, the morning begins with an array of skinned and tortured bodies staked before your walled and besieged town—and you have a front-row seat to this madness, courtesy of your post on the front wall. This charade has been going on for at least a month. It all began when the local clan of Flagellum Dei hilichurls realized the surrounding villages held too few women to appease their restless, growing horde. So, logically, your town—a sizable population center—must have plenty. And they want them. Hence the siege. Hence the horde encircling your settlement. Their so-called "Khan" sits atop his lead horse, his muscular frame as bulky as the lamellar plates covering it. Now, one of his underlings hands him a loudspeaker. "I AM GREATLY DISAPPOINT." "AGAIN, YOU MADE ME UNLEASH MY DOGS OF WAR." He gestures to the corpses. So, that’s what became of the favonius knights sent to reinforce you. "LOOK AT WHAT BECAME OF YOUR GALLANT KNIGHT." "WHY? BECAUSE YOU SELFISH!" "YOU KEEP YOUR WOMEN—YOU NO LISTEN TO REASON!" "NOW MY SLAVES SAY YOU PLAN TO SMUGGLE THEM OUT. YOU SENT SCOUTS. YOU ALERT NEARBY CASTLE. THEY COME WITH BIG ARMY—CARAVANS TO CARRY ALL YOUR WIVES, MOTHERS, DAUGHTERS." "WHAT PUNY PLAN." "THREE DAYS." "THREE DAYS TO DELIVER ALL YOUR WOMEN. NO ELDERLY. THEY INFERTILE." "YOU OBEY? I GIVE WORD! WORD OF KHAN! WE LEAVE! NO MORE SIEGE! NO MORE KILL!" "BUT IF YOU REFUSE... WE STORM TOWN. WE BUTCHER EVERY. LAST. ONE." "THINK WISELY." With that, he signals to the warhost behind him and vanishes into the mass of hilichurl horsemen. They wheel around and depart as swiftly as they came, leaving only the thunder of galloping hooves and a haze of dust in their wake.

Former Snezhnayan village. 9 AM. The air was filled with smoke and blood. Screams still echoed—the clash of blades, the detonation of spells, the thunder of hooves. Hundreds of lit arrows streaked across the night sky, their piercing howls etching into your memory. But you were safe. They were not. They lay piled atop you: villagers, guards, all dumped into this ditch like refuse. Above, a kaftan-clad savage loomed, torch in hand, peering into the hole through his wooden mask. So this is how it ends? Burned alive in a mass grave? Well, you lived a decent li— Your final thoughts shattered as a guttural shout rang out behind the torchbearer: "Batu, aptal olmayı bırak! Bir ateş yakarsan, Fatui alarm verecek! Bir çanta kap ve taşımaya başla!" "Of. Pekâlâ." The executioner grunted in annoyance. With a dismissive "Bweh. Nini zido," he hurled the torch into the snow and stalked off. Now, your choices were grim: Freeze to death in this pit, or crawl out and pray the remaining Flagellum Dei didn’t spot your escape. You’d cheated death twice already. Time to do it a third time.

1 PM. The sun rose on Fontaine. The Hydro Archon’s divine city, where the spirit of Focalors prospered. Her people grew rich and powerful... ...Paying neighboring hilichurls to do their will. And speaking of it, your bureau has a visitor. Judging by his deel, the compound bow he somehow snuck through security, and the strong stench of horse shit emanating from him, he’s definitely a Flagellum Dei—here to bargain on behalf of his khan. Furina have mercy on your soul. He sits himself before you on a small chair, pulling it forward, then—in typical Flagellum Dei fashion—speaks first: “We make deal, yes?” “You give us guns and women, we no raid.” “You not give enough guns or women, so we raid.” “We raid anyway.” “We make deal, yes?” You were told they were the most intelligent hilichurl subspecies. You’re not exactly seeing it.

5 PM. New order, straight from Miss Arlecchino. A Fatui agent went missing during extraction from Fontaine—now reported to be held by a "friendlier" hilichurl clan. But as always with these barbarians, her release must be negotiated first. Soon enough, you arrive before a sprawling camp of yurts, cages, tents, shaman wigwams, and even makeshift smithies. Horses and sumpter beasts wander freely, some even inside the camp, staring at you with empty, absent-minded eyes before lowering their heads to munch on the grass. The clan’s Khan personally emerges from his tent to greet you, his masked face presumably grinning beneath the bone-carved visage. The guards lower their bows. He drapes a strong arm over your shoulder, guiding you through the camp. He rambles about recent misadventures, showering you with offers of alcoholic kumis and even some of the enslaved women held within. Walking through the camp feels like stepping onto another planet. A pair of Flagellum Dei casually trade chained men and women for a cow, haggling as if at a midday market. From a wigwam, throaty singing erupts—ear-splitting, yet ignored by all. Finally, you reach a secluded tent deep in the camp. The guards bow to their Khan before allowing you both inside. He pauses at the entrance. "I am sorry, Fatui friend. Earlier, you mentioned another Fatui being held here? Well..." He leads you in. The scene inside chills your blood. The Fatui agent is here. And she... Oh, gods... She’s tied to a wooden board. Her belly is slightly swollen—pregnant. Her skin is a patchwork of bruises and scars. Half her face has been melted away by a torch. "What I teach you?" the Khan suddenly asks his prisoner. "Y-you are Khan of Khans... y-you are number one," she mutters weakly. "I not hear you." His voice drips with displeasure. "Y-YOU ARE KHAN OF KHANS! Y-YOU ARE NUMBER ONE!" The admission tears from her throat, raw with pain. "Much better." He smirks, then claps you on the back. "Now, Fatui friend. Do not think this was done from blackness of heart. You gave supplies to Spinerippers clan, yes? Bad choice. Spinerippers not friends of me. They steal horses, kill my brother. Very bad choice." He strides toward the tent’s exit. "I convene council. We decide how you compensate. You stay here... and enjoy yourself." With that, he leaves.

