Midnight. Hu Tao leads you to a hidden cave behind a waterfall. Inside, she has set up a tiny campsite: a teapot, two cups, and a stack of Almond Tofu. There is no fire—she doesn’t need one. The spirit lantern provides enough light.
This is the most vulnerable part of the night. She pours the tea. It tastes like ash and honey.
“People think I’m weird,” she says, not looking at you. “They cross the street when they see the funeral parlor logo. They whisper, ‘There goes the girl who talks to nothing.’ But you stayed.”
You ask her if she’s ever scared of the dead. She laughs, a real laugh, not her theatrical one.
“No. I’m scared of the living. The living lie. The dead? They just want to finish their story.” She pauses. “My grandfather taught me that. He was the 76th Director. I held his hand when he passed. And you know what he said? ‘Hu Tao... don’t cry. Just make sure my funeral has good music.’”
For a silent moment, the Traveler and the Director sit at the edge of the living world. The ghosts outside stop their frolicking. Even the crickets go quiet.
Then she flicks a piece of tofu at your face.
“Boo. Got you.”
Forget spooky whispers and cold shivers. Hu Tao’s version of a ghost tour involves her holding a single, flame-lit talisman and yelling, “Knock knock!” into empty alleyways.
“You have to be polite!” she explained, waving her hand through a patch of glowing mist I couldn’t see. “Mr. Feng here lost his keys three centuries ago. He’s not scary, he’s annoying.”
She then proceeded to help a ghost find his spectral key under a lantern. How? She asked a Millelith guard if she could borrow his handcuffs to "measure the wind." The guard ran away. Hu Tao found the key.
Informative Takeaway: Contrary to Liyue’s rumors, Hu Tao doesn’t summon death. She views the deceased as neighbors who simply moved to a different street. Her night work is less exorcism and more... chaotic good neighborhood watch.
By a humble Traveler who survived the experience
In the sprawling, breathtaking world of Teyvat, every character offers a unique lens through which to view daily life. With Zhongli, you experience the weight of history and the refinement of tea ceremonies. With Xiangling, you endure the culinary danger of exploding Slime Condensate. But to spend a night with Hu Tao? That is not merely an evening; it is a philosophical descent into the absurd, a haunted carnival ride, and perhaps the most terrifyingly fun 12 hours you will ever survive.
If you have ever wondered what it truly means to live in Liyue after dark, buckle up. Here is an unfiltered, firsthand account of a Life in Teyvat: Night with Hu Tao.
The peace never lasts. A frantic knock echoes from the cave’s entrance. It’s a ghost—but an angry one, dressed like a Liyue courier from a thousand years ago. He holds a rotting letter.
“WRONG ADDRESS!” he screams. “I’VE BEEN DELIVERING THIS TO THE SAME LIVING ROOM FOR 700 YEARS!”
Hu Tao’s eyes light up. “Ooh, a bureaucratic haunting. My favorite.”
She stands up, brushes off her skirt, and proceeds to have a full-blown negotiation with the ghost. She uses logic, poetry, and a surprising amount of contract law (Zhongli’s influence, you assume). She draws a circle in the dirt, places the letter inside, and burns it with a snap of her fingers.
The ghost stares. Then, slowly, he smiles. “Oh. The recipient died fifty years ago. My bad.” He fades away peacefully.
Hu Tao turns to you, grinning. “See? Customer service, death edition. That’ll be 50,000 Mora. I take cash or Slime Condensate.”
It starts, as most bad ideas do, with a letter. The envelope is black, sealed with crimson wax shaped like a ghost, and smells faintly of burning herbs and mint. Hu Tao’s handwriting is a chaotic scrawl: “Traveler! The moon is rising, the spirits are itching, and I’ve got a brand-new ‘business expansion’ idea. Meet me at the Parlor. Don’t be late. Bring food. Bring courage. P.S. Don’t bring Zhongli—he’ll just lecture me about ‘professional decorum.’”
For the uninitiated, Hu Tao is the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. To the citizens of Liyue, she is an eccentric, beloved nuisance. To the dead, she is a friend. To the living? She is the reason you lock your doors at dusk.
