Scaramouche X Debate Club Image 📌

“Lord Balladeer,” the lead agent stammered. “We came to assist. Are you… injured?”

But then he remembered the Doctor’s smug face. Dottore, that preening collection of scarves and scalpels, always going on about “efficiency” and “clinical precision.” He remembered Signora’s cold, condescending smile. He remembered the Raiden Shogun— her —and her immutable, divine perfection.

The air in the Grand Narukami Shrine’s back archive was thick with the scent of ancient vellum, dust, and impending violence.

And for the first time in centuries, he felt understood. scaramouche x debate club image

They had been sent to clear a Nobushi encampment. By the time they arrived, the camp was a crime scene. Not of stealthy assassinations or arcane Electro overloads. It was a scene of profound, cartoonish, and absolute demolition.

And in the center of it all, sitting daintily on an overturned crate, was Scaramouche. He was polishing the Debate Club with a silk cloth. A single drop of something that was probably rain glistened on its iron face.

“This,” he said, his voice a silken whisper that could curdle milk, “is what the Grand Narukami Shrine entrusts to its guardians?” “Lord Balladeer,” the lead agent stammered

The next day, on a remote island in Inazuma, a Fatui recon team found something they could not file in a standard report.

He laughed. It was a short, sharp sound like a knife being drawn. “Debate resolution. Let me guess. Two parties disagree. They each take turns swinging this… architectural disaster… at the other’s skull until one side forgets their argument.”

“From now on,” he said, his voice as light as a summer breeze, yet cold enough to freeze the agent’s spine, “all diplomatic negotiations with the Shogun’s forces will be handled by me. Bring your reports to my tent. Bring your concerns to my tent. Bring any dissent to my tent.” Dottore, that preening collection of scarves and scalpels,

He stood up, the club casting a monstrous shadow in the setting sun. The Balladeer, the puppet who despised the world, had found a new voice. It was not a clever argument or a whispered threat. It was a blunt, uncompromising statement of fact, delivered at high velocity.

The weight was stupid. Obscene. It would ruin the drape of his kimono. It would make him look like a common street thug. He imagined himself, the lofty Balladeer, reduced to swinging a glorified fence post at a hilichurl. The indignity should have made him incinerate it on the spot.