Exposure: Bloodstained Liyue
Twenty-one journalists sneaked into Liyue Harbor, occupied by the Oda, Toyotomi, and Takeda allied forces,
attempting to secretly capture irrefutable evidence of the army massacring civilians.
When musket fire felled the sixteenth companion,
Charlotte sewed the photographic negatives into the lining and brim of her coat,
trembling as she took the "Good Citizen Certificate" issued by the enemy troops.
The moment she stepped out of the city gate, she heard soldiers whispering behind her:
"These journalists are like moths rushing into the flame..."
Three months later, bloody photographs were published in newspapers across all of Teyvat.
In Natlan, Sumeru, Snezhnaya, Fontaine, and the remaining unoccupied lands of Liyue,
countless civilians took to the streets.
The truth of war finally tore off the hypocritical mask of the invaders.
Once the pride of Liyue Harbor, Feiyun Slope and Chihu Rock were now stained only with gunsmoke and blood. The once bustling docks no longer hosted merchant ships and painted pleasure boats, but warships flying ferocious foreign banners, their dark cannon muzzles glaring coldly at the lifeless city. The air reeked of burnt wreckage, rust, and a faint putrid stench, heavy enough to suffocate anyone who breathed it in.
Charlotte crouched behind a half-collapsed wall shattered by cannon fire. The Cryo Vision in her palm exuded a faint yet resolute chill, cooling the overheated casing of her Kamera that she had gripped tightly for hours. She adjusted the lens focus, peering through a crack in the wall to clearly frame the distant harbor. There, soldiers clad in varied armor—the Red Vanguard of the Oda army, the Yellow Banners of the Toyotomi, the Black Tide of the Takeda—herded ragged Liyue civilians like livestock. Weeping and wails were cut short by the soldiers’ brutal shouts and the dull thud of rifle butts striking flesh.
"To the left, the Oda men are setting fires again..." A low voice murmured beside her. It was Martin, a veteran war correspondent from The Steambird. His unkempt beard bore witness to days of exhaustion. He too held a modified Kamera, its shutter clicking almost silently.
Charlotte silently shifted her lens, capturing the rising flames and thick smoke, along with the armed soldiers standing before the blaze, their figures warped by the searing heat haze. Her hands stayed steady, yet her heart pounded wildly in her chest. This was no drill, no simulated crisis report from journalism school. These were raw, bloody crimes unfolding in real time. For seven days, they had lain low across this battlefield of ruins and terror, moving like phantoms, using their Kameras to document the occupying army’s atrocities: arbitrary executions, looting, arson, and organized massacres.
Twenty-one of them, hailing from different newspapers in Fontaine, had infiltrated the blockaded isolated city bound by the same conviction. How many were left now? Charlotte dared not count. Every time they regrouped after splitting up, their numbers dwindled. Fear coiled around everyone’s ankles like icy vines, creeping upward relentlessly.
"I’ve captured crucial footage," Martin’s voice trembled with suppressed excitement, tangled with profound sorrow. "The Toyotomi musketeers, down at the docks... a mass execution. At least thirty people, half an hour ago. The negatives are here." He handed over a small metal case tightly wrapped in oilcloth, holding photographic evidence heavier than life itself.
Charlotte took it, cold to the touch. She tucked it alongside several other sealed negative cases into her thick coat, lined with hidden stitched pockets. These images were an accusation, proof, and the only hope for the wronged souls of Liyue who could no longer speak for themselves.
"We need to leave soon," Elliot, the youngest journalist from Fontaine Academic Review, whispered pale-faced. "Inspections at the city gate are growing stricter. Word is they suspect journalists are hiding among the refugees."
As if to confirm his words, a volley of musket fire erupted in the distance, coming from the area where another team had been lying low. Everyone froze instantly. Charlotte bit her lower lip hard until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. Had another group been discovered?
A brief silence gave way to an even more suffocating wait. The agreed rendezvous time ticked by, yet the three members of that team never appeared.
They could wait no longer.
Martin, the leader of their mission, made the final call. He glanced at the remaining five companions—Charlotte included. Weariness and fear etched every face, yet an unyielding fire burned deep in their eyes.
"Split up, follow the backup plan," his voice was hoarse but firm. "Get the evidence out. No matter what, get it out."
He personally checked where each person had hidden the negatives. Into Charlotte’s coat lining, hat interlayer, even the heavy trim of her skirt, the film bearing the truth was cleverly stitched away. Every stitch held the weight of her companions’ entrustment and the grievances of countless innocent victims.