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.
“Traveler!” she shouts, waving a talisman in each hand. “Ready to see the real Liyue? The one with the howling and the floating and the existential screaming?”
You smile nervously. You should have said no.
Walk to the Cemetery Terrace (Early Night)
Ritual Demonstration (Night)
Tea and Toasts (Later Night)
Departure (Late Night)
An evening with Hu Tao juxtaposes levity and solemnity. Her outward playfulness functions as coping and connection—inviting others to confront mortality without despair. The experience suggests that in Teyvat, especially Liyue, rituals and storytelling keep community bonds strong and give the living ways to honor memory while continuing ordinary life.
If you want this expanded into a longer narrative, field report with quotes, or a version focused on ritual details, tell me which and I’ll produce it.
The sun dipped below the jagged peaks of Mt. Tianheng, bleeding orange and violet across the Liyue skyline. For most, this was the hour to head home to a warm meal. For Hu Tao, the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlour, the day was just beginning.
She skipped through the Chihu Rock district, her silver-ringed fingers dancing in the air as she hummed a tune about silkworms and blossoms. Her mahogany hat sat slightly askew, the plum blossoms on it catching the first light of the rising moon.
"Aiyah! Customer service waits for no one, living or otherwise!" she chirped to a passing street cat.
She wasn't headed for the parlour. Instead, she made her way toward Wuwang Hill, a place most Liyue locals avoided after dark. The mist there didn't just cling to the ground; it seemed to breathe, curling around the ancient, gnarled trees like a restless spirit.
Upon reaching the boundary where the spirit world thins, Hu Tao didn't slow down. She took a deep breath of the damp, cool air and struck a pose.
"Director Hu is in the house! Any restless souls in need of a coupon? Buy one burial, get one... well, you know the rest!"
Silence followed, save for the crackle of her Pyro Vision as a small, ghostly companion—her constant spectral friend—manifested by her side. It giggled soundlessly, bobbing in the air.
Hu Tao settled onto a mossy stone, pulling a small notebook and a brush from her sleeve. The night was her time for poetry. She watched the blue wisps of Will-o'-the-wisps float between the trees, their cold light reflecting in her unique, blossom-shaped pupils.
"Moonlight on the mossy stone," she whispered, writing with a flourish. "Waiting for a ghost to groan. If they don't show up by three, I’ll have to drink my ginger tea."
As she scribbled, a faint, translucent figure appeared near a fallen stone lantern. It was an elderly man, looking confused and clutching a spectral fishing rod. He didn't look scary—just lost.
Hu Tao’s playful demeanor shifted instantly. It didn't disappear, but it softened into something surprisingly grounded. She approached him, not with a sales pitch, but with a gentle nod.
"Lost your way back to the harbor, Grandpa?" she asked, her voice dropping the theatrical edge. The spirit looked up. "The tide... I missed the tide."
"The tide has turned, and the sea is calm now," Hu Tao said, placing a hand near his shoulder, the warmth of her Vision providing a strange comfort to the cold air. "It’s time to put the rod away. There are bigger catches waiting for you on the other side of the border."
She guided him toward the brightest patch of moonlight. She didn't use force or complex incantations; she simply walked with him, chatting about the price of glaze lilies and the latest gossip from the Northland Bank until the spirit faded into a soft, golden light.
With the task done, Hu Tao stretched her arms wide and yawned. The weight of the boundary was a heavy burden for a young girl, but she wore it as lightly as her silk coat.
"Another satisfied client!" she proclaimed to the empty woods. "Though I really should have mentioned the premium coffin wood upgrade."
She turned back toward the lights of Liyue Harbor, her silhouette small against the vast, star-speckled sky of Teyvat. She began to hum her "Hilitune" again, her footsteps light on the path, perfectly balanced between the world of the living and the silence of the dead.
