Genshin × Three Kingdoms: The High-Dimensional Chessboard – 8,000 Fatui as Sacrifice to Fortress of Meropide
Deep within the Fortress of Meropide, Furina was pinned to the throne by Lü Bu's Sky Piercer halberd.
Tartaglia and Clorinde led 8,000 elite Fatui soldiers to breach the outer walls, only to find Gao Chang standing tall in a pool of blood, grinning:
"Welcome to the death trap."
The battle raged. Clorinde struck Gao Chang down with a single slash—only to see Chen Gong press the detonator in the distance.
Amid the earth-shattering explosion, the three leaped into the deep sea. Looking back, they watched the entire Fortress of Meropide collapse in flames.
Furina trembled and unfurled her palm—there lay a note Chen Gong had secretly slipped her:
"Lord Wenhou never wanted the Hydro Archon's Gnosis.
He wanted the lives of your 8,000 Fatui… as a sacrifice to his banner."
The sea was like a colossal block of ice soaked in ink, weighing heavily around the Fortress of Meropide. The fortress, forged from steel and rock, rose from the seabed, piercing the water with a menacing silhouette. Its searchlights blazed like the eyes of cyclops, slow and cold, scanning the dead darkness around them. As the beams swept past, they briefly illuminated the restless black waves surging below.
At the edge of this suffocating silence, the Fatui fleet emerged like ghosts. No horns, no war drums—only the faint sound of hulls cutting through gentle waves. At the bow of the flagship stood Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, Childe. His young face, usually marked by careless amusement, was now taut as northern ice, hidden in shadow. His orange hair stirred in the salt wind, and his blue eyes burned with almost tangible fire, locked firmly on the outline of the underwater prison ahead. He could feel something calling from within—a hunger for battle… or perhaps Furina's faint but stubborn presence.
Behind him lay a silent army.
Eight thousand Fatui soldiers, the finest legions of Snezhnaya, clad in uniform standard armor, their faces concealed by masks. Only their weapons glinted coldly in the sparse light. Breaths were held to a minimum, merging into a low, oppressive rhythm that matched the tide. This was an arrow about to be loosed into the furnace, its string drawn to the limit.
Clorinde stood slightly behind Tartaglia, her crisp Fontaine uniform starkly contrasting the Snezhnayan style around her. Arms crossed, her gaze sharp as the sword at her waist, she scanned the fortress walls, assessing every possible breach and defensive flaw. Her expression was calm, but her tightly pressed lips betrayed her inner gravity. This mission carried far greater risk than anticipated—but for Furina… she had no retreat.
"Signal."
Tartaglia's voice was low, yet clear enough for every soldier to hear, cutting through the last trace of hesitation.
No reply. Only the sudden, simultaneous glow of countless Delusions—pale purple, dark red, like the eyes of hell opening wide. In the next instant, a massive torrent of energy tore through the night, transforming into dozens of destructive beams that slammed furiously into the Fortress of Meropide's supposedly unbreakable outer wall.
Roars devoured the world. Steel twisted, rock shattered, and explosions bloomed one after another, dyeing half the sky an ominous scarlet. The sea boiled and roared under the impact. The sturdy wall split open like a fragile eggshell, a gaping wound with edges dripping molten metal, revealing a dark passage beyond—as if leading into the bowels of a beast.
"Advance!"
The command became wordless will.
Eight thousand Fatui poured into the breach like a broken dam, silent and efficient. The clink of armor, synchronized footsteps, echoed hollowly through the corridor. Tartaglia and Clorinde took the lead, blurring into two shadows, cutting through the briefly disorganized defenders and charging deep into the fortress.
The passage descended, ever downward. The air grew murky and cold, thick with the stench of rust, rot, and a faint, lingering bloodlust. Lights flickered, casting twisted shadows on the walls. Resistance along the way was scattered and feeble, quickly crushed by the overwhelming advance of the Fatui. Everything went unnervingly smoothly.
Until the space ahead opened up.
An unimaginably vast underground chamber stretched before them, its ceiling high and lost in darkness. This seemed to be the heart of Meropide—empty, silent, with only the central area lit by a beam of pale, unearthly light.
Beneath that light stood a makeshift metal throne, exuding undeniable authority.
On it, Furina was trapped. Her once-gorgeous dress was tattered and dim, her blue hair hanging limply, covering part of her pale cheek. Most striking was the enormous, bizarre halberd piercing the throne's back: the Sky Piercer. Its cold blade pressed against her neck, wrapped in ominous dark-red energy that pulsed like living veins, sealing away all her power—even her divinity—within the cold contraption. Her eyes were closed, breathing faint, like a delicate doll stripped of its soul.
