Chapter Text
Why do you even care, Childe asks himself, a cup of wine in his hand, a charming grin on his face. The cordial faces of dignitaries and artists follow him wherever he goes, the colourful court inviting only in the luxuries throwing all around him—and polite, insincere small talk.
Exactly—why does he even care that the Emperor of Liyue acknowledged his visit to his glorious city, invited him and his people to accommodate inside the Imperial City and didn’t respond to Childe’s very polite and only out-of-courtesy wishes for an audience for a whole damned week? It’s not like he needs it; he’s not here for diplomatic reasons and thank gods, because this would probably end with some epic chase until he reached the borders of Sumeru.
No, no, it’s not that, Childe scolds himself and takes a sip of the bitter wine.
It’s a matter of… a challenge, Childe realises, his lips curling up dangerously.
Because obviously, why indulge himself in all of the Imperial City's splendour and riches, willingly offered to a foreign prince with a harmless patronising, when instead he might find a loophole in Liyuean etiquette? If the mountain won't go to one, then one must come to the mountain—isn’t it a centuries old truth? Childe knows nothing in life is for free. Payment can take many forms, but the first question that needs to be answered is: who should he pay?
A big grin appears on his face, hidden behind the silver cup. The handsome Mr Zhongli is engaged in a conversation with a short woman, dressed all in black. Childe doesn't blame himself for feasting his eyes: the man is so elegant in his non-ostentatious rich hanfu, his face shows the enthusiasm that has to enrich his voice as usually when he explains a concept or answers a particularly interesting question. Childe learnt already the man never gives a straight answer. No; Mr Zhongli loves to unravel a tale in his rich voice, to reach for old myths and records that only historians still possess, to empathise his point.
What is even more important—he seems to enjoy Childe’s company.
Therefore, he appears to be the perfect man to help Childe reach the top of the metaphorical mountain.
Before Mr Zhongli bids farewell to his stubborn companion, Childe's lips hit the rim of his square cup with no wine left. One of the dignitaries in their typical blue hanfu shoots him a disapproving look—and receives only a wink in response. One thing Childe learnt within first days in Yujing City—no matter how perfectly he acts, no matter how well he repeats their etiquette, he will always be an outlander.
Liyueans despise outlanders.
Childe despises double standards.
Perhaps that's the especially attractive quality in Mr Zhongli—he doesn't seem to care.
Seem, appear, happen. Nothing here is certain for Childe. Liyue is a field infested with Flaming Flowers, ready to explode with the slightest of wrong moves.
“Mr Zhongli!” Childe greets him with enthusiasm, beaming in response to the polite, but pleased smile. “Zhongli-xiansheng,” he corrects himself, the smile on his lips even more cheeky, ready to play a polite Snezhnayan envoy with Liyuean gentleman.
“Your Illustrious Highness,” Mr Zhongli replies with all the esteem needed. Childe only sighs, giving up on insisting on more informal greetings.
He doesn’t particularly appreciate potential friends addressing him in a formal way, but when Mr Zhongli does that, in that voice, the words leaving those lips… Childe would be His Illustrious Highness and more.
The Ministry of Rite’s consultant looks even better up close. His cor lapis jewellery enhances the glint of his focused eyes, his body visibly lean and fine even under the layers of his brown hanfu.
“May I take some of your time? Perfect.” Childe doesn’t bother with decorum as soon as Mr Zhongli nods. Instead, he skims his fingers over the small of his back, only for a second needed to guide him to a different part of Yujing Terrace.
It’s enough for the tips of his fingers to prickle.
“See, xiansheng, I have this interesting observation…”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Is the Emperor sick?” Childe knows well accusations like these, even said in light tone and innocence, are horrific for Liyueans. “Been a week since I've arrived, and he didn't show up. I’m just a foreigner, everything in Liyue is confusing to me. Or is he that much buried in work, no time for fun?”
He dines wherever he pleases, Childe heard, staring during breakfasts and dinners at the Emperor's empty table.
I’m afraid the Son of Celestia has seen this performance already, Childe heard, watching the opera the other day and wondering why it wasn't seen by the renewed connoisseur of the arts.
The ministers, the dignitaries, the elders—every guest of Yujing City had an answer and a nod for their Emperor’s lack of public appearances.
“The Emperor is the Emperor, after all, but don’t sell yourself short.” Mr Zhongli’s answer isn’t more reasonable than others, but he does something that others don’t—focuses on Childe instead. A sly, sly man. “Do you feel treated unequally to your position, Your Illustrious Highness?”
“With you insisting on calling me your highness? Not at all,” Childe laughs. “But I have to admit, not many people are friendly to us. But you… Do you speak with many foreigners?”
Childe leans closer as they stop by beautifully maintained bushes of silk flowers, a feigned jealousy in his voice. Mr Zhongli’s amber gaze shines, when he glances at Childe, stealing his breath for a moment.
A sly, sly man.
