Singing? Why was he singing?
Mo San didn’t understand why he had started humming along.
He didn’t even know who the black-armored man ahead of him was.
The man hadn’t said much—nothing about who he was or why he was there. All he did was pull others out of the snow, helping them stand before continuing his steady ascent of the mountain.
Mo San had lost track of how many people the man had helped.
How many times had that black-armored figure extended a hand to someone clinging to life in the icy wilderness?
And yet, not once did he speak of his identity, his reasons, or even his thoughts about the mountain. The only things he talked about were related to climbing.
He sang, took in the mountain’s breathtaking views, and smiled as he pulled others up steep cliffs.
He never demanded anyone follow him. He never gave speeches to inspire courage or determination.
He simply helped—when help was needed.
The first person to join him in singing was the little girl he carried on his shoulder.
She didn’t seem to realize the dire situation she was in. She laughed, delighted by the man’s playful antics, and joined in his song with a child’s innocent joy.
She followed him in laughter, in song, and in marveling at the snowy mountain’s grandeur.
When she found a small stick, she planted it triumphantly into a snowdrift, as though raising a mighty banner.
When the storm quieted, the man grabbed a handful of snow, pressing it against his forehead to savor its icy chill.
The simplicity of his actions made no sense to Mo San.
Won’t singing cause an avalanche? he wondered.
But then, This is a dream, isn’t it?
If it weren’t a dream, how could so many people be climbing this impossible mountain together?
If it weren’t a dream, how could someone smile so freely amidst this unrelenting cold, offering kindness without hesitation?
If it weren’t a dream, why did Mo San feel the strange urge to join in a song that had no words and no structure, only a tune cobbled together on a whim?
It had to be a dream—a surreal, almost magical dream.
And since it was a dream, Mo San realized, there was no point in dwelling on his despair.
At some point, the thoughts of cold and exhaustion, the temptation to give up, had melted away.
If it’s a dream, then why not climb?
With that shift in mindset, Mo San looked up for the first time in what felt like hours. The storm had abated for now, revealing the breathtaking expanse of the mountain.
The jagged peaks stretched endlessly, like silver dragons coiled against the horizon.
The mist that had shrouded everything earlier was now at eye level, rolling like waves over the ridges.
It was a view Mo San had never imagined, let alone witnessed.
For a moment, he forgot to breathe.
The biting cold and fatigue vanished, replaced by awe at the sheer majesty of it all.
—
“Sir, we’ve pinpointed the location of the meteorite core!” a female Fatui agent reported to Scaramouche.
He stood at the bow of a ship cutting through Mondstadt’s coastal waters, staring coldly toward the island where the core had fallen. The ocean spray kissed his face, but he seemed unaffected, lost in thought.
“Speed up,” Scaramouche ordered, his voice sharp.
The crew obeyed, pushing the ship to its limits as they closed in on their destination. Despite his commanding presence, Scaramouche’s expression betrayed irritation. Being in Mondstadt’s jurisdiction meant unnecessary delays and risks; completing the mission quickly was paramount.
But as the ship neared the island, his eyes narrowed.
“Idiots! Faster! Someone’s already beaten us to it!” he snapped.
His sharp gaze locked onto the small wooden raft bobbing near the island’s shore. Without waiting for the ship to dock, Scaramouche leaped overboard and landed with practiced precision on the sandy beach.
There, before the radiant meteorite core, he found someone.
Jia Changjiang.
The man sat still, clearly deep in slumber, his hand resting against the glowing core.
“So, you managed to find this place on your own,” Scaramouche muttered, lips curling into a sneer. “No wonder you weren’t with those adventurers before.”
He raised his hand, crackling with electricity, ready to strike.
But his movement stopped mid-air.
Scaramouche frowned. Something invisible repelled his attack.
His eyes darted to a scrap of paper held loosely in Jax’s hand. On it, scrawled in bold, deliberate letters, was the word “Fatui.”
And below it, a series of taunting remarks that seemed to mock him.
