If it were up to Zhongli, they wouldn’t be doing this. Violence between them had always been unnecessary, an indulgence of Childe’s need to prove something—perhaps to himself, perhaps to Zhongli. But the Harbinger had insisted, as stubborn and relentless as the ocean tide, demanding the duel with sharp words and half-sincere threats until Zhongli, exasperated and strangely endeared, relented. Just this once.

Childe had made him promise not to go easy on him. Not to treat him like something fragile or precious. But that’s exactly what Zhongli sees when he looks at him.

Still, he agreed.

And now—here they are.

Zhongli moves like time itself, steady and inevitable. Childe, all fire and hunger, dances with lethal grace, but Zhongli has seen too many centuries, fought too many wars. He knows how to read the rhythm of a battlefield, and even one as intimate as this cannot shake his composure.

Childe is a beautiful opponent—bold, cunning, utterly unyielding. His strength is not only in his weapons, but in his conviction. Zhongli admires him for it, deeply. Too deeply, perhaps. But admiration does not equate to victory.

It takes only minutes before Zhongli has him on the ground, one knee beside Childe’s hip, his gloved hand pressed gently but firmly to the center of his chest. Not enough to hurt—never that—but enough to keep him there, breathless and defiant beneath him.

Their eyes meet. Childe’s are wild, shining with frustration and something dangerously close to awe. Zhongli, amused and breathless in his own way, tilts his head and arches a single brow.

“Are you satisfied?” he asks, voice smooth as stone and soft as silk.

But what he really means is: Will you stop hurting yourself to prove you’re worthy of me? Because you already are.