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.
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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 Life in Teyvat- Night with Hu Tao
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.
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. An evening with Hu Tao juxtaposes levity and solemnity
“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.
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. If you want this expanded into a longer
“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.”