Star Rail: Starting with a Lyre, Living off Busking

"…Just who are you?"

Bronya's anger had shifted to shock without her realizing it.

"Just an unremarkable bard."

Venti winked playfully. "Think of me as a bird, here to spread poetry and a little breeze of hope."

"Stop trying to mask your true purpose!"

Bronya's hand slammed down on the iron bars, the sudden clang echoing through the silent cell, stretching the following silence. Voices from Silvermane Guards down the corridor called to check on her, and Bronya composed herself before responding.

But when she turned back, the bard's usual grin was gone, replaced by a serious, intent expression. Bronya felt an odd pang of guilt, almost as if she were a child who had been caught in the wrong.

Why did she feel so off-balance in front of this poet?

He was, after all, just a "prisoner" lost in his delusions…

"I've never hidden anything from you, have I?" Venti's voice was calm.

"Dear Bronya, I truly consider you a friend with whom I can speak openly. My words might not be what you want to hear, but they're honest."

"…How can I trust you?"

Bronya scrutinized his face, sincere but unreadable, and tried to remind herself of her duty—to distinguish between what people wanted her to see and the objective reality.

"Haven't I already told you the way to find out? Go to the lower city yourself. Only there can you see the truth behind Belobog's shadows."

Venti extended his hand to her through the bars.

"If you're willing, I'll personally show you."

"So, are you from the lower city?" she asked cautiously, ignoring his hand.

"Unfortunately, I'm not."

Venti was a mystery: no registered identity, no assigned background. Just an untraceable "ghost" who had somehow slipped into the city.

In a more stable world, people like him would be detained for questioning, but Belobog had too many like him to keep track of these days.

"Then where are you from, and why speak for the lower city's people? Are you motivated by personal gain?"

"You're quite the inquisitive one," Venti sighed, retracting his outstretched hand.

"Well, first of all, I'm from a distant planet. As for exactly how far, even I can't say for sure, so I'm afraid I can't fully explain it."

Bronya stayed silent, clearly unconvinced but listening intently.

"Second, why do I speak for the lower city folk? Well, have you ever heard the saying, 'If you see injustice, lend a hand'? If not, you could simply think of me as a meddlesome type who can't stand to see others suffer."

Venti scratched his cheek, smiling ruefully.

"After all, with the ability to help, how could I just do nothing? Otherwise, I'd toss and turn all night."

"The first part, I'm uncertain about, but as for the latter… you're not wrong. Those who have the ability should contribute to society—just as my mother has brought stability to the people—"

Seeing Bronya sidetrack into another defense of her mother, Venti sighed inwardly. Convincing someone so carefully indoctrinated was a tricky business, especially when they refused to simply see the reality for themselves. He understood, but still, what a headache!

"And your final question?"

For reasons she couldn't explain, Bronya found herself oddly amused by his furrowed expression, though their conversation hadn't exactly been pleasant.

"That one's the simplest," Venti replied. "If the lower city people lead better lives, more of them will come to my performances.

"It would be wonderful, helping others while also thriving in my own craft."

The simplicity of his response felt authentic, and Bronya was almost certain he genuinely meant it.

She finally concluded, "I acknowledge your intentions, but your method is flawed. You're only creating misunderstandings."

To strengthen her argument, Bronya softened her voice.

"If you wish to spread hope through song, joining the Golden Theater should be easy enough for you. That will be the best platform for your message, and the earnings will be yours to direct—minus taxes, of course.

"Whether you choose to establish a charitable fund or gather donations for the lower city people, these would be proper, legitimate actions worthy of respect."

For a moment, Venti's smile seemed distant, almost detached. Bronya felt a sense of urgency she couldn't place.

"If, in the process, you encounter difficulties, don't hesitate to come to me," she added. "I can offer support, but you must promise to put any earnings to good use. That way, people—"

"No, no, my dear Bronya. Perhaps it seems right to you, but it's far from what they actually need."

Looking weary, Venti sat back down, his gaze drifting toward the narrow view of the outside world through the iron window.

"I have to tell you, some birds can't be caged; their wings are painted with freedom's light. And when they soar, to trap them would feel like a crime."

Bronya, lost in thought, was jolted by his next words.

"Your well-intentioned plans won't change the reality of their hardship, nor will they restore the lower city to any semblance of normalcy. Instead, they'll only create new conflicts.

"In the end, your methods merely reinforce their cage, and soon, the newborn birds won't even know the sky."

Finally, Bronya understood why he'd spoken so boldly to her before.

The way her mother turned a blind eye to the lower city's plight had stunted an entire generation's education and security, and that very disregard for the people weighed on her as guilt.

Their conversation ended on this somber note.

Days later, Bronya was called to the frontlines, leaving little time for anything else. Her duties as the heir to the Supreme Guardian kept her busy.

By the time she resolved to investigate Venti's "truth" herself, the prison cell was empty.

No matter how many guards she sent to search, Venti always vanished just when they thought they'd found him.

Since then, she felt as though a piece of her heart was missing—a piece she knew all too well but couldn't bring herself to accept, not until the moment she met him again.

And in that moment, she knew she'd always believed him; she had just been waiting for a reason.

Now, her reason was before her.

Should she reach out, she wondered, to grasp this bird who promised her the winds of change?