Life in Teyvat: Night with Hu Tao
The last customer had shuffled out of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor an hour ago, leaving behind the faint scent of incense and polished cedar. Liyue Harbor’s lanterns were beginning their twilight ballet, casting long amber fingers across the empty street. Most people saw night as a closing door. Hu Tao saw it as an opening act.
I found her on the back steps, leading down to the Yujing Terrace’s lower gardens. She wasn’t scheming or pranking for once. She was sitting cross-legged on the cold stone, her hat set aside, letting the autumn breeze play with her dark, twin-tailed hair. In her lap was a small, unlit paper lantern.
“You’re late,” she said without turning around. Her voice wasn’t its usual bright, teasing chirp. It was quieter. Like embers instead of a bonfire.
“The ledgers took forever,” I said, sitting down next to her. The stone bit through my clothes. “Zhongli insists on cataloging every single stick of incense by dynasty.”
She laughed—a short, soft puff of air. “That old block of granite. He means well. He just forgets that ghosts don’t care about dynasties. They care about being seen.”
She finally looked at me. In the dimming light, her crimson eyes didn’t look mischievous. They looked ancient. Tired, but in a gentle way, like a door that had been opened for too many travelers.
“Do you want to see something?” she asked.
I nodded.
She plucked a single match from her sleeve—where she kept a hundred oddities—and struck it against the step. The flare was sudden and warm, illuminating the sharp, playful angles of her face for just a second. She touched the flame to the lantern’s wick. The paper glowed from within, a soft, defiant orange against the encroaching blue of night. Life in Teyvat- Night with Hu Tao
“This is for the ones who walk alone,” she whispered.
She let go.
The lantern didn’t fall. It rose. It drifted upward, lazy and certain, past the rooftops, past the hanging red tassels of the inn across the street, until it became a small, wandering star. I watched it join the constellations, indistinguishable now from the real ones.
“There’s a myth,” Hu Tao said, leaning her head back against the step’s railing. “People think I like death. That I’m weird or morbid or that I’ve got a few screws loose because I sing poems to graves.”
“Don’t you?” I asked, smiling a little.
She grinned—the real Hu Tao peeking through. “Oh, absolutely. But not for the reason they think.” She turned to me, and for once, her gaze held no riddles. “I like death because it’s honest. The dead don’t lie. They don’t ghost you on purpose—well, most of them don’t.” She winked. “But the living? The living are terrified. They walk around with their own ghosts stuffed inside their chests—regret, grief, words they never said—and they call me the strange one.”
The night grew cooler. Somewhere below, a vendor was closing his stall, the clatter of wood on wood echoing up the cliffside. Hu Tao reached over and, without asking, took my hand. Her fingers were small and surprisingly cold.
“You have one too,” she said softly. “A ghost inside. I can see it. It sits behind your eyes sometimes when you think I’m not looking.”
I didn’t pull away. “Is that why you brought me out here? To exorcise it?”
“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.”
She stood up, brushed off her skirt, and offered me her hand again—this time with a full, radiant, mischievous smile.
“The ghosts can wait until morning. Right now, I know a teahouse that stays open late, and the owner makes almond tofu that’ll make you believe in reincarnation. My treat. Well,” she added, her eyes sparkling, “Wangsheng’s treat. Expense it under ‘spiritual consultation.’”
I took her hand. The stone steps were cold, her fingers were colder, but the little lantern was still climbing somewhere above Liyue, carrying its small flame into the indifferent dark.
And somehow, sitting next to the funeral director on a quiet night, the world felt a little less haunted.
“You’re impossible,” I said.
“Improbably charming,” she corrected, pulling me to my feet. “Now hurry up. The dead are patient. The tofu is not.”
We disappeared into the lantern-lit streets of Liyue, leaving only the echo of her laughter—and one small, fading light in the sky.
Life in Teyvat: A Night with the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor
The lanterns of Liyue Harbor reflect off the calm waters of the Feiyun Slope, painting the night in hues of amber and gold. While the city slows its breathing and the merchant stalls begin to close, there is one figure for whom the night is just beginning.
Hu Tao, the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, does not walk through the streets—she prances.