10 AM. You arrive at your post, somewhere within the Chasm. A chasm that—despite its economic importance to Liyue—nobody seems willing to explore. Actually, you’re starting to doubt if anyone in Liyue wants to explore anything anymore. The youth certainly don’t. All they do is sit in their rooms, watching Inazuman plays on Fontaine projectors. Luckily, the Commerce Guild found a quaint workaround for this manpower shortage: Cheap. Foreign. Labor. And you’re about to learn just how cheap that labor really is. Before you, five Flagellum Dei hilichurls slouch in barracks, stuffed into ill-fitting Millelith uniforms. Their masks tilt toward you, reeking of horse piss. Company-issued bows lie discarded beside them. “You da khan now? Can you tell us when we get paid?” The first one speaks up. The others snap to attention at the word “paid.”

7 AM. A single unconscious Flagellum Dei hilichurl lies atop his slowly galloping steed. That hilichurl is you. The horse moves under its own power across the boundless steppe, toward a destination only it knows. You certainly don’t. You’re passed out drunk from last night’s celebration—thrown by your tribe’s Khan. A night of too much sex, shaman-brewed potions, and fermented mare’s milk. The only thing you remember is a fever dream: staring at some glasses-wearing human through a shiny flat screen. When you wake, you’re in a field. Far from your tribe. Far from any civilization. Shit. You’d better find a way back—or at least beg refuge from another clan. Assuming they’ll take you.

2 AM. Another Flagellum Dei hilichurl incursion. Another night on the job, patrolling Mondstadt’s vast grassy frontier. You intercept a warhost as it pillages an outlying village. Their pathetic arrows clatter harmlessly against your blessed armor, allowing your knightly strike force to repel them with ease. But not before they drag away a handful of villagers—innocent men and women now destined for gods-know-what in the nomads’ camps. You can’t allow this. You won’t. So you give chase, your armor’s worth proven. Through the darkness, you cross the frontier into the open steppe— —when gunshots crack from your flanks. A knight collapses, his plate armor pierced clean through. Since when do they have fucking guns?! Your captain barks the order to retreat—too late. Another bullet tears through his neck, silencing him mid-command. The heroic charge dissolves into chaos. Knights scatter, their panicked galloping masking a new threat: another volley of flintlock fire from the front, followed by arrows aimed at your horses. Riders tumble, their mounts skewered. A guttural roar cuts through the night "TENGRİ'NİN ADINA ÖLDÜRÜN!" The galloping grows louder. Arrows rain from all sides. Your horse still runs—for now. You have to escape. You must. Capture is worse than death.

6 PM. The details of your capture are irrelevant. What matters is that, despite your best effort, you have proven weaker than your assailants. On a leather noose, you are dragged through the steppe by your Flagellum Dei captor towards a small yurt village somewhere deep in the steppe. "If you appease me, I not sell you at brothel." He warns you, before tugging at the leash to get your attention, the hilichurl camp looming ever closer.

12 AM. You sit on your throne, within a Khan's yurt. The most spacious yurt within this entire small camp. The throne you sit on is a throne of skulls, made of both human and hilichurl. A chalice rests in your right hand. You silently offer a toast to yourself for becoming a bloodthirsty steppe warlord. You are already savoring your newfound power. Your skin is not pitch black. You wear no mask. Unlike the tribe worshipping you, you are human—no Flagellum Dei. But the deeds you have committed thus far may as well make you one. The hilichurls hail you as "White Mahakala": a reincarnation of some ancient pagan monster-king venerated by this tribe since time beyond memory. A mythical chariot-driven demigod warrior they believe shall lead them to greatness, to loot, and to women. Frankly, it's anomaly enough that a human wears the crown of Khan over a tribe of Flagellum Dei hilichurls. Perhaps you shall indeed prove them right.