It’s merely a fleeting moment; a second later the consultant gingerly snatches a leaf that seems out of place, humming quietly before giving an answer:
“Mondstadters—it’s hard to avoid them in Liyue Harbour. Yet, they possess the most exceptional wine, sweet enough to make the experience pleasant.”
Childe laughs and when the sound spreads further away, Mr Zhongli smiles, just a corner of his fine lips curling up.
“Scientists from Fontaine are always welcomed in Liyue Harbour. However,” Mr Zhongli sighs, “they have a tendency to put their own inventions above everyone else's. Hence, not the best relationship between the Imperial Court and the Court of Fontaine.”
He clasps his hands behind his back, his whole body taut as a bowstring. In Liyue everything is perfectly fine; no wonder the breeze that sways his low ponytail is gentle and warm. Mr Zhongli looks dignified and fine, Childe—blinks a few times, when the ginger strands irritate his eyes, before he sweeps them from his face.
The gust of wind spreads the scent of silk flowers, intense for a moment before disappearing in the cloud of the rich scents of the court.
“What about Snezhnaya?” Childe inquires, stopping to allow a servant to fill their silver cups with wine. “Thank you,” he says, out of the corner of his eye catching the servant’s steps faltering subtly.
Mr Zhongli gazes at him with the intensity able to melt Childe here and now. Does he want that? Childe wonders. Does he want Childe to come closer, to close the distance between them, to whisper feverously in his ear if he intends Childe to take him apart in the nearest dark corner of the palace?
Hunger is something Childe knows well. The stirring lack, the bottomless hole in his soul, the vision narrowing to this one thing he must devour, he must conquer.
Because of that, Childe knows how it is to be satiated. Nothing beats the feeling.
“How do you feel, Dear Sir?”
Childe took a deep breath, not disregarding his agent but considering the answer. They had barely passed the famous Stone Gate, their capes dancing in the wind high above the mountain pass.
The change has been… insane. It's been magnificent. It's been manic. Oh, poor, poor Mondstadt, cursed with its Archon wining and dining carefree, impelling every responsibility of running a country on his church and military. How weak it felt compared to its neighbour and friend.
Childe took a deep breath, allowing this new air to sit happily in his lungs. It's almost euphoric, the feeling of strong soil, of land that might fill to the brim his unsatiated soul.
“We'll have a whole lot of fun here, comrade.”
“We don't see Snezhnayans often here, Your Illustrious Highness,” Mr Zhongli’s sultry voice brings Childe back from the summit of the mountain pass.
“Am I your first?” Childe allows himself the innocent jest, a cheap tease.
Mr Zhongli isn't a cheap man, but he rewards Childe with a subtle smile. The corners of his impossible eyes crinkle, betraying his fondness for attention—they both know that cheap is merely a start.
“A first who matters,” Mr Zhongli smoothly retorts. He raises the cup to his lips, and when they touch the rim, opening slightly, it stirs something in Childe.
“I happen to know a merchant from Snezhnaya,” he explains. “While he sells your local specialities, he always seems to be short on firewater.”
Childe laughs boisterously and throws his head up. “Ivanovich, I know. He's popular among my people—they are very bothered with this particular shortage.”
“Are you close with your subordinates, Your Illustrious Highness?” Mr Zhongli may be amused, but his question is clear, oh, this sly, sly man.
Childe doesn't hide that, nor orders his soldiers to do so. Given that the ex-minister of war’s people try to frequently crush the Snezhnayan delegacy, anyone in the military quarters could give Mr Zhongli the answer. Admiral Beidou is just as close to her soldiers; perhaps that's why her political career has only lasted for two days.
How can he not respect a woman who rejects her own Emperor’s order, because of her values and character?
It prompts him to smirk subtly, followed by Mr Zhongli’s inquisitive gaze.
“Loyalty, in my understanding, works both ways. Double-edged sword doesn't necessarily have to be a weakness, Zhongli-xiansheng.” With the wine, the company, and the slowly burning hunger in his veins, Childe laughs again.
It’s a light, joyous sound.
“It doesn’t,” Mr Zhongli agrees after a moment of consideration. “When there is more than one enemy you wish to slay at the same time.”
Shit. Childe will end up begging him to suck him in the corner, won't he?
Two days later, His Illustrious Highness, Tartaglia, the Duke of Morepesok, receives a scroll filled with meticulous calligraphy of Liyuean characters. Rex Lapis, the Son of Celestia, the Imperial Majesty of Liyue, wishes that Tartaglia has a joyful experience and suggests him visiting both Liuli Pavilion and Xinyue Kiosk to experience the diversity and artistry of Liyuean cuisine. Every time His Illustrious Highness arrives, a private room will be prepared.
“How did he manage to cram so many words on such a small scroll?” Childe doesn’t really ask, frowning and examining both sides of the scroll under the light.
“Wonders of Liyuean characters, Dear Sir,” Ekaterina doesn’t really care whether Childe’s question is rhetorical or not.
Childe shrugs.
The most famous dining places in Liyue Harbour aren’t strictly culinary establishments in the north understanding. Food is ordered and paid for, but it’s not a grand place to exhibit blichtr, as they say in Mondstadt, and make connection over food and alcohol.