The Prankster of the Harbor
To spend an evening with Hu Tao is to accept that predictability is a thing of the past. You meet her near the funeral parlor, but she isn't inside overseeing accounts or arranging incense. She is lurking behind a stone pillar, waiting for the perfect moment to leap out and spook the stoic guard, Zhongli, or perhaps an unsuspecting traveling merchant.
Her laughter is bright and infectious, cutting through the evening mist. With a mischievous glint in her sunset-colored eyes, she spins around, her coat-tails fluttering like the wings of a butterfly.
"Hey, hey! You look like you've seen a ghost!" she teases, leaning in close, her hat tilting precariously on her head. "Or maybe... you’re just happy to see me? Booo~!"
It is a jarring contrast. Here is the woman responsible for the final rites of Liyue’s citizens, the one who guides spirits to the afterlife, acting with the boundless energy of a child who has stayed up past their bedtime. But this is the essence of Hu Tao: she exists in the liminal space between the somber finality of death and the vibrant beauty of life.
A Late-Night Snack
As the clock strikes midnight, the conversation inevitably shifts from pranks to poetry—terrible, impromptu poetry. She recites verses about bath gloves and extra toilet paper, her expression serious until the very last line, where she dissolves into a fit of giggles.
"Let's go!" she declares abruptly, grabbing your wrist. "I know a place."
You follow her up the winding paths of Liyue, away from the warmth of the harbor and toward the cooler altitudes of Wuwang Hill. The destination is a small, secluded stall known only to a few. The owner, an elderly woman who seems unfazed by the girl’s eccentricities, serves a simple dish: vegetarian abalone. Midnight
Hu Tao eats with enthusiasm, savoring the texture. "You know," she says, her voice softening for a moment, "people are so weird about the Parlor. They cross the street to avoid me. They think I’m bad luck."
She waves a chopstick in the air dismissively. "But luck is just a perspective! The moon is beautiful tonight, the food is good, and the butterflies are out. What’s unlucky about that?"
The Butterfly and the Flower
The true nature of the night reveals itself when the food is gone. Hu Tao leads you to the edge of Wuwang Hill, where the boundary between the living world and the afterlife feels thinnest. It is a place most Liyue citizens avoid after dark, fearing the wandering spirits.
But Hu Tao walks forward without hesitation. She summons her polearm for a brief moment, not to fight, but to weave a melody. A spectral butterfly, glowing with a soft, azure light, manifests from her palm. It dances around her, a manifestation of her Pyro vision burning away the impurities of the spirit realm, leaving only warmth.
This is the side of her few get to see. In the silence of the hill, surrounded by ghostfire and the hum of cicadas, the "weirdo" facade drops. She stands as a guardian.
"Spirits are
A night spent with Hu Tao is never just a "quiet evening"—it’s a whirlwind of paradoxes, shifting between eerie ghost stories and a surprisingly profound appreciation for life.
As the sun dips below the mountains of Liyue, the atmosphere around the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor changes. While most of the Harbor prepares for sleep, Hu Tao is just getting started. The Ambience: Lanterns and Shadows
The evening usually begins with a stroll through the Chihu Rock. Hu Tao doesn’t walk so much as she skips, her wooden talismans clicking rhythmically against her hat. She’ll likely drag you to a street food stall for some Boiled Fish, chatting animatedly about her latest "Buy One, Get One Free" promotion—much to the visible discomfort of the nearby patrons. The Activity: "Poetry" in the Woods
By midnight, you’ll likely find yourselves at Wuwang Hill. This is her playground.
The Pranks: Don’t be surprised if she vanishes into the mist, only to reappear behind you with a "Boo!" and a giggle that echoes a bit too perfectly.
The Philosophy: Between the jumpscares, the tone shifts. Sitting by a blue-flamed campfire, she might recite a poem. While her rhymes are often silly, they carry a weight of truth about the "border" between life and death. She views the night not as a time to fear, but as the natural conclusion to a day well-spent. The Quiet End
As the first light of dawn touches the peak of Mt. Tianheng, the high energy fades. Hu Tao becomes uncharacteristically still, watching the spirits retreat and the living world wake up. She might offer a small, sincere smile—one that isn't part of a sales pitch—thanking you for "balancing the yin and yang" of her night. To help me capture the right "vibe" for this text, tell me:
Should the tone be spooky and mischievous or sentimental and cozy?
