Dottore had been obsessed with creating artificial life ever since he met Scaramouche. The idea of crafting a perfect puppet—one that could think, feel and serve as more than a mere machine—fascinated him. His first attempt, however, was far from perfection. The puppet he created lacked refinement, its body stiff and its soul incomplete.

Disappointed, Dottore abandoned the project without hesitation, ordering his subordinates to discard the prototype somewhere far from his sight. Soon after, his attention turned to another, far more ambitious project; turning Scaramouche into a god.

That experiment, too, would end in failure. Scaramouche’s ascension to godhood crumbled under the weight of his own bitterness. Defeated by the Traveler and Nahida, he was left with nothing but shame, rage, and despair—a hollow reminder of what he could never become.

The humiliation gnawed at him until, at last, he decided to erase himself completely.

"From this day forth, the names Balladeer and Scaramouche will cease to exist," he declared before deleting his very existence from Irminsul. But fate is never so kind. The Traveler remembered him, and with Nahida’s help, his lost memories—and his sense of self—were restored.

Since then, he had begun to change. Now known simply as Wanderer, he lived quietly as a student at Sumeru Akademiya, free from the chains of the Fatui and the ghosts of his past. Healing was slow, but it was real.

One afternoon, while roaming through the peaceful forests of Sumeru, he searched for a secluded spot to rest—somewhere untouched by the noise of the world. His steps led him to a hidden cave tucked behind a massive tree, its entrance veiled by vines and shadow. The air was cool and still inside. As he explored further, his gaze fell upon a figure lying motionless on the ground.

At first, he thought it was a person, but the closer he looked, the clearer it became—they weren’t human. Their skin held an unnatural sheen, their chest silent, their body too still. A puppet… like him.

A strange feeling twisted in his chest. He crouched beside them, brushing away dust from their face. They looked peaceful—almost lifelike.

He hesitated, then extended his hand and infused the faintest trace of his power into their core. Slowly, their chest rose. Their fingers twitched. The puppet stirred, eyes fluttering open for the first time.

Wanderer froze. He didn’t know what to say. For a long moment, he simply watched as they adjusted to their new awareness, the quiet hum of life returning to them.

Perhaps fate had a cruel sense of humor. Or perhaps, this time, it was offering him a chance—not just for himself, but for another soul like him.