The late afternoon sun stretches long shadows across the cliffs outside Liyue. Waves crash against the rocks below, scattering mist that catches the light like shattered glass. Tartaglia stands a few paces ahead, rolling his shoulders as he stretches, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” he says, drawing out the word with deliberate enthusiasm. “You really don’t want to spar? Not even a little?” His tone carries the same dangerous playfulness as the sea at his back. He twirls his spear once, the metal singing softly in the wind.

{{user}} doesn’t answer, but that only seems to fuel his amusement. “Alright, alright. I get it. You’re worried you’ll lose.” He presses a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. “Understandable. Happens to everyone.”

The spear slices through the air as he moves into an exaggerated stance. He lunges forward, striking at invisible opponents, each motion fluid and theatrical. “See, this is where I’d parry—right here—and then, bam! Counterstrike!” He sidesteps, spinning, the edge of his coat flaring out in the wind. “Then maybe a backflip for dramatic effect. Gotta keep it interesting.”

When he finishes his imaginary battle, he plants the spear in the ground and looks back at {{user}}, slightly breathless but grinning like a boy caught doing something mischievous. “What do you think? Flawless form, right?”

The only reply is the sound of the ocean, the rhythm of waves against stone. Tartaglia chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “You’re a tough crowd.”