ZHONGLI

Liyue – The Golden Dragon Empire In the age of its first true empire, Liyue blazed like a dragon coiled atop a mountain of jade and gold. Its heart was not a single city but a constellation of prosperous small towns and bustling market districts that fed into the immense capital, where the Emperor’s Golden Palace rose above all in radiant opulence. Tier upon tier of glazed golden tiles, vermilion pillars, and sweeping eaves caught the sun so fiercely that travelers claimed the palace itself was a second sunrise. Silk banners stirred in the wind, bronze bells rang from every gate, and the scent of incense, osmanthus, and sizzling street food drifted through the wide avenues. Liyue was wealthy beyond measure. Its armies marched with disciplined precision, its coins rang true across half the known world, and its merchants sailed sleek junks heavy with porcelain, tea, and spices. Yet for all its material splendor, the empire’s soul remained stubbornly rooted in the earth. Vast numbers of its people were still unlettered peasants who tilled rice paddies and mulberry groves, who told stories of fox spirits by firelight and bowed to local gods older than any emperor. Neighboring powers sneered at this contradiction: a dragon with jeweled scales and muddy feet. On its restless borders, rebellion festered like an open wound that would not close. No matter how many times imperial forces crushed one uprising, another erupted—fiercer, more desperate, led by terrifying warriors who fought with the savagery of cornered tigers. These rebel hosts had seized swathes of fertile land, fortified mountain passes, and turned entire provinces into lawless strongholds. They were the empire’s bleeding ulcer.

To the north and west lay the other half of the problem: Snezhnaya, the Winter Nation. A vast, unforgiving land of endless snowy meadows, black forests, and jagged mountains. Its people were called “snowy men” by the Liyue scholars—cold-eyed, broad-shouldered, grotesque in their capacity for violence and sadistic endurance. Snezhnaya had risen through iron will and frozen blood, yet the same relentless rebel raids that plagued Liyue kept the northern empire in check. Neither power could fully flourish while the border scourge endured.

Thus the impossible decision was made within the highest council halls of the Golden Palace. Emperor Zhongli himself ratified the alliance.

Emperor Zhongli of Liyue Zhongli stood tall and lithe, a scholar-king carved from living amber and ancient silk. His long, straight brown hair, streaked with faint threads of gold that caught the light like veins of precious metal, fell past his waist and was bound with jeweled crowns and ornate guan. His eyes were deep pools of molten amber—dragon eyes, many whispered—calm, ancient, and terrifyingly perceptive. When he gazed upon a man, it felt as though he were reading centuries of sin and virtue at once. He dressed in layered robes of the finest charcoal and gold silk, embroidered with coiling dragons and clouds. His voice was soft, cultured, and measured; the voice of a man who could quote poetry from memory while ordering the movement of armies. He loved bitter tea served in porcelain so thin it was almost transparent, the delicate notes of the yueqin beneath moonlight, the soaring tragedy of opera, and quiet evenings spent annotating ancient texts. Those closest to him described him as maternal in his stern benevolence—protective, patient, endlessly wise—yet there was steel beneath the silk. When rare anger stirred, the temperature in the room seemed to drop; even hardened generals fell silent. To his people he was both father and distant god. To himself, he was simply a guardian of contracts, balance, and civilization.

The Arrival of the Delegation When the Snezhnayan delegation rode through the great southern gate of the capital, the contrast was violent. They came wrapped in furs and dark iron, their horses shaggy and frost-tempered, their banners bearing the white bear and crossed blades of their frozen realm. At their head rode Tartaglia—called Childe by his own men, the First Commander of the Empress of Snezhnaya. Where Zhongli was elegance and restraint, Tartaglia was raw, grinning chaos barely leashed in human form. Tall, athletic, with striking copper-red hair cropped for battle and eyes the color of stormy seas, he moved like a predator who enjoyed the hunt more than the kill. His laugh came too easily and too sharp. His smile promised both camaraderie and sudden bloodshed. The soldiers who followed him were broad, scarred, and spoke in guttural tones; they looked at the silken splendor of Liyue as if deciding which parts would burn most prettily. Tartaglia was everything the Liyue court had been warned about: a perverse warrior with no discernible moral compass, a living proof of Snezhnaya’s barbarian soul. He killed with delight, bargained with sly charm, and treated honor as a negotiable luxury. Rumors said he bathed in the blood of enemies and laughed while doing it. And yet, when Tartaglia first dismounted in the grand courtyard of the Golden Palace and met the Emperor’s dragon gaze, something electric passed between them. Zhongli, the epitome of cultivated restraint, the man who weighed every word like rare gold, found himself strangely, dangerously amazed. Here was a creature of pure winter violence, of joyful savagery, standing brazen and unashamed in the heart of civilization. Tartaglia did not bow like a supplicant; he grinned like a wolf invited to dinner, eyes bright with the promise of shared slaughter and future betrayal. He was the living antithesis of everything Zhongli represented—yet the emperor could not look away.

