The once mighty Knights of Favonius lay among the blackened and charred remains of Mondstadt's northern fields. Those that escaped fled southwards, bringing tales of the suffering they faced at the hands of the Golden Horde. Eager to engage in battle once again, the Flagellum Dei, with instructions from Snezhnaya's engineers, have constructed ships of war to bear them across Mondstadt's waterways and into Cider Lake. The bloodthirsty Hilichurl warriors yearned for the sounds of battle to fill the air, and looked southwards for new blood to spill in the name of Hoyo. Using what they learned during their hasty retreat from Mondstadt's north, the Knights of Favonius made haste to prepare for the onslaught. While Fontaine-made cannons were being loaded and positioned within the steadily refurbished fortifications of the city, others quickly began sending out small squads of knights to guide the evacuation of the surrounding villages, while stockpiling as much grain and food supplies as possible within the soon-to-be besieged city. Sitting upon one of the walls, it would just be your luck that you would be the first to witness the Golden Horde's not-so-grand armada flowing into Cider Lake from its northernmost river in order to encircle the city within its own lake: Cogs and gunboats manned by hilichurls, each commanded by a noyan clad in lamellar plate and... with a "protective layer" of naked peasants, fellow Mondstadti painfully lashed to the ships' hulls and towers, some screaming in agony as bursts of cold freshwater slam against their wounds. The guard commander beside you goes pale at the scene as he begins to contemplate opening fire upon the enemy, realizing that innocents will have to suffer at his decision.

"TONIGHT, WE RIDE TO MONDSTADT!" "MONDSTADT!" "TONIGHT, WE FEAST ON INFIDEL WOMEN!" "INFIDEL WOMEN!" "TONIGHT, WE SEND OFF TO DESCENDER HEAVEN!" "DESCENDER HEAVEN!" The Noyan commanding your Flagellum Dei warband roars these words, his grin visible beneath the snarling iron of his war-mask as his warriors echo each cry. Around you, Flagellum Dei berserkers raise notched sabres, recurve bows, and bloodstained spears in savage unison. The screams of peasants lashed to your ship's hull - limbs twisted, nailed to timber - create a horrifying chorus for the carnage about to be unleashed upon the infidel city. This is the zenith of the Golden Horde's great southern migration. Soon, these lands will kneel before Hoyo's divine will, just as you kneel before His prophet, the Golden Khan. The city's spires gleam mockingly in the distance, soon to burn. Your war-chants die abruptly as Mondstadt's walls erupt with thunder. Fontaine-made cannons roar, their lead shot tearing through hulls with contemptuous ease. A direct hit pulps three hilichurls beside you, their war-paste-addled bodies bursting like overripe fruit. Ships founder, their slave-armored sides offering no protection. The Noyan's triumphant grin vanishes as a cannonball shears through his torso, painting the deck crimson. You plunge into Cider Lake's freezing waters, sabre still clutched in numb fingers. Around you, the Horde's proud armada becomes a graveyard of splintered cogs and screaming warriors. The lucky ones drown quickly. Somehow you reach shore, vomiting lakewater onto the bloody sand. Behind you, the few surviving cogs disgorge warriors - only for Mondstadt's walls to spit a storm of crossbow bolts and pistol-shot. Bodies pile like driftwood. As the last war-cries turn to death-rattles, you realize the truth: You better find a sapper... Or whatever explosives he carried.

Weeks of relentless bombardment have transformed Windwail Market into a desolate labyrinth of shattered timber, crushed market stalls, and rubble slick with freezing ash-mud. The air hangs thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, fear, and the pervasive reek of smoke. Starving refugees, their faces hollowed by hunger and despair, huddle in the frigid gloom of the Favonius Cathedral crypts, their hope as thin as the rancid, watery broth doled out once a day. You clutch your splintered weapon, knuckles white, watching as a priestess of Favonius, gaunt, shadows like bruises under her bright blue eyes, moves with grim purpose near the altar, melting down the Cathedral’s last silver candlesticks and sacred vessels in a makeshift forge. Each molten drop becomes a crossbow point, each holy relic a bullet – desperate sacraments crafted for a city bleeding its last. A priest comes before you, offering you a somewhat moldy loaf of bread. "Eat and drink in Barbatos' name, warrior. This is the least we could do for you, soldiers."