"Charlotte," Martin turned to her last, his gaze complex with the care of an elder and the solemnity of entrusting a vital mission. "Your Vision may help you handle emergencies. Survive, and expose the truth to the world."
She nodded sharply, her throat constricted too tightly to utter a single word.
Every step along the road to the harbor felt like treading on blades. Unburied corpses littered the ruins, dark red blood soaking into the cracks of the stone pavement. A squad of Oda ashigaru roughly shoved passersby, searching them for contraband. Charlotte lowered her head, pulling down her worn wide-brimmed hat, and merged into a line of refugees waiting for exit inspections.
The line inched forward slowly. Heavy checkpoints lined the city gate, soldiers of the three occupying forces mingling together, their sharp eyes scanning every traveler like hawks. On wooden stakes beside the gate hung several bloody severed heads—familiar faces of Liyue citizens who had once dared to speak out. Charlotte’s stomach churned, forcing herself to look away.
Suddenly, a commotion and harsh shouts broke out behind her. Her heart skipped a beat, and she whipped around.
Martin and Elliot were being dragged out of the line by Toyotomi musketeers. An officer held up a tiny developing box seized from Elliot’s luggage lining, a cruel smirk on his face.
"Journalists?" The officer spoke in halting Teyvat Common. His voice was quiet, yet it silenced the bustling city gate in an instant.
Martin straightened his back and said nothing.
The officer let out a cold snort and waved his hand.
Bang! Bang!
Two crisp, chilling gunshots split the stagnant air. Martin and Elliot jolted violently, then crumpled to the ground like broken puppets, blood gushing beneath them and spreading across the dust.
Charlotte’s breath caught, her vision blurring into a sea of red. The sixteenth... no, the seventeenth and eighteenth. She clenched her fists until her nails dug deep into her palms. The sharp pain anchored her, keeping her from collapsing. She must not cry, must not scream, must not show a single trace of panic. The negatives stitched inside her coat burned against her skin like red-hot irons.
It was her turn to be inspected. A soldier rummaged through her nearly empty luggage, while another sized her up with suspicious eyes. Charlotte lifted her face, wearing the same numb, frightened expression as the refugees around her. She voluntarily pulled out her crumpled occupying-issued "Good Citizen Certificate", her fingers trembling almost imperceptibly.
The soldier glanced at the certificate, then frowned at the Cryo Vision pinned inside her collar, emanating a faint chill. He hesitated for a moment, weighing his options. Perhaps it was her identity as a young woman, perhaps the Vision held perceived value, or merely the soldier’s reluctance to stir up more trouble. At last, he waved her away impatiently.
Overwhelmed with relief, Charlotte stumbled forward, her steps unsteady as if walking on cotton, or upon the still-warm bodies of her fallen companions. When she finally crossed the city gate arch that marked the line between life and death, a salt-laced sea breeze swept over her, sending a shiver down her spine.
Faintly, she heard the mocking murmur of the city guards drifting on the wind:
"...These journalists are reckless fools, moths flying straight into the flame."
Moths rushing into the flame... Yes. Knowing full well it led to destruction, they still charged toward the light, determined to record the fleeting truth and pass it on. Tears finally spilled uncontrollably down her cheeks, mixing with dust and sorrow. She did not look back, could not look back. Pulling her hat brim lower, she quickened her pace, stumbling along the path away from the harbor, leaving the hellish ruins of Liyue Harbor far behind her.
Three months later, the headquarters of The Steambird in Fontaine.
The printing presses roared loudly, the thick scent of ink hanging heavy in the air. Warm newspapers spilled forth like snowflakes, their front pages dominated by striking full-page black-and-white photographs.
Mountainous piles of corpses on the docks, mothers shielding their children with desperate gazes, gunsmoke billowing from musket volleys, cruel indifference etched on soldiers’ faces... Beneath every photo lay concise yet piercing captions, detailing the exact time, location, and military unit responsible for the atrocities.
Charlotte stood in the bustling editorial office, surrounded by busy, furious colleagues. She stared silently at the newspapers, her mind replaying Martin’s final gaze, Elliot’s pale face, and the sixteen fellow journalists forever trapped in Liyue Harbor.
What she had brought back was far more than photographic negatives.
It was thunder, raging fire, a tidal wave of righteous accusation.
The next day, nearly every influential newspaper across Teyvat reprinted these bloodstained testimonies from Liyue on their front pages.