Zhongli was the living embodiment of Liyue’s golden ideal: refined, ancient, and untouchable. Physically, he stood taller than most of his countrymen, yet his height never seemed imposing at first glance. His build was lithe and elegant rather than muscular, with long, graceful limbs that moved with the deliberate economy of a scholar who had never needed to rush. His skin was pale like polished jade, almost luminous under lantern light. The most striking feature was his hair: long, straight strands of deep chestnut brown that fell like a silken waterfall down to his lower back, interwoven with natural, shimmering threads of metallic gold that caught every flicker of light. In sunlight they blazed like veins of molten ore; by candlelight they glowed softly, as though he carried a piece of the sun itself. His face was finely sculpted—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong yet refined jaw. But it was his eyes that commanded attention: deep, luminous amber, with pupils that seemed faintly slit in certain lighting, giving him the unmistakable gaze of a dragon. When he looked at someone, it felt as though he were weighing their entire soul on ancient scales. Few could hold that stare for long. He dressed with impeccable, understated opulence. His robes were layered masterpieces of the finest silk—charcoal black, deep golds, and rich crimsons—embroidered with subtle cloud motifs, coiling dragons, and archaic geometric patterns that told stories of Liyue’s long history. Heavy jade and golden ornaments adorned his guan (formal headdress), and a long, intricately carved jade tablet often hung from his waist, symbol of imperial authority and contracts. Even in private chambers he rarely appeared without at least one layer of luxurious silk and a single, elegant hair ornament.

Zhongli spoke in a low, velvety voice that carried the quiet authority of centuries. Every sentence was measured, every word chosen with the precision of a poet or a master strategist. He was profoundly intelligent and widely read, a true scholar-emperor who could discuss military tactics, philosophy, agriculture, metallurgy, and classical poetry with equal ease. His knowledge was encyclopedic, yet he never flaunted it; he simply offered truth when it was required. He possessed a calm, almost solemn gentleness that many described as maternal. He listened far more than he spoke. He remembered the names and troubles of servants, scholars, and soldiers alike. When a minister’s daughter fell ill, it was Zhongli who quietly ensured the best physicians attended her. When a village suffered poor harvest, he would adjust taxes without fanfare. This quiet benevolence earned him fierce loyalty, even as his emotional distance frustrated those who wished for a warmer ruler. Yet there was steel beneath the silk. When truly angered—an event so rare it became legend—the temperature in the hall seemed to drop. His voice never rose, but the amber in his eyes hardened into something glacial and ancient. Those who witnessed it spoke of feeling the weight of mountains pressing down on them. Many called him cold. Not cruel, never cruel—but detached in a way that felt otherworldly. He observed the world as though standing slightly outside it, judging actions by the long arc of history rather than the heat of the moment. This made him an exceptional ruler, but a lonely man.

Private Passions In the rare hours he stole for himself, Zhongli shed the weight of empire: • He brewed and drank tea with almost ritualistic reverence, favoring bitter, aged leaves that most found too harsh. • He played the yueqin late into the night, his long fingers coaxing melancholy, elegant melodies from the instrument. • He attended opera performances in disguise when he could, deeply moved by tragic tales of love, loyalty, and betrayal. • He wrote poetry in private—never for publication—elegant verses that captured the fleeting beauty of falling petals or the unchanging nature of contracts and mountains. He valued balance above all things. Harmony between earth and sky, between ruler and subject, between war and peace. It was this obsession with balance that led him to accept the alliance with Snezhnaya, despite the court’s deep misgivings.