Show yourself, the Tsaritsa used to say, when Childe was younger, proud, and stubborn. Make yourself known. Let them love you and fear you—because one is never enough.
It is grand and expensive, but in a different way. More filling, less shell. Substance over style.
“In fact, Liuli Pavilion is a place where government officials gather to strike deals and sign contracts. It does have a reception area, but the majority of the estate is made up of private rooms,” Mr Zhongli explains it later, sitting opposite Childe in a sedan, he borrowed from the palace.
After receiving the letter in the Ministry of Rites, Mr Zhongli gladly accepted Childe's invitation. Childe frankly had no idea how differently to reach the handsome consultant. He didn’t ask for his address. Yet. He didn’t ask for his address yet, and he genuinely believes it to be his success.
“And Xinyue Kiosk?” Childe asks, leaning more against the backrest, his long legs outstretched.
“Quite the same. A venue for nobility and politicians to enjoy a dinner and look after their affairs,” Mr Zhongli admits, a faint spark in his eyes. His shoe nudges Childe’s. Next time Childe definitely should ask for a larger sedan—or on the contrary. He outstretches his leg further, their shoes brushing together. “I simply prefer Li cuisine more.”
“Liuli Pavilion it is, then,” Childe decides, shaking his head as Mr Zhongli laughs shortly.
Childe couldn’t care less about bustling Liyue Harbour behind the windows, in all shades of gold, yellow, and red. It’s colourful beyond measure, a gem of a city painted on the canvases of clothes and buildings. It fades compared to Mr Zhongli’s striking gaze and the unmatched beauty of his features. Their voices are nothing but a lively background to Mr Zhongli’s laughter, his low voice, every sound he makes… and could be making.
How decadent would it be to kiss him here? The world just behind sheer curtains, the soldiers carrying the sedan aware of it due to unusual motions inside… Would he be ashamed? Aroused? Inviting?
Gods, Childe wishes he knew.
Mr Zhongli smiles as if he knew every vivid thought sprinting through Childe’s head.
“They treat us like the Emperor’s relatives, mm?” Childe jests when the waitress leaves them alone in a room too large for two, promising she’ll return as soon as they have decided what to order.
Probably half of the staff greeted them with utmost respect, ensured that they were satisfied with current conditions, and bowed too many times. The Imperial Majesty indeed took care of anything that Tartaglia, the Duke of Morepesok, would anticipate.
Part of Childe is still wondering how Mr Zhongli would sound, pressed to the wall of the imperial sedan, shaking it every time Childe leans in.
Food? Liyue was supposed to make Childe full, finally satiated, finally calm. But he is a starving man here, too good of a gentleman to just demand or even propose, barely knowing the man.
Isn’t dining together one of the best ways to get to know someone? Two birds with one stone, it seems. Childe haven’t forgotten of his self-imposed—petty and firmly discouraged by his advisers—mission to find the Emperor by himself.
Does a Snezhnayan prince need a consent for a short conversation with the Emperor of Liyue?
Yes, his advisers would passionately argue, but Childe is quite famous for his temporary-deafness.
No one can blame Tartaglia for shoving his motivation deep in the corner of his mind, sitting across the most handsome man he’s seen in Liyue. Too far away, is Childe’s first thought, the sulking voice in his head tempted to demand Mr Zhongli switches places. Next to him, so close, Childe could brush his hand with his own while reaching for food; could see the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes when he laughs at Childe’s desperate jab; could sense his presence just centimetres away.
His voice almost in his ear, the scents of his clothes and hair irritating Childe’s nose, the warmth radiating from his body making Childe’s skin tingling.
But Childe knows how to behave, how to suppress his selfish needs and wants. How to tell his body: stop.
“Your Illustrious Highness?” Mr Zhongli tactfully brings Childe’s attention back. “Would you allow me to place the order?”
“Ah, sure, xiansheng.” Childe waves his hand. “You know better than me what’s the best here.”
One thing’s sure—Childe intends to shamelessly use Mr Zhongli’s proposition to be his guide in, sometimes dangerous and tricky, world of Liyuean culture.
“Don’t give me permission to use your knowledge and company so easily, xiansheng. I’m known for holding others to their word,” Childe had warned him lightly when Mr Zhongli offered his assistance for the first time.
“I’m the last to break my promises,” Mr Zhongli replied in this rich voice, as if he promised much more than letting Childe freely seek his services.
“I must apologise, xiansheng,” Childe begins, leaving a space for Mr Zhongli to pick up the conversation.
The table is swiftly filled with dishes, one more splendid than the other. They’re masterpieces, meticulously arranged on silver plates and porcelain bowls. “Silver is supposed to separate toxins. Save from poisoning, Dear Sir,” his advisor explained to him. But Childe hasn’t seen silver platters outside Yujing City, for obvious reasons. Even the most popular venues don’t just present the thieves an opportunity on—oh, irony—a silver platter.