In Natlan, tribal warriors gathered around bonfires, listening to literate priests read the reports, their roars of anger shaking the highlands.
In Sumeru, scholars of the Akademiya set aside their endless debates. The Hall of Wisdom echoed with condemnation of the atrocities, rousing equal fury among desert mercenaries and rainforest dwellers alike.
In Snezhnaya, the bitter northern winds could not disperse the crowds filling the plazas. The Tsaritsa’s subjects voiced fierce outrage over the distant tragedy, leaving diplomats uncharacteristically grave.
In Fontaine, the Opera Epiclese turned into a rallying square. Citizens surged with righteous anger, demanding official intervention.
Across the remaining pockets of Liyue untouched by war, surviving civilians circulated secretly smuggled newspapers, tears mingling with burning rage. Familiar streetscapes and the faces of loved ones in the photographs turned grief into unyielding resolve to resist.
Never had the brutal truth of war been laid so bare before the world. The invaders’ carefully crafted masks of "co-prosperity" and "order" were utterly shattered by the images bought with countless lives, exposing the undeniable, blood-soaked evil beneath.
Charlotte closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of ink and paper—the fragrance of free press and vindicated truth. Her battle was not over; this was only the beginning.
曝光血色璃月
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二十一名记者潜入被织田、丰臣、武田三军占领的璃月港，
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试图偷拍军队屠杀平民的铁证。
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当火枪队的子弹击倒第十六名同伴时，
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夏洛蒂将底片缝进自己的外套衬里与帽檐，
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颤抖着接过敌军颁发的“良民证”。
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走出城门的那一刻，她听见身后士兵低语：
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“这些记者就像飞蛾扑火……”
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三个月后，全提瓦特大陆的报章上登出那些血淋淋的照片，
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纳塔、须弥、至冬、枫丹，以及璃月残存土地上，
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无数民众走上街头，
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战争的真相，终于撕开了侵略者伪善的面具。
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---
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璃月港曾经引以为傲的绯云坡与吃虎岩，如今只剩下硝烟与血腥涂抹出的颜色。往日喧闹的码头，泊着的不再是商船与画舫，而是悬挂着异国狰狞旗帜的战舰，黝黑的炮口森然对着这座失去活力的城市。空气中弥漫着一种混合了火烧、铁锈和若有若无腐臭的气味，压得人喘不过气。
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夏洛蒂蹲在一堵被炮弹削去一半的残墙后，冰属性的神之眼在掌心散发着微弱却坚定的寒意，帮助她冷却因长时间紧握而有些发烫的留影机外壳。她调整了一下镜头的焦距，透过墙壁的裂缝，将远处港口区的景象清晰地捕捉进来。那里，穿着不同样式甲胄的士兵——织田军的赤备，丰臣军的黄幡，武田军的黑潮——正像驱赶牲畜一样，将一群衣衫褴褛的璃月平民围拢在一起。哭喊声被士兵们粗暴的呵斥和枪托砸在肉体上的闷响打断。
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“左边，织田的人又在放火了……”一个低沉的声音在她耳边响起，是《蒸汽鸟报》的老牌战地记者马丁，他的胡子多日未修剪，显得潦草而疲惫。他手里也端着一架改装过的留影机，快门声轻微得几乎听不见。