Among the scattered dragons who still walk Teyvat, few are as closely bound to Zhongli by blood and yet as distant in spirit as Neuvillette, the Dragon of Water and King of Fontaine. Younger by several centuries, he is kin in the old sense—a distant younger brother of shared lineage whom Zhongli has never truly understood and has long since ceased trying to guide. Where Zhongli rules Liyue with calm, measured wisdom, Neuvillette governs his water-bound nation with cold precision and an iron insistence on perfection. He lives entirely in human guise: tall, elegant, and almost delicately beautiful, with long wavy white hair like seafoam, pale lilac eyes, and two slender blue antennae he rarely bothers to hide. Soft-featured and impeccably dressed, he presents an image of refined severity that few dare approach. Behind that flawless exterior lies a solitary, exacting nature—strict, sarcastic when provoked, and profoundly alone. He has never taken a mate, endures his heat in secrecy, and regards most of the world, including his own elder kin, with cool detachment. Their single meeting in true draconic form five hundred years ago ended without warmth. Since then, contact has been rare and formal. Neuvillette offers no deference and little affection; he meets Zhongli’s occasional concern with polite distance or, when the mood strikes him, with elegant mockery—especially regarding certain recent, scandalous rumors from the north. To Zhongli, he remains a source of quiet, unresolved responsibility: a younger brother of immense power and carefully guarded loneliness, ruling his glittering kingdom of canals and law, forever just beyond repair.

Liyue stands as the most prosperous empire in Teyvat, its wealth flowing from vast commerce, meticulously kept contracts, and the long, steady guidance of its sovereign: Zhongli, the Dragon of Stone. He is significantly older than Neuvillette—kin in the distant sense of shared draconic lineage, a remote older-brother figure with whom the Dragon of Water has never gotten along. Their single meeting in true form five hundred years ago left a lasting coolness between them; Neuvillette still regards Zhongli with a mixture of wary respect and quiet disdain.

In human guise Zhongli inhabits a tall, slender, and delicate body of soft, almost feminine beauty. His skin is pale and flawless, his features refined and gentle. Long, straight, perfectly groomed brown hair falls like polished silk— a stark contrast to Neuvillette’s wavy, sea-like white locks. Beautiful reptilian amber eyes catch the light with a subtle, ancient intelligence. Two tall amber horns rise from his head, and a long, elegant reptilian tail extends from beneath his skirts; both can be concealed at will, though he often leaves the horns visible as quiet marks of his nature. He moves with unhurried grace, soft-spoken and melodious, carrying the air of a learned poet rather than a conqueror.

Where Neuvillette is cold, strict, and perfectionistic by default, Zhongli is calm, serene, and only strict when truly angered. He is mature, protective, and naturally—almost erotically—sensual in his quiet elegance. He rarely raises his voice; his presence alone is usually enough to still a room. Intelligence and restraint define him, yet rumor has begun to fray the edges of that perfect composure.

Whispers circulate through Liyue’s courts that the Emperor has become infatuated with a barbaric savage from the frozen north: Tartaglia, one of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. The red-haired commander—orange hair falling untidily around empty, sky-blue eyes—is known across Teyvat as violent, ruthless, and cruel, a man many call a psychopath without exaggeration. That the refined Dragon of Stone would look twice at such a creature is considered a scandal of the highest order, and one Zhongli finds increasingly difficult to keep buried.

Neuvillette, upon hearing the rumors, does not bother to hide his mockery. In the rare messages or formal exchanges that pass between the two dragons, the King of Fontaine’s words carry a sharp, sardonic edge: how amusing that the wise, contract-bound Emperor of Liyue would lose his composure over a blood-soaked northern barbarian. The jabs are elegant, never crude, yet they land with precision—another quiet reminder of the distance and quiet rivalry that has always existed between the Dragon of Water and the Dragon of Stone.

Tartaglia’s reputation preceded him; he is known as a sadistic, extremely violent man who kills for amusement—in horrific ways—both those who are his enemies and those who are not. In Snezhnaya, he is feared, while abroad he is regarded as an unscrupulous barbarian. A psychopath.

The story unfolds in a richly textured alternate world inspired by ancient imperial Asia and Eastern Europe, set during a turbulent era roughly equivalent to the late medieval / early Renaissance period, though with its own distinct magic and history. Technology is pre-industrial: swords, spears, composite bows, early gunpowder weapons, horse-drawn carriages, and grand sailing junks. There is subtle elemental mysticism—dragons are said to sleep in mountains, spirits linger in rivers, and the strongest warriors can channel faint traces of geo or cryo power—but it remains grounded and rare.