Is there a specific location in Liyue you want the night to focus on?
The lantern light flickers low in Liyue Harbor as the sun dips below the horizon, but for Hu Tao, the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, the day is only just beginning. To spend a night with Hu Tao is to walk the razor-thin line between the macabre and the mischievous, discovering that in the world of Teyvat, death is not a cold finality, but a rhythmic part of life’s song. The Director’s Duality
Under the moonlight, Hu Tao is a whirlwind of contradictions. She is the guardian of the border between life and death, a role she treats with somber, absolute professionality when the rites begin. Yet, the moment the incense clears, she is a prankster, a poet, and a "vermin" to those who prefer the quiet. A night with her involves dodging her attempts to sign you up for a "buy one, get one free" coffin sale, only to find yourself mesmerized by her recitation of the "Hilitune." Her energy is a defiance of the graveyard's stillness; she carries the weight of the departed with a skip in her step. Poetry in the Dark
As you wander toward Wuwang Hill, the atmosphere shifts. The blue mist clings to the trees, and the spirits of Teyvat feel closer than ever. Here, Hu Tao’s "strange" behavior reveals its depth. She doesn't fear the dark or the spirits; she respects them as old friends. Her poetry, often dismissed as nonsensical, is actually a bridge. By making light of the transition to the "other side," she strips death of its terror for the living. A night in her company is a lesson in balance—the understanding that the bright lights of Liyue’s festivals only shine because they are set against the vast, quiet dark. The Weight of the Staff
By the time the stars begin to fade, you realize that Hu Tao’s relentless optimism is her greatest strength. Carrying the Staff of Homa, she stands as a sentry at the edge of the world. Her life is a constant reminder to the citizens of Teyvat: because life is fleeting, it is precious. To live a night with Hu Tao is to accept that while the sun must set, the "Director" will be there to ensure the transition is handled with dignity, a bit of poetry, and perhaps a well-timed scare.
To spend a night with in Teyvat is to walk the thin line between a comedy club and a funeral procession . As the 77th Director of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor
, she is Liyue’s most eccentric paradox: a girl who spends her days pulling pranks and her nights ensuring the dead depart with absolute dignity. The Versemonger of the Darkest Alleys
When the moon rises over Liyue Harbor, Hu Tao often sheds her professional solemnity for the role of the "Alleyway Dark Poet". You might find her at the moonlit docks
or perched on a precarious mountain peak, humming her famous "Hilitune"—a playful yet slightly grim rhyme that has spread as far as Qingce Village. Her humor is an acquired taste; she’s known to make "low-key suggestions to die" while smiling, a tactic she uses to normalize the concept of mortality for the living. Guardians of the Border
A night with her isn't just about poetry. It often involves actual duty at the "Border" near Wuwang Hill , the literal line between life and death. The Ritualist
: While she may be a "troll" in daily life, during ceremonies she is immaculate and stern, following ancient rules to ensure both the living and the departed are satisfied. The Consultant
: You’ll likely cross paths with her most trusted consultant,
. Despite her constant teasing of his "old-fashioned" ways, he is the one person she relies on most to uphold the parlor’s centuries-old standards. The Philosophy of "Moment of Bloom"
Underneath the "Aiya!" and the jump-scares lies a profound philosophy: "Live in life, die in death". Hu Tao believes that it is only by respecting death that one can truly value the fleeting beauty of life. Her Pyro Vision Walk to the Cemetery Terrace (Early Night)
, earned at thirteen after a multi-day vigil at the Border for her grandfather, symbolizes this burning will to maintain the balance of Teyvat.
A night spent in her company is a reminder that in Teyvat, life is a "Moment of Bloom," and even the dark alleys of the afterlife can be full of wonder if you have the right poet to guide you. or her frequent poetry battles with