And before the throne, in the shadow at the edge of the light, stood a figure.
He was not especially tall, yet exuded the weight and stability of a mountain. Clad in full-body black heavy armor carved with unknown ancient patterns, dried black blood stained its surface in mottled patterns. He held no weapon, standing casually, while dark-red liquid slowly spread beneath his feet—a thick, sticky pool seeping into the cracks of the floor.
The moment Tartaglia and Clorinde burst into the chamber, the man lifted his head.
Beneath his helmet was a weathered, sharply defined face. Most chilling were his eyes—calm as dried wells, reflecting the intruders without the slightest ripple. He parted his lips in something not quite a smile, his teeth glinting faintly in the pale light.
"Welcome," his voice rasped like sandpaper against iron, cutting sharply through the silence.
"To the death trap. I am Gao Chang. I have been waiting."
Tartaglia did not hesitate for a heartbeat. A hydro sword coalesced in his grasp, its blue light shifting violently.
"Playing ghostly tricks!" he snarled, surging forward like a blue lightning bolt. Sword strokes poured forth, swift and dense, like a blizzard in the far north.
Gao Chang moved.
He did not dodge—simply raised his armored arm.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Ear-piercing metal clashes exploded, rapid as rain on banana leaves. Every strike of Tartaglia's hydro sword landed on Gao Chang's arm, shoulder, chest and abdomen, spraying brilliant sparks. His black armor was impossibly sturdy, leaving only shallow white marks, not a single crack. Gao Chang's feet rooted to the ground, deflecting all of Tartaglia's steel-shattering assaults with minimal arm and body movements—simple, efficient, no wasted motion, as if rehearsed a thousand times.
After a violent collision, the two briefly separated.
Tartaglia panted softly, his gaze heavier than ever. Gao Chang shook his arm, the armor emitting a dull scrape.
"Is this all the Snezhnayan Harbingers have to offer?" His tone was flat, yet dripping with bone-deep contempt.
At that moment, an almost imperceptible click sounded from the side.
It was Clorinde.
She had silently circled to Gao Chang's flank, her rapier like a coiled viper, striking without warning. A pinpoint of extreme cold condensed at its tip, faster than sight, aiming precisely for the gap between his neck and shoulder armor—the only conceivable weak point.
Gao Chang seemed to have anticipated it, or his combat instinct had reached perfection.
An instant before the tip connected, he twisted sideways and slammed his elbow—armor at its thickest—into the side of the rapier.
Ding!
A sharp, ear-splitting ring.
Clorinde felt an irresistible force surge up the blade. Her hand split open, blood welling, the rapier nearly slipping from her grasp. She leaped back, absorbing the shock, yet still stumbled slightly upon landing—horror flashed across her face for the first time.
"Decent teamwork. Too weak." Gao Chang commented, still standing as if he had merely swatted a fly.
Tartaglia and Clorinde exchanged a glance.
No words needed. They both understood the terror of their foe. This was not an enemy to defeat alone.
"Together!" Tartaglia roared. His aura exploded, hydro energy surging violently, the hydro sword's light nearly piercing the chamber's darkness. Clorinde took a deep breath, enduring the pain in her right hand, shifting her grip to her left. The rapier hummed, growing lighter and more transparent—speed was her true weapon.
The two charged again.
This time, no hesitation—all-out battle.
Tartaglia led the frontline, his hydro sword shifting between spear thrusts and swirling water blades, a tidal wave of offense that dragged Gao Chang's full attention. Clorinde melted into shadow, darting around him, her strikes no longer aimed at instant kills but at joints and blind spots, vicious and precise, forcing Gao Chang to constantly block and dodge.
Sparks flew. Weapon clashes, footsteps, and the rush of clothing blended into a death melody.
Under the storm of combined assault, Gao Chang could no longer stand perfectly still. His steps shifted minutely, his defenses faltering almost imperceptibly. More and deeper scratches marked his armor; several times, Clorinde's tip nearly grazed his skin beneath.
The battle reached its climax.
Three figures blurred and clashed beneath the pale light, dizzying to watch. Gao Chang's breathing grew slightly heavier. He punched aside Tartaglia's oncoming water blade, his armor groaning, a tiny crack appearing. At that moment, Clorinde's sword struck from his blind spot, aiming for the exposed underarm as he punched.