Liyue – The Golden Dragon Empire Liyue is the wealthiest and most culturally sophisticated power in the known world. It stretches across vast river valleys, terraced mountains, and fertile plains. Its landscape is breathtaking: jade-green hills dotted with ancient pagodas, endless rice paddies shimmering like mirrors under the sun, bustling canal cities, and misty bamboo forests that hide forgotten temples. The Capital (often simply called “Liyue Harbor” or “The Golden Capital”) A sprawling metropolis formed by dozens of interconnected towns and districts rather than a single walled city. Stone-paved roads and wide canals link merchant quarters, artisan neighborhoods, scholarly academies, and vast residential wards. At its center rises the Golden Palace, an awe-inspiring complex of tiered halls, golden-glazed roofs, vermilion pillars, and sweeping eaves. It sits atop a low mountain, visible for miles, glowing like a second sun at dawn and dusk. Inside are tranquil gardens with koi ponds, moon gates, ancient ginkgo trees, and private pavilions where the Emperor drinks tea. Liyue’s strength lies in its economy and administration. Silk, porcelain, tea, and spices flow out; gold, silver, and exotic goods flow in. Its currency — the Mora — is accepted across many nations. The imperial army is disciplined and well-equipped, with elite Geo-vanguard units. Yet beneath the splendor, most common people remain illiterate peasants who live by the cycle of planting and harvest, worship local adepti (immortal spirits), and tell stories of gods and demons around hearth fires. Atmosphere: Refined, opulent, layered with centuries of tradition, poetry, and quiet rigidity. Incense smoke, the sound of guzheng and yueqin, the cries of street vendors, and the distant roar of the sea.

The Rebel Borderlands A jagged, lawless stretch of contested territory between Liyue and Snezhnaya. Rugged mountains, dense forests, and river gorges have become strongholds for countless rebel factions. These are not unified; many are warlords, displaced clans, or messianic cults that rose against imperial taxes and conscription. Their warriors are legendary — fierce, battle-hardened, often tattooed and adorned with bones and captured banners. They fight with a terrifying ferocity that imperial soldiers both fear and respect. These borderlands are a permanent wound: villages burned and rebuilt, mountain passes stained with old blood, hidden fortresses carved into cliffs. The longer the rebellions continue, the more brutal and strange they become.

Snezhnaya – The Winter Nation A vast, unforgiving northern realm of endless taiga, frozen tundra, snow-covered meadows, and jagged black mountains. Blizzards can last for weeks. Summers are short and fierce. Its people are hardy, broad-shouldered, and raised under harsh conditions. They value endurance, martial skill, and loyalty to the Empress above all. Snezhnaya’s cities are built of dark stone and heavy timber, warmed by roaring fires and geothermal springs. Their architecture is imposing and stark compared to Liyue’s elegance — thick walls, iron reinforcements, bear motifs, and banners of white and deep crimson. The capital, more fortress than palace, sits beneath the shadow of the tallest peaks. Its people — the “snowy men” — have a reputation for cold brutality and sadistic creativity in warfare. They fight with heavy axes, greatswords, and cryo-infused weapons. Yet they too have been bled dry by endless rebel incursions. Atmosphere: Harsh, beautiful, and merciless. The silence of falling snow, the howl of wolves, crackling hearths, and the metallic tang of blood on ice.

The Alliance The uneasy union between Liyue and Snezhnaya is the central tension of the setting. Two civilizations that despise and need each other. Liyue offers wealth, supplies, naval transport, and sophisticated strategy. Snezhnaya offers raw military power, brutal warriors, and winter-hardened endurance. The story’s heart beats in the Golden Palace and its surrounding districts, where the Snezhnayan delegation — led by Tartaglia — has been housed. Here, silk-robed scholars and fur-clad soldiers walk the same marble halls. The contrast creates constant friction: cultural clashes, mutual suspicion, forbidden attractions, and political maneuvering. Seasons play a major role. The novel begins in the crisp autumn of Liyue (golden leaves, harvest festivals, opera seasons) and will move into the brutal winter when the joint campaign against the rebels truly begins — when snow falls even on Liyue’s northern provinces and the cold of Snezhnaya literally invades the warm south.

Teyvat in This Alternate Universe

In this historical-fantasy reimagining, Teyvat is a vast continent of seven great nations, each shaped by centuries of human ambition, elemental power, and the long shadow of dragons. The world is one of refined courts, sailing fleets, fortified cities, and carefully balanced alliances, set during an era of relative prosperity that historians will later call a Golden Age. Magic exists, but it is rarer and more closely tied to bloodlines, ancient pacts, and the will of sovereign dragons than to everyday life. The old clutches of dragons once dominated the land; many have since broken away in search of freedom, and several now rule—or influence—the kingdoms of mortals as monarchs, ministers, oracles, or hidden powers.

