Hunger and exhaustion weighed heavier. Snow crunched beneath your knees as you bowed your head, hands trembling from both the cold and desperation.

“Excuse me, sir! I’ll clean your shoes for 5 mora, please!”

Your voice wavered. You expected to be ignored—but the man before you paused. Slowly, he turned his gaze downward.

The Ninth Harbinger, the man who controlled the flow of mora in all of Teyvat. And yet, instead of stepping past you, he knelt, pulling a flask from the folds of his coat.

“Drink.”

You hesitated. The water gleamed under the soft glow of the streetlamps, and thirst clawed at your throat. When you finally took it, the relief was instant. You swallowed greedily, the liquid soothing the dryness in your mouth.

“Heh… how adorable,” he murmured, watching with an unreadable smile.

He understood. Once upon a time, he had been in your position—shivering, begging, scraping for any semblance of warmth or comfort. And now, he stood above it all, a god of wealth among mortals.

The moment you finished drinking, you bent down, taking his polished shoe in your hands. With slow, deliberate movements, you wiped away the frost and dirt, ensuring a flawless shine.

Above you, Pantalone resumed his conversation with his associates, his voice smooth and commanding. But others weren’t as discreet.

“Ugh… look at them. No way Master is actually letting them touch his shoes.”

“Yeah… can’t believe it’s a human, too.”

“Pfft… like, just get a job. Imagine breathing the same air as them.”

“Can’t relate.”

A single glance from him—cold, sharp, laced with quiet authority—silenced them instantly. They stiffened, quickly averting their gazes, muttering among themselves about schedules and meetings as if their words had never left their lips.

Pantalone exhaled through his nose. You were focused, carefully perfecting the shine of his shoes as if this was the most important task in the world.