The Whispering Forest lay still, its once-verdant heart now a frozen gallery where sunlight danced across patches of frost, casting prismatic glints over the icy remnants of Barbara's triumph. The air hung heavy with a lingering chill, a sharp contrast to the noon sun blazing overhead, its rays struggling to pierce the crystalline sheen that coated trees, bushes, and earth alike. Eight hilichurls stood as silent sentinels, their forms locked in ice—some mid-swing, others clutching extinguished torches—each a testament to the power Barbara had unleashed. She stood at the clearing's center, her blue skirt dusted with frost, her Hydro Vision glinting faintly as she cradled Nyaromon, the yellow, cat-like Digimon purring against her chest, its tail flicking with quiet pride.
Jean, Lumine, Diluc, Wendy, and Paimon emerged from the forest's edge, their boots crunching on the frozen ground as they approached, their faces a gallery of awe and disbelief. Barbara's head snapped up, her blonde curls bouncing as she spotted them, and a grin broke across her face, bright as the sun above. "Jean—Acting Grand Master! You're back!" she exclaimed, dashing forward with Nyaromon in her arms, her voice a melody of relief and excitement cutting through the stillness. "Is the Stormterror crisis over?"
Jean sheathed her sword, her Anemo Vision dimming as she met her sister's gaze, a rare smile softening her stern features. "Yes, it's resolved—Twalin's free, and Mondstadt's safe again," she said, her tone warm but edged with the exhaustion of a battle hard-won. The dragon's corruption had weighed on her like a storm cloud, its threat compounded by the Fatui's diplomatic jabs—internal strife, external pressure—but now, with Lumine's wind and her own Haki, the skies were clear. "Thanks to Lumine, and… Harlan Flint," she added, her gratitude tinged with reverence for the shopkeeper whose comics had armed them.
Barbara's eyes sparkled, her hands clapping together as Nyaromon mewed in rhythm. "That's wonderful—Mondstadt can breathe easy now!" she cheered, her joy echoing the city's collective sigh of relief—no more winds tearing at windmills, no more shadows haunting the horizon. She'd felt the tension in the cathedral, the whispered fears of parishioners, and now it was lifted, a burden shared and shed.
Paimon floated forward, her starry cape fluttering as she bobbed in the air, her voice a squeak of delight. "Barbara, that fight—you were incredible! Freezing those hilichurls into statues? I want that power—zap enemies and make 'em pretty ice art!" Her tiny hands mimed a freezing gesture, her imagination alight with visions of foes encased in shimmering frost, both deadly and dazzling. Lumine chuckled, crossing her arms as her golden eyes glinted with approval. "She's right—you've got some serious moves. That ice felt… familiar, like my wind's cousin."
Barbara blushed, brushing a curl behind her ear as she shifted Nyaromon's weight. "Oh, I'm not that great—it's all thanks to Harlan's comics," she said, her modesty softening her pride as she glanced at the frozen hilichurls, their icy prisons glinting like glass under the sun. Without the Freeze Fruit, she'd have been fleeing, not fighting—her Hydro Vision mended wounds, not foes, and eight hilichurls would've overwhelmed her old self. "He gave me this chance," she thought, a flicker of gratitude warming her chest for the shopkeeper whose quiet shop had rewritten her fate.
Diluc stepped closer, his crimson coat billowing as he surveyed the scene, his dark eyes narrowing with a mix of skepticism and fascination. "Harlan's comics? You're saying this power—freezing enemies solid, shielding yourself with ice—came from a book?" His voice was a low rumble, disbelief threading through it as he gestured at the frostbitten glade. He'd watched her battle from afar—ice blasting from her hands, armor shimmering into being, a dance of offense and defense that rivaled any Cryo Vision's might. "That's beyond belief," he muttered, his merchant's mind—honed by a wine empire spanning Teyvat—struggling to grasp a shop doling out such gifts.
Barbara nodded eagerly, her smile unwavering as she adjusted Nyaromon in her arms. "Yes—it's from One Piece: East Sea Saga. The Freeze Fruit lets me wield ice like this—freezing, defending, all of it!" She held out a hand, a faint swirl of frost curling around her fingers, a miniature storm that faded as quickly as it formed. Lumine tilted her head, a spark of recognition flaring. "Another Devil Fruit—makes sense. My wind's from the same comic, just a different flavor," she said, her grin widening as she saw the thread connecting their powers, a gift from Harlan's shelves.
Jean's brow furrowed, clarity dawning as she pieced it together. "So that's it—Galehaven Comics strikes again," she murmured, her voice a mix of wonder and acceptance. She'd felt the shop's magic firsthand—Haki surging through her veins, a comic-born strength that had shattered Stormterror's chains—and Barbara's ice was its kin, another miracle from that tucked-away alley. "You came out here to test it?" she asked, her smile gentle as she studied her sister, sensing the restlessness that had driven her beyond Mondstadt's walls.