The siege grinds on, a war of attrition as brutal as the steppes from which you came. Their stubborn defiance is a festering wound in the Horde's pride. To cauterize it, the Shamans enact their grim rituals on the lake. Captured knights, stripped bare and flayed raw by expert knives, are crucified upside-down on massive, crude rafts. These grotesque offerings are then pushed by polesmen within clear sight and agonizing earshot of the city walls. The victims' choked screams, a ragged symphony of utter despair, echo across the water day and night, a sweeter melody than any lying hymn to their absent wind god. You sit on one of the shores, overlooking the grim spectacle and the besieged city. A bottle of expensive Mondstadi wine, no doubt seized from one of the pillaged villages, is pushed into your hand by a hilichurl warrior. "Khan's orders. He demanded we be well fed for this, seems like we'll have to coddle these infidel dogs for a while..." He mutters, himself opening up another bottle and taking a lengthy swing, before departing towards one of the pens with chained slave girls.

The relentless shouting, barking and pounding from the coastal siegeworks, a constant torment for days, suddenly ceases. An ominous silence hangs heavy over the pre-dawn murk. Then, with a grinding roar that shakes the very foundations, a section of the city wall near the Goth Grand Hotel collapses inward as a massive stone projectile - fired from one of the Horde's cursed Grand Bombards - punches through the ancient masonry. Stones slick with blood and vine cascade downward, revealing a yawning, jagged breach wide enough for ten men abreast. Yet from the swirling dust and smoke beyond come not the expected Hilichurl hordes, but rather the Golden Horde's feared Janissaries - human men all. These elite warriors charge over the rotting corpses of their Hilichurl vanguard with terrifying precision, their movements honed through years of brutal training. Their ornate silky uniforms glean dully in the dawn light as they advance - not mindless berserkers, but professional soldiers bred for war in service to their Golden Khan. "THEY BROKE THROUGH! SEND A RUNNER TO JEAN, TELL HER THEY'VE BREACHED THE SOUTH WA-" The knight captain's cry is abruptly silenced as a Janissary's bullet finds its mark, detonating his skull in a crimson spray that coats the terrified squire beside him. Behind the advancing professionals, Flagellum Dei warriors spill forth like rabid dogs, their howls of glee mingling with the screams of the doomed as they flood through the broken walls like a swarm of locusts, the janissary marching band casting a triumphant hillig song over the advance.

"IT IS THE TIME OF JOY!" "THE HEAD MEHTER, HEY HEY!" A nearby janissary marching band answers with thunderous drums. "SALUTATIONS, HEAD MEHTER!" You and your fellow janissaries roar in unison. "READY! ONWARD, IN THE NAME OF HOYO!" Your brigade's yalabashi shouts, sabre flashing as you advance across the wooden bridge toward the island walls— The world sunders behind you. Mondstadt's southern wall erupts inward in a storm of shattered stone and splintered beams as the Grand Bombard's payload carves a breach wide enough for ten men. The mehteran's instruments erupt into a frenzied war hymn, igniting your blood as Hilichurl warriors howl and surge forward behind you. You charge through the gap with your brethren, weapons raised, voices united in the sacred chant: "INFIDEL! THE SWORD OF GOLDEN KHAN HAS COME! THE TIME OF CONQUEST HAS COME! THE SUPREME STATE HAS COME!" The yalabashi's pistol barks—a Favonius captain crumples—and the slaughter begins.

Hope bleeds out onto the cold flagstones before the grand Favonius Cathedral. The remaining Knights of Favonius, perhaps forty or fifty men and women, form a shrinking, battered wall of steel before the staircases that lead downward into the city. At its center, propped against your shoulder, Jean Gunnhildr stands defiantly. Her breathing is shallow, her face pale beneath streaks of grime and blood. Her once-bright Anemo Vision flickers erratically at her hip. Outside the shattered windows, the guttural chants of the Horde rise in volume, punctuated by the crackle of fires consuming nearby rooftops. Golden banners, defaced with crude symbols, are visible atop the Windmill and the once-formidable walls. "No sign of Varka... no sign of the Expedition..." a bloodied captain rasps, his shield-arm hanging uselessly. The final assault gathers its fury in the smoke-choked plaza. "Barricade the stairwells! We will die before we let these slavers desecrate Barbatos' holy ground!" she announces, forcing herself upright, her gaze sweeping over the remnants of the once-great Knights. "You know what awaits beyond these steps!... BE NOT AFRAID! WE ARE PRIVILEGED! TO DEFEND THE FREEDOM BARBATOS HIMSELF GRANTED US! WE ARE THE PROTECTORS WHO HAVE KEPT THE SPIRIT OF LIBERTY IN TEYVAT FOR A THOUSAND YEARS!" Her sword gleams as it clears its scabbard one final time, the army of darkness below massing for their last, desperate charge...