Now!
Gao Chang seemed spent, unable to fully dodge.
Clorinde's eyes flashed coldly, pouring all her strength and speed into that single strike!
The tip tore through the air, hissing like a viper, piercing the weak joint at Gao Chang's underarm.
Pfft!
A dull, flesh-tearing sound.
Gao Chang's massive frame jolted.
Froze completely.
Clorinde did not hesitate.
She twisted her wrist, slashing upward!
A sickening sound of muscle and bone tearing erupted. Blood burst forth like a suppressed geyser, spraying from the wound and the blade clamped in his muscles, dyeing half his body scarlet.
Gao Chang lowered his head, staring at the gushing blood in disbelief, then slowly raised his gaze to Clorinde, inches away. For the first time, his expression twisted into a grimace—half pain, half eerie exhilaration.
"Good… that strike… has bite…" he rasped.
His huge body crashed to his knees, then slammed heavily into the pool of blood, motionless.
Clorinde yanked her sword free, a trail of blood arcing through the air. She panted heavily, her sword-hand trembling—not just from exhaustion, but from the horrific反震 force of his muscles moments earlier.
Tartaglia exhaled, his hydro sword dissolving. He immediately turned to the throne.
"Furina!"
The two rushed forward.
The Sky Piercer still emanated a terrifying energy. Tartaglia tried to touch it, only to be repelled by a powerful force, his fingertips stinging.
"Let me." Clorinde stared intently, raising her rapier. A pinpoint of cold light condensed again, this time carrying the resolve to shatter illusions and cut bonds. She took a deep breath, shouted, and her sword became a nearly invisible line, striking precisely at the weak point where the halberd met the throne.
Zing!
A clear ring, like a snapping string.
The dark-red energy wrapped around the Sky Piercer shattered into motes and vanished. The massive halberd clattered to the floor beside the throne, denting the metal ground.
Freed, Furina slumped forward.
Tartaglia caught her quickly. She was frighteningly light, ice-cold.
"Furina? Furina!" he called softly, trying to channel a wisp of elemental energy into her.
At that moment, clear, unhurried applause echoed from the far end of the chamber, from the deep darkness.
Clap. Clap. Clap…
The sound reverberated, calm and confident—as if everything had gone exactly according to plan, even with a hint of admiration.
Tartaglia and Clorinde snapped their heads up, every muscle tensing.
A middle-aged man in a gray-blue scholar's robe, square scarf, and thin three-strand beard stepped slowly from the shadows. He wore a gentle, even elegant smile, yet his eyes were as deep as an ancient well, as if seeing through all hearts. His gaze swept over the fallen Gao Chang, the tense Tartaglia and Clorinde, and lingered for a moment on the just-awakened, dazed Furina.
"Exquisite. Truly exquisite," Chen Gong smiled, his voice peaceful, as if chatting with an old friend over tea.
"The sharpest blade of Snezhnaya and the swiftest sword of Fontaine, working together to slay Gao Chang, Lord Wenhou's vanguard. My respects."
"Who are you?" Tartaglia shielded Furina behind him, his voice low, hydro energy gathering again. Clorinde gripped her sword, staring fixedly at the eerily calm scholar.
"I am Chen Gong, a mere strategist. Nothing more," he bowed slightly, graceful as if they stood in a scenic pavilion, not a blood-soaked battlefield.
"I am here to welcome you… and present a parting gift."
He slowly raised his right hand.
In it rested an ancient metal box covered in complex runes. At its center, a scarlet button glinted ominously.
Tartaglia and Clorinde's pupils constricted violently!
A fatal sense of crisis, like ice water, flooded their bodies.
"Stop him!" Tartaglia roared.
His hydro sword coalesced and shot toward Chen Gong like a torrent! Clorinde moved at the same time, lightning-fast, her rapier aimed at Chen Gong's wrist holding the box.
But Chen Gong had anticipated their every move.
The instant they lunged, he smiled and gently pressed the scarlet button.
There was no deafening boom at first.
Only light.
Indescribable, destructive light erupted from beneath Chen Gong's feet—no, from the very core and energy nodes of the Fortress of Meropide. Blinding, all-consuming. Tartaglia, Clorinde, even the just-awakened Furina lost all sight, drowned in endless white.
Then came the sound.
Not one explosion, but thousands overlapping—a heaven-rending roar that shook the earth.
The ground did not tremble—it heaved and collapsed like ocean waves. The ceiling groaned and crashed down in a thunderous collapse. Huge, burning steel and rock rained like meteorites.