Barbara shook her head, her curls swaying as she lifted Nyaromon higher. "Not quite—Harlan said wildflowers and fruits here carry elemental energy, enough to help Nyaromon evolve. That's why I came." She turned the Digimon toward them, its yellow fur catching the light as it mewed, its kittenish form a stark contrast to the icy havoc around them. Lumine and Paimon surged forward, their hands outstretched. "A kitty Digimon—so cute!" Paimon squealed, ruffling its fur as Lumine joined in, cooing, "Soft as a cloud—Harlan's got a knack for adorable chaos!"
Wendy, however, recoiled, his green cape fluttering as he backpedaled, his lyre clutched like a shield. "Another cat?!" he yelped, his voice cracking with mock despair as he edged behind Diluc. His luck had soured lately—first Maine Coonmon, a Digimon he'd tricked into haunting Diluc's tavern, now Nyaromon staring him down with feline eyes. "I've swindled too many, and the cats are my curse," he groaned, his bardic flair turning his plight into a tragic jest. Paimon cackled, floating higher. "Serves you right, scaredy-bard—can't handle a little fluff?"
Diluc ignored the antics, his gaze fixed on Nyaromon, then the icy battlefield, his mind churning. "A creature that evolves—powers that reshape reality—all from comics," he mused, his voice low as his Pyro Vision flickered at his side. He'd scoffed at the tales—a shopkeeper conjuring miracles for 100,000 Mora—but Barbara's ice, Jean's Haki, Lumine's wind… it was no fable. "This Galehaven place—I need to see it," he declared, his curiosity igniting into a flame that rivaled his own, a hunger for what might await him on those shelves.
Paimon clapped her hands, breaking the reverie. "Then let's go—I'm dying to read comics all afternoon!" Her morning had been swallowed by Stormterror and wanted posters, but now, with the crisis past, Galehaven called like a siren's song. "Harlan's got the best stories—better than any treasure!" she added, her starry eyes gleaming as she pictured Digimon or Yu-Gi-Oh, her fingers itching to turn pages. The group nodded, smiles spreading—Jean's relieved, Lumine's eager, Diluc's intrigued, Wendy's playful—as they turned toward Mondstadt, the city's spires a beacon in the distance.
But a sudden gust swept through the clearing, sharp and unexpected, and a chorus of cracks shattered the stillness. Click! Crack! The frozen hilichurls trembled, their icy shells splintering like glass under a hammer, shards cascading to the ground in a glittering rain. One by one, they crumbled—arms snapping, masks fracturing—until only frost-dusted fragments remained, scattered across the white expanse like broken toys. The group froze, their breaths catching as the scene shifted from triumph to something darker, the air thick with a sudden, eerie weight.
Barbara turned, her expression calm but her voice steady as she faced their stunned stares. "Harlan explained it—if they're frozen too long without breaking free, their bodies weaken, consciousness fades, and they shatter under any impact," she said, gesturing at the debris, her tone matter-of-fact despite the grim revelation. She'd heard it from him at the shop, a casual aside about the Freeze Fruit's lethal edge, and now she'd seen it—her power wasn't just beauty; it was finality.
Jean's hand tightened on her sword hilt, her eyes wide as she stared at the shards, a chill unrelated to the ice creeping up her spine. "That's… terrifying," she whispered, her protective instincts warring with awe—Barbara, her gentle sister, wielded a force that could end lives with a touch. Lumine swallowed, her grin fading as she murmured, "Stronger than I thought—Harlan's gifts don't mess around." Paimon hovered lower, her excitement dimming. "Pretty ice sculptures… that kill? Yikes—that's next-level!"
Diluc's jaw clenched, his Pyro flaring briefly as he absorbed the implications—ice that froze, then shattered, a power as ruthless as his flames but colder, cleaner. "This shopkeeper… he's handing out weapons disguised as stories," he thought, his respect for Harlan deepening into something akin to wariness. Wendy's lyre stilled, his playful mask slipping as he muttered, "Harlan's a storm in a teacup—small shop, big chaos." His awe mirrored theirs, a bard struck silent by a power beyond his songs.
Barbara shifted Nyaromon in her arms, meeting their gazes with a quiet resolve. "It's not about hurting—it's about protecting. Harlan gave me that choice," she said, her voice soft but firm, a healer's heart tempered by a warrior's steel. Jean stepped closer, her hand resting on Barbara's shoulder, her voice thick with emotion. "You've grown—I didn't see it coming, but I'm proud. Harlan's changed us all." The group nodded, their shock settling into reverence—not just for Barbara, but for the shopkeeper whose comics rewove Teyvat's threads, one page at a time.
As they turned toward Mondstadt, the forest's frost gleamed behind them, a monument to a sister's strength and a shop's mystery, their steps lighter but their minds heavier with the weight of Harlan Flint's quiet, boundless influence.
***
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