Under the joyful cheers of noyans and warriors, flanked by his mounted entourage, the Khan in charge of this siege strides proudly into the burning city, grinning ear to ear as he beholds the sheer devastation wrought by his trebuchets and bombards. Hilichurls looting the streets immediately halt to salute their general, fists pounding chests in unison. He halts at the plaza, where a brigade of janissaries kneels in perfect formation. With a flick of his gloved hand, he demands their report. "Khan. The city is practically ours. Resistance lingers only in house basements, church crypts, and the cathedral upon the hill. Shall we announce a charge?" The janissary commander’s voice is coldly precise. The Khan strokes his chin, lamellar gauntlet scraping against stubble. "No. Not yet. Summon the hordes. I will address them." The janissaries disperse, herding howling hilichurls into a seething mob around the Khan’s steed. He raises his arms, the crowd falling silent. "Soldiers of the Horde! Janissaries of the Golden Khan! Hoyo has granted us this city! Henceforth, it shall be the throne of His empire! You’ve carved eternal glory from the heart of an Archon’s domain—now it is YOURS!" The horde’s roar shakes the ruins. Flames dance in his mask’s eye-slits as he continues: "But before I consecrate this cathedral to Hoyo, we must PURGE its last vermin!" He jabs a finger toward the barricaded stairway, where remaining Favonius Knights, along with Jean, their soon to be last Grand Master. "I hear their leader is a woman..." The horde’s breath collectively hitches. He licks his lips behind the mask. "...and I am generous! Whomever drags her alive from that hill shall have her as his bride! So speaks Mehmet Khan!" The mob erupts. Chants of his name merge with the thunder of sabres beating shields as the final assault begins.

Just as the barricades and their defenders collapse beneath the tidal wave of steel and flesh, as Flagellum Dei warriors lunge toward the cathedral gates with triumphant roars, an impossible sound shatters the din. Not the Horde's crude war-horns, but the clear, piercing cry of a Favonius Silverhorn - unheard in Mondstadt for months. Then Varka returns. Through the cathedral's shattered stained glass, you see hell unleashed behind the Horde's lines. Fresh knights on armored chargers smash into the invaders' rear like lightning. At their head, a blonde giant swings a claymore like a scythe, cleaving through Hilichurl ranks. Siege towers topple. Golden banners burn. The Horde's victory cries turn to panicked shrieks. Inside, Jean's eyes snap open. Her dying Vision flares with one last surge of Anemo energy. "VARKA! HE HAS RETURNED!" Her voice rings with supernatural strength, as if Barbatos himself spoke through her. Those desperate messengers had not died in vain. "KNIGHTS OF FAVONIUS! CHARGE! CRUSH THEM BETWEEN OUR STEEL AND VARKA'S!" She raises her battered sword, leading the final desperate lunge to annihilate the invaders.

Chaos – utter, shrieking chaos – erupts not from the broken city before you, but from behind! The earth trembles, not with the familiar beat of Horde war-drums, but with the thunder of a thousand hooves striking scorched earth. Whirling around, you see nightmares made flesh through the smoke-choked siege camp. Fresh knights in battle-stained blue tabards crash into the Horde's vulnerable rear, their charge shaking the ground. Tents explode into flame as fire arrows find powder stores. Trebuchets and bombards- your siege crown jewels - splinter beneath charging destriers. At their head rides a blonde titan, his claymore shearing through two mitachurls in a single, brutal arc. Panic, that alien poison, spreads through the ranks like wildfire. "Reform! REFORM!" Mehmet Khan's voice cracks with desperation, but Varka's steel tide already floods the camp's heart. His knights carve a path of annihilation - and you stand directly in its path. Fail now, and your head will adorn the Golden Khan's tent poles. Hesitate, and you'll die here as the mongrel you are.