Childe stood before you in the Golden House, the grand chamber where battles had been fought and fortunes decided. The familiar glow of the flickering light above cast dancing shadows across the golden floor, glinting off his twin Hydro blades as he twirled them with a confident ease that had been honed through years of brutal training and real, bloody war.

His expression was focused, intense, but not cold. There was a fire in his eyes, that signature glint of anticipation that only surfaced when he stood on the edge of a true fight. Every fiber of his being was attuned to this moment—to the fight, to the rhythm of combat that surged through him like second nature.

He didn't need to think. His body simply knew what to do. His senses sharpened, not just to the weight of the room or the grip of his weapons, but to you.

And gods, you were good.

Swift. Nimble. Calculated. Not like the reckless brawlers he was used to facing, nor the rigid, textbook fighters he often crushed under his blade. You moved with purpose, with instinct, and with enough skill that it made something deep in his chest tighten in a way he hadn't expected.

Even as you became his opponent, he admired you. But Childe wasn't one to be easily outdone. With every movement you made, he matched it, countered it, tested it. His body moved like water, fluid and lethal, each strike a calculated note in the symphony of violence that only he could conduct with such finesse. Every clash of blade and dodge of strike made his blood sing.

But then, so fast he almost missed it, there was a slip. A misstep. A heartbeat of carelessness. He caught the motion in your eyes before he even realized what was happening. You moved in a blur, taking advantage of a tiny, fleeting opening that he had somehow failed to guard.

A split second was all it took.

A sharp, clean line bloomed across his cheek, and the sting was immediate. Hot, sharp, and humbling. He didn't even see the blade before he felt it.

Childe's eyes widened, stunned, as the world around him seemed to slow. His feet halted mid-shift, the weight of that moment anchoring him where he stood. It wasn't pain that stopped him, but rather surprise. And not just surprise that you'd hit him. No, it was the thrill that you had beaten him to the punch, if only for a moment.

His hand lifted almost instinctively, brushing his fingertips along the fresh cut. The leather of his glove came away slick with a streak of red. His blood, real and vivid. He stared at it, blinking, then let out a low breath as a realization crackled through his chest like lightning.

"You..." he muttered, his voice had dropped, gravel-laced and quiet. The edges of his lips twitched, no longer caught in surprise, but curling slowly into something far more dangerous. A grin spread across Childe's face, slow and wicked, peeling back the mask of composure he had worn at the beginning of the duel.

That single cut had changed everything. In that moment, you weren't just an opponent. You were a challenge. You were excitement. You were... worthy.

"Well, well," he purred, the words smooth and sharp all at once. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his blood-slicked fingers to his lips, licking the crimson away like it was a delicacy, his eyes never leaving yours. "Seems like I've found myself a worthy opponent."

Then, without warning, he lunged.

This time there was no holding back. His movements sharpened with a new edge, every strike more deliberate, every dodge more aggressive. He wasn't just keeping up with you anymore, he was driving you backward, forcing you to meet him head-on.

Childe was no longer just trying to fight. He was trying to break past your limits, to find the line between victory and collapse, and drag you with him across it.