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夏洛蒂默默移动镜头，将那片腾起的烈焰和浓烟，以及火焰前持枪而立、身影在热浪中扭曲的士兵纳入取景框。她的手很稳，但心脏却在胸腔里疯狂擂动。这不是演习，不是新闻课上模拟的危机报道。这是血淋淋的、正在发生的罪行。他们已经在这片废墟与恐惧交织的战场上潜伏了七天，像幽灵一样穿梭，用手中的留影机记录下占领军的暴行——任意处决、劫掠、纵火，以及有组织的屠杀。
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他们一行二十一人，来自枫丹不同的报社，怀着相同的信念潜入这座已被封锁的孤城。如今，还剩下多少？夏洛蒂不敢细数，但每一次分开行动后重聚，人数都在减少。恐惧像冰冷的藤蔓，缠绕着每个人的脚踝，向上蔓延。
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“拍到关键的了，”马丁的声音带着一丝压抑的激动，又混合着深沉的痛苦，“丰臣家的火枪队，在码头那边……集体枪决。至少三十人，就在半小时前。底片在这里。”他递过来一个用油布紧紧包裹的小小金属盒，里面是比生命还沉重的影像证据。
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夏洛蒂接过，触手冰凉。她将它和其他几个同样包裹严实的底片盒一起，塞进随身携带的、内部缝制了多个隐蔽口袋的厚实外套里。这些影像，是控诉，是证据，是那些再也无法发出声音的璃月冤魂唯一的希望。
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“我们必须尽快离开，”团队里最年轻的记者，来自《枫丹科学评论》的埃利奥特，脸色苍白地低语，“城门口的盘查越来越严了，听说他们已经开始怀疑有记者混在难民里。”
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仿佛是为了印证他的话，远处突然传来一阵密集的火枪声，方向正是他们之前另一个小组潜伏的区域。所有人的身体都瞬间僵硬。夏洛蒂死死咬住下唇，直到尝到一丝腥甜。又有人被发现了吗？
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短暂的死寂后，是更令人窒息的等待。约定的汇合时间一分一秒过去，那个小组的三人始终没有出现。
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不能再等了。
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马丁作为此次行动的牵头人，做出了最终决定。他环视着仅存的五名同伴——包括夏洛蒂在内，每个人的脸上都刻着疲惫、恐惧，但眼神深处还燃烧着不肯熄灭的火苗。
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“分散走，按备用计划，”他的声音沙哑却坚决，“把东西带出去。无论如何，带出去。”
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他亲自检查了每个人藏匿底片的位置。夏洛蒂的外套衬里、帽子的夹层，甚至裙摆的厚重镶边里，都被巧妙地缝进了那些记录着真相的胶片。每一针每一线，都仿佛缝进了同伴的嘱托和无数枉死者的冤屈。
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“夏洛蒂，”马丁最后看向她，目光复杂，既有长辈的关怀，也有托付重任的凝重，“你的神之眼，或许能帮你应对一些突发情况。活下去，把真相公之于众。”
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她重重地点头，喉咙像是被什么东西堵住，发不出任何声音。
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通往港口的道路，每一步都踩在刀刃上。废墟间随处可见来不及收拾的尸体，暗红色的血迹浸透了石板路的缝隙。一队织田军的足轻粗暴地推搡着几个行人，搜查他们身上是否携带违禁品。夏洛蒂低下头，拉紧了头上那顶略显陈旧的宽檐帽，混入一队等待检查出城的难民队伍中。
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队伍缓慢地向前蠕动。城门口设了重重的关卡，穿着不同军服的三家士兵混杂在一起，锐利的目光像鹰隼一样扫视着每一个试图通过的人。旁边竖着的木杆上，挂着几颗血淋淋的人头，依稀可辨是曾经熟悉的、敢于发声的璃月面孔。夏洛蒂感到胃里一阵翻搅，强迫自己移开视线。
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突然，身后传来一阵骚动和呵斥。她心脏骤停，猛地回头。
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只见马丁和埃利奥特被几名丰臣军的火枪兵从队伍里拖了出来。一名军官模样的男人手里拿着一个从埃利奥特行李夹层中搜出的微型显影盒，脸上露出残忍的笑意。
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“记者？”军官用生硬的提瓦特通用语问道，声音不大，却让整个嘈杂的城门瞬间安静下来。
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马丁挺直了脊梁，没有回答。
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军官冷哼一声，挥了挥手。
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“砰！”“砰！”
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两声清脆得令人牙酸的枪响，撕裂了凝滞的空气。马丁和埃利奥特的身体猛地一震，随即像破败的玩偶般倒下，鲜血从他们身下汩汩涌出，漫过尘土。
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夏洛蒂的呼吸停滞了，眼前一片血红。第十六……不，是第十七和第十八個了。她死死攥紧了拳头，指甲深深掐入掌心，剧烈的疼痛让她勉强维持着站姿，没有瘫软下去。不能哭，不能叫，不能露出任何破绽。她感受到怀里那些缝在内衬里的底片，此刻像烧红的烙铁一样烫着她的皮肤。
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检查到了她。一名士兵粗暴地翻查了她那个几乎空无一物的行李，另一人则用怀疑的目光上下打量着她。夏洛蒂抬起头，脸上是刻意模仿的、与周围难民无二的麻木与惊惶。她主动掏出了那份皱巴巴的、由占领军颁发的“良民证”，手指不易察觉地颤抖着。