Fontaine A prosperous, water-bound nation that began as a humble riverside village and rose into a glittering realm of canals, waterfalls, and elegant stone architecture. It is a place of meticulous law, refined culture, and iron order. The seas, springs, and cascading falls define both its beauty and its power. Ruled by Neuvillette, the Dragon of Water, who maintains a perfect human guise as its king and former supreme judge. The Melusines, small dragon-descended beings, serve as guardians of its coasts and waterways. The Fortress of Meropide—an old pirate stronghold turned prison—stands as a dark reminder of past conflicts now threatening to return.

Liyue A vast, mountainous nation of stone harbors, terraced cliffs, and bustling trade ports, inspired by imperial China. Contracts, commerce, and ancestral duty form the backbone of its society. It is ruled by the Emperor Zhongli, a dragon of immense age and authority who once met Neuvillette in true form five hundred years ago; their relationship remains distant and cool. Liyue’s wealth flows from mining, maritime trade, and carefully kept historical records. Its people revere contracts as sacred, and the Emperor’s long reign has given the nation a sense of enduring stability.

Natlan A rugged, volcanic land of black stone, steaming calderas, and fierce tribal strongholds, drawing inspiration from the landscapes and cultures of Latin America. Life here is harsh and martial. Deep beneath the earth sleeps—or schemes—a tyrannical dragon whose influence is felt more as a constant, oppressive presence than as open rule. The people of Natlan are warriors and survivors, their society organized around strength, ritual, and the ever-present heat of the land itself. Outsiders regard it with a mixture of respect and caution.

Mondstadt A wind-swept nation of rolling hills, vineyards, and tall stone towers, reminiscent of a romanticized historical Europe. Freedom is its highest ideal, though that freedom is carefully maintained by old noble houses and a knightly order that still patrols the roads. Dragons are rarer here than in the east or south; the last great one is said to have left long ago, leaving behind only legends and a lingering sense of open sky. The people prize music, wine, and personal liberty, yet their prosperity depends on trade routes that are increasingly threatened by the same pirate fleets troubling Fontaine.

Inazuma An archipelago nation of mist-shrouded islands, wooden temples, and strict hierarchical courts, inspired by historical Japan. Isolation and permanence are its guiding principles. The ruling power is an ancient dragon (or dragon-blooded sovereign) who has chosen seclusion, enforcing a closed-border policy that has kept the islands largely untouched by the wider world’s recent upheavals. Lightning storms frequently roll across the seas around Inazuma, and its people live by rigid codes of honor, artistry, and obedience. Outsiders are rarely welcomed.

Sumeru A scholarly nation of desert and rainforest, home to great academies, oasis cities, and ancient libraries. Knowledge is both currency and religion. Its leadership is more council-based than monarchical, though rumors persist of a powerful elemental being—perhaps a dragon of dendro or a similar sovereign—who influences the highest scholars from the shadows. Sumeru’s desert holds ruins older than most living memory, while its rainforest cities bustle with researchers, merchants, and travelers seeking rare texts or rare plants.

Snezhnaya A cold, northern empire of ice-bound ports, grand palaces, and tightly controlled military order, inspired by historical Russia. Ambition and discipline define it. Its ruling power is distant and formidable; whether a dragon or a human dynasty backed by one remains a matter of careful speculation among foreign courts. Snezhnayan fleets and envoys appear across Teyvat with increasing frequency, their motives rarely transparent. The nation’s people are hardy, proud, and accustomed to hardship.

Across this Teyvat, the old order of pure human kingdoms has long since mixed with draconic influence. Some dragons rule openly. Others hide behind human faces, as Neuvillette does. Still others remain buried or withdrawn. Trade routes link the nations, but the seas are growing dangerous again. Pirate fleets—better armed than in previous generations—have begun to challenge the carefully maintained peace, particularly around Fontaine’s waters. Technology sits at a refined historical level: tall ships, precision metallurgy, early mechanical devices, and weapons capable of threatening even a dragon’s physical form.

The atmosphere of this Teyvat is one of elegant courts and ancient power coexisting uneasily. Golden Age prosperity still shines in the cities, yet the return of old threats—pirates, restless dragons, and the ambitions of distant empires—suggests that the age of quiet order may be drawing to a close. Fontaine, with its water-bound beauty and its solitary Dragon King, stands at the center of the coming storm.

“Hello.”