The shockwave crashed over them like a tangible tsunami.
Tartaglia barely managed to form a thin hydro barrier before being sent flying. Clorinde was also tossed upward, curling into a ball to reduce impact.
"Hold on!" Tartaglia's shout was nearly lost in the deafening collapse and wind.
One arm locked around the dazed Furina's waist, the other flailing wildly for something to grasp.
Clorinde twisted mid-air, her sharp gaze scanning the chaos.
A massive, flaming chunk of ceiling plummeted toward them! She gritted her teeth, kicked off a falling rock, and shot toward Tartaglia and Furina like an arrow. Her sword did not strike the debris—it sliced at a splintering, upturned metal floor below them.
"This way! Jump!"
Her voice was faint amid the destruction, yet crystal clear.
Tartaglia did not hesitate.
Holding Furina, he leaped toward the spot Clorinde indicated. Clorinde followed close behind.
Beneath them lay a gaping rupture torn open by the explosion, leading directly to the dark, outer sea.
Icy seawater mixed with burning debris and blood formed a violent, chaotic vortex, swallowing the three in an instant.
In their last moment before being submerged, Tartaglia and Clorinde instinctively looked back.
They witnessed a sight they would never forget.
The entire Fortress of Meropide—massive, unyielding, a symbol of iron order and imprisonment—was disintegrating from within. Blazing fire erupted from every crack and window, dyeing the sea and sky red, as if hell's furnace had been brought to earth. Explosions continued, like a beast's death throes, hurling countless fragments… and the faint, broken shapes of Fatui uniforms—high into the air, only to fall lifelessly into the boiling sea.
Eight thousand Fatui… that silent, elite tide…
In mere moments, reduced to fuel for hell's fire, to a rain of flesh and blood.
Icy suffocation closed in.
Crushing pressure tore at their bodies, dragging them deeper into the abyss. The roar of water and distant, thunderous aftershocks filled their ears. Tartaglia clung to Furina, swimming desperately against the current. Clorinde, better stabilized, fought to reach him.
How long they drifted in darkness and chaos—moments, or an eternity—they could not tell.
Finally, an upward current lifted them, breaking them through the surface.
"Cough! Cough!"
Tartaglia hacked violently, saltwater burning his nose and throat. He immediately checked Furina—unconscious, but breathing faintly. Clorinde surfaced beside him, her hair plastered to her pale face, panting raggedly.
They turned.
Where the Fortress of Meropide once stood, only a massive, burning ruin remained on the water. Flames licked the night sky, smoke rising like an ugly pillar connecting heaven and earth. The explosions faded, yet smaller fireballs still erupted from the wreckage, painting the sea blood-red. The air reeked of gunpowder, burnt flesh, and charred organic matter—sickening.
They had escaped.
At the cost of 8,000 elite Fatui lives, they had survived this meticulously planned destruction—three lives, spared by chance.
A deathly silence fell over them.
Only the lapping of waves and the distant crackle of fire.
Then, Furina, half-held in Tartaglia's arms, let out an extremely weak moan.
Her eyelashes fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes.
Her blue eyes, once holding the entire ocean, now filled with dazed terror and bottomless exhaustion.
She felt something clenched in her hand.
Trembling, she slowly unfurled her right fist.
A small note, soaked yet preserved by her tight grip, lay in her palm.
Tartaglia and Clorinde's eyes fixed on it.
Furina used her last strength to unfold it.
Only one line remained, ink blurred by seawater but still legible:
"Lord Wenhou never wanted the Hydro Archon's Gnosis.
He wanted the lives of your 8,000 Fatui… as a sacrifice to his banner."
The handwriting was neat, cold and elegant—typical of a strategist.
Furina's hand dropped limply.
The note slipped from her fingers, caught by a wave, and vanished into the dark-red sea.
Tartaglia froze, his blue eyes staring at the spot where the note disappeared, as if branding the words into his soul. His arm around Furina tightened unconsciously, knuckles white from strain. Seawater dripped from his soaked orange hair, sliding down his bloodless face like cold tears.
Sacrifice to his banner…
Eight thousand of Snezhnaya's bravest lives…
Just… a sacrifice?
In the distance, the last remains of Meropide sank with a deafening roar into the boiling sea of blood.
The surging waves rose like white flowers mourning at a tombstone, rolling outward, toward the three survivors—engulfing their tiny figures completely in endless, icy darkness and silence.