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士兵看了看证件，又瞥了一眼她别在衣领内侧、微微散发着寒气的神之眼，皱了皱眉，似乎权衡了一下。或许是因为她年轻女性的身份，或许是因为那枚神之眼代表着一定的“价值”，又或许仅仅是对方懒得再节外生枝。最终，士兵不耐烦地挥了挥手，示意她快滚。
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夏洛蒂如蒙大赦，几乎是踉跄着向前走去，每一步都感觉踩在棉花上，又像是踏在同伴尚未冷却的尸身上。当她终于迈过那道象征着生死界限的城门拱洞时，一阵带着咸腥味的海风迎面吹来，让她打了个寒颤。
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隐约地，她听到身后传来守城士兵带着讥讽的低语，随风飘入耳中：
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“……这些记者，真是不知死活，像扑火的飞蛾一样。”
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飞蛾扑火……是啊，明知道是毁灭，却依旧要冲向光明，只为将那瞬间的真相，烙印下来，传递出去。泪水终于不受控制地夺眶而出，混合着尘埃与悲伤，滚落脸颊。她没有回头，也不能回头，只是将帽檐拉得更低，加快了脚步，沿着通往港外的小路，跌跌撞撞地向前奔去，将那座人间地狱般的璃月港甩在身后。
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三个月后，枫丹廷，《蒸汽鸟报》总部。
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印刷机的滚筒发出巨大的轰鸣，油墨的气息浓郁得几乎化为实质。一张张还带着温度的报纸如同雪片般飞出，头版之上，是占据整个版面的、极具冲击力的黑白照片。
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码头上堆积如山的尸体，母亲护着孩子绝望的眼神，火枪齐射时腾起的硝烟，士兵脸上残忍的漠然……每一张照片下方，都配有简洁却力透纸背的文字说明，详细记录了时间、地点、施暴军队的番号。
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夏洛蒂站在喧闹的编辑部中央，周围是忙碌穿梭、神情激愤的同仁。她静静地望着那些报纸，眼前仿佛又浮现出马丁最后的眼神，埃利奥特苍白的脸，以及那十六个永远留在璃月港的同行身影。
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她带回来的，不仅仅是底片。
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是惊雷，是烈焰，是控诉的浪潮。
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第二天，几乎全提瓦特大陆有影响力的报纸，都在头版转载了这些来自璃月的血证。
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在纳塔，部落的战士们聚集在篝火旁，听着识字的祭司朗读报道，愤怒的吼声震动了高原。
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在须弥，教令院的学者们放下了争论，智慧宫中回荡着对暴行的谴责，沙漠的佣兵和雨林的居民同样义愤填膺。
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在至冬，寒冷的北风也吹不散广场上聚集的人群，女皇的臣民对远方发生的惨剧表达了强烈的愤慨，外交官的脸色前所未有的凝重。
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在枫丹，欧庇克莱歌剧院仿佛变成了声讨的广场，市民们群情汹涌，要求官方采取行动。
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而在璃月那些尚未被战火完全吞噬、仍在苦苦支撑的土地上，幸存的人们传阅着偷偷运送进来的报纸，泪水与怒火交织。照片上那些熟悉的街景、亲人的面孔，让悲痛化为更加坚韧的抵抗意志。
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战争的真相，从未如此清晰、如此残酷地呈现在世人面前。侵略者精心粉饰的“共荣”、“秩序”面具，在这一刻，被那些用生命换来的影像，彻底撕碎，露出其后血淋淋的、无可辩驳的罪恶。
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夏洛蒂闭上眼睛，深深地吸了一口气，空气中弥漫着油墨和纸张的味道，这是信息自由、真相得以昭雪的味道。她的战斗，还没有结束，这仅仅是一个开始。
After the Japanese army captured Nanjing in 1937, many European and American journalists came to the city to conduct on-the-spot investigations.
In order to avoid punishment at the post-war international military tribunal, the Japanese army deliberately staged performances. They coerced and induced local Chinese civilians to put on a false show, pretending that Japanese troops were friendly and kind to ordinary people.
Nevertheless, several observant journalists saw through the disguise, secretly photographed the Japanese army’s massacre atrocities in Nanjing, and exposed the truth of the tragedy to the world.
1937年日军攻占南京后，大批欧美记者进入南京实地调查战事与民生真相。
日军为逃避战后国际法庭的审判追责，刻意演戏作秀，拉拢、胁迫中国平民配合摆拍，伪装出日军善待民众、军纪亲和的假象。
但仍有多名正直的外籍记者察觉到破绽，暗中拍下日军在南京城内实施大屠杀的真实罪证，将惨案真相公之于众。
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