If the harbor is too quiet, she might venture into the Feiyun Slope area to "promote" her business to night owls, much to the chagrin of the local Millelith. Into the Mist: Wuwang Hill
Hu Tao stretches, her energy seemingly boundless despite a full night of chasing ghosts and balancing accounts. She gives you a mischievous wink, reminds you to stop by the parlor if you ever need a "special discount," and vanishes into the morning crowds, leaving you with a completely new perspective on the world.
As dusk settles over Liyue, the lanterns glow red against the darkening sky. While merchants pack their stalls, Hu Tao begins her daily routine at the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.
often romanticizes the flashy—the sword fights, the Elemental Bursts, the Mora. But nights like these reveal the quiet truth: Hu Tao is the lonely guardian between life and death. She makes the darkness laugh so it doesn’t weep. Life in Teyvat- Night with Hu Tao
Hu Tao—the 77th Director of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor—sat cross-legged atop a weathered stone bench, her ghostly companion, Mr. Zhongli, nowhere in sight for once. Instead, she had a small wooden box open beside her, filled not with business ledgers, but with paper —brilliantly colored, intricately folded paper: cranes, camellias, a tiny boar with lopsided ears.
Sitting at her wooden desk, Hu Tao balances her time between drafting dark-humored poetry and reviewing strict funeral arrangements. To her, death is not a taboo subject to be feared, but a natural, beautiful transition that must be respected. A night with her begins here, amidst the scent of incense and old parchment, as she prepares her tools—her beloved Staff of Homa and her loyal, glowing spirit companion—for the evening's duties. The Trek to Wuwang Hill
She coaxes lingering ghosts to cross over peacefully, maintaining the natural order. If the harbor is too quiet, she might
Our first stop was, surprisingly, the Funeral Parlor itself—after hours. The building, a solemn structure of dark wood and red lanterns, always seemed to hold its breath during the day. At night, it exhaled.
As the night deepens, Hu Tao leads you to the Liyue Night Market, a vibrant and bustling hub of activity. The market stalls are filled with an array of exotic goods, from rare spices to unusual trinkets. The air is filled with the sounds of laughter and haggling, as merchants and customers engage in lively negotiations.
Hu Tao blew on the pale flame. It danced forward, wrapped around the spirit, and folded . Not an explosion, not a scream. Just a quiet, gentle pop , like a bubble bursting. The old woman faded into a single, glowing petal that drifted up to join the constellations. As dusk settles over Liyue, the lanterns glow
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.
With a flash of her polearm, fiery butterflies—the heralds of the afterlife—flutter into the gloom.
She guides the lost spirits with a warmth that doesn’t consume, but comforts.