Scaramouche crushed the note with a flick of his fingers, disintegrating it into dust with a surge of Electro.
“Annoying,” he muttered, scanning the meteorite core. He could feel it now—a strange energy emanating from the core, one that seemed to protect the sleeping man.
“Surround this place,” Scaramouche ordered as his Fatui agents arrived on the island. “The meteorite core is the priority. As for him…”
He glanced disdainfully at Jax.
“He’s irrelevant for now.”
Scaramouche placed his hand on the meteorite core. A surge of cold energy coursed through him, pulling him into the dreamscape.
—
The makeshift fortress of stone erected by Lumine was under siege.
Dozens of slimes, hilichurls, and other monsters had swarmed the area, drawn to the massive meteorite shard. The travelers’ defenses, however, held firm.
The sheer height of the walls prevented most monsters from scaling them, leaving them vulnerable to a relentless rain of arrows and elemental attacks.
“Ugh, my arms are going to fall off,” Fischl grumbled, loosening her bowstring after loosing yet another arrow. “The quantity of these wretches is truly limitless…”
“Tell me about it,” Mona groaned, her hands trembling slightly from the constant casting of water-based attacks.
And yet, Lumine stood tall atop the stone walls, her face alight with determination.
“Keep going, we’re almost done!” she shouted, hurling another Geo construct into the fray below.
Her makeshift boulders smashed into the monster horde, scattering them like leaves in the wind.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, but eventually, Fischl and Mona managed to chip away at the glowing meteorite.
With one final strike, the fragment crumbled, dissolving into harmless particles of light.
The effect was immediate: the monsters that had been clawing at the walls grew disoriented, their aggression ebbing away.
“We did it!” Lumine cried, rushing to embrace Mona and Fischl, who slumped against the wall in exhaustion.
“Well done…” Fischl murmured, her voice weary but tinged with satisfaction.
“Don’t celebrate yet,” Mona warned. “That was just a fragment. The core is still out there.”
Lumine furrowed her brow.
“Any idea where it is?”
Mona summoned her hydromantic star chart, scrutinizing the constellation-like patterns within.
“Based on its trajectory, it must’ve landed on…”
She pointed to a distant spot on the map, her expression grim.
“Musk Reef. The remains of the mountain once called Sharp Hat Peak.”
—
The mountain seemed endless, and the snowstorm unrelenting.
And yet, the climb never stopped.
More and more people had joined the ascent, their spirits lifted by the warmth of camaraderie.
The black-armored man who led them remained a beacon, pulling fallen climbers from the snow and encouraging them forward with his unshakable smile.
Though he said little, his actions spoke volumes, uniting the mismatched group into an unlikely team.
Farmers, merchants, scholars, hunters—even children—had all become part of this strange, dreamlike journey.
Some sang along with him, their voices blending into a surreal symphony against the howling wind. Others shared laughter and stories, finding joy amidst the struggle.
Together, they pressed on, the peak drawing ever closer.
Unbeknownst to the climbers, the storm above seemed to grow darker, more oppressive, as another presence entered the dream.
—
Reports began flooding into Mondstadt and Liyue: people who had been comatose for days were waking up.
Though many were dazed and confused, some spoke of vivid memories—of a snowy mountain, of a climb, and of a man clad in black armor.
“He saved me,” a hunter from Mondstadt recalled. “He pulled me out of the snow and helped me climb higher.”
When asked about the man’s name or face, the hunter shook his head.
“I can’t remember. It’s all blurry… but he smiled at us, the whole time.”
The accounts spread quickly, sparking curiosity and wonder.
Who was this mysterious figure?
And more importantly—what awaited him at the summit of the dreamlike mountain?
—
This is a fan translation of 武器大师在原神绝不死于徒手 by 徐人双 All rights to the original work belong to the creator. Please support them by exploring their original work or sharing it with others if you can. Thank you for reading and supporting my efforts to bring this story to a wider audience!
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