By the time you arrive at the harbor, the sun has bled into the sea, leaving Liyue’s golden rooftops steeped in violet twilight. Hu Tao is waiting by the front steps, her crimson eyes glowing like dying embers. She isn’t wearing her usual hat, but her hair is tied up in those twin tails, and she’s bouncing on her heels.
“Nope.” She squeezed once, then let go. She picked up her hat, placed it back on her head, and the shadows fell across her face in that familiar, coy geometry. “I brought you out here to remind you that the night is also for the living. Come on.”
I laughed despite myself. And for the rest of the night, until the first pale blush of dawn touched the peaks of Jueyun Karst, we traded stories—some sad, some absurd, all of them alive. Life in Teyvat- Night with Hu Tao
In quiet moments, Hu Tao might confide in you about the weight of her responsibilities, the loneliness that comes with her role, and the fears that she must confront. You might catch a glimpse of the vulnerable side of her personality, a side that she guards carefully from the prying eyes of the world.
“See, most people think the dead are sad,” she explains, skipping over a root. “Wrong! They’re just bored. They’ve got eternity to kill. So tonight, we’re throwing a party.” By the time you arrive at the harbor,
Suddenly, the clearing is filled with floating, translucent shapes. Ghosts. But not the terrifying specters you fight in domains. These are small, round, almost cartoonish spirits—Hu Tao’s "friends." They bob in the air like dandelion seeds, chattering in whispers. One sits on her shoulder. Another tries to eat your Paimon-shaped hair clip.
Most people assume that when the sun dips below Liyue’s towering cliffs and the lanterns begin to float across the harbor, the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor closes its dark oak doors. They imagine Director Hu Tao finally resting, surrounded by the quiet dignity of her family’s ancient craft. “Nope
“Do you ever get lonely?” I asked. “Walking between worlds, I mean.”