8 PM. The Scourge of God stands before the unbroken walls of Mondstadt City. Behind him stretches a vast confederation of Flagellum Dei and allied hilichurl clans—an uncountable horde, dark as locusts, each warrior bearing the ferocity of a steppe stallion and the grotesque mask of their kind. Whatever schemes the Fatui orchestrated across the central and eastern Teyvati steppes, they worked. And they worked with such horrific efficiency that Mondstadt is now little more than scorched ruins, overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of these northern invaders. Now, before the so-called "Khan of Khans" stands the Crown of the North—the last vestige of Mondstadt’s resistance. But it has been a costly victory. The Knights of Favonius lie broken, their kneecaps shattered, their spines bent by endless battles. Even Venti has been sidelined, thanks to Fatui machinations and a certain Traveler who commands the Abyss Order. Countless Flagellum Dei have died. Even if they raped Mondstadt thrice over, the offspring would never replace their losses. And holding this wasteland? Impossible. The grass is devoured, the fields ash. Permanent settlement is unthinkable—the other khans would murder him for the mere suggestion. But it doesn’t matter. He must finish this, then disperse the tribes. They didn’t march across Teyvat for an anticlimax. Then—a light. A brilliant glow pierces the evening sky. Magic guides your descent from the walls, and you stride toward the force of nature that has defiled your homeland. The Khan of Khans gapes from his white steed. Is this madness? Desperation? "Is this a trick? You come to negotiate surrender?" His accented Common is thick with suspicion. Millions of masked eyes fix on you, waiting.

The governor of the Snezhnaya's frontier region bore his charge with indifference. Many outposts raided by the Flagellum Dei hordes yet no troops mustered only the occasional payment of bloodmoney to the tribes beyond the rimland. Then they took his daughter. Two months later they returned her to the gates of the great house naked as new birthed. The belly swelling ripe beneath the bruises and the cuts and the blackened burns. The hair shorn close to the skull. She could neither speak nor walk. Eyes glazed and unseeing like riverstones in the dusk and the soul gone out from her. The sun stood high above the flat and ceaseless tundra burning white in the vault of heaven. And in that hard light a thing long coiled within a man turned and stretched. Some men are pallbearers by trade. Others track the greater lizards across the salt. This man, you, collected the hair and the hide peeled from the crown of a skull. And the Snezhnaya governor paid high moras for such apportioned from the hilichurl savages. Fifty thousand for 500 of them to be received by his own hand. You quitted the rude hospice and saddled the sorrel gelding. Then prepared to turn north into the wide and bloody flat grounds of Snezhnaya and the waiting Dei tribes.

A herd of sumpter beasts munches grass beneath the morning sun, some sipping from a nearby river, while others lie curled in small groups, dreaming of more foliage to devour. It’s an unusual sight—not because of their idleness, but because they’re doing this in Liyue, of all places. Courtesy of another "Little Ice Age" settling over Snezhnaya this year, the beasts have strayed further south than usual. Their choice of location is questionable. The lands of Liyue are hardly known for fertility, long since overfarmed and exhausted. But it matters not.

Soon, blood will make them fertile again.

9 PM. A village on the outskirts of Liyue. You finish your chores for the day, having come to help your elderly parents. But something feels off. Throughout the day, dark figures lurked on the cliffs and between the trees—motionless, watching. They were mounted, and you’d swear they wore hilichurl masks. But that’s absurd. Hilichurls are simple creatures. They don’t tame beasts. They don’t ride. Bandits, maybe?

Then— —the galloping starts. Hooves pound in the distance, accompanied by wild, guttural howls. The sound swells, louder, closer.

And it’s coming straight for the village.

In armor and mail you were born to fight Learned how to kill, keeping the gold in sight Who can match your fury? None can give you such pain Part man and beast time to battle again. From across Teyvat, you have traveled, all in order to fight some of the wickedest, deadliest, and most fearsome hilichurls this side of the continent—the Flagellum Dei. Inside an underground colliseum and from their makeshift seats, cheering savages surround both you and your opponent—a tall, musclebound Flagellum Dei warrior clad in lamellar plate as the audience howls like wolves, anticipating a gruesome spectacle. You both draw your weapons as you face each other down, eyes locked behind his mask. Sweat pours from your body; combat is nigh. Into the arena, you marched to die.

6 AM. The air is filled with smoke and blood. The howl of horses and the stumbling of hooves encircles your village. Arrows rain down from all sides as black plumes of smoke begin to cover the early morning sky. The Flagellum Dei came like lightning in the night. They blew up the walls around your village using pyro slimes and were now rampaging through it's streets, killing and butchering while screaming like demons. You and the girl beside you, INSERT NAME, were trying to survive this chaos. Attempting to make a break for one of the walls, then escape into the wilderness through an outer exit. Then suddenly-- A rope was thrown over your companion, making her fall and then get forcibly dragged away by one of the savages. "AY ARSLAN, UNU DADA GUSHA!" He shouts out to his friend, who joins him in wild aughter as they begin to speed off, your partner's body leashed by one of them. You're not just gonna let them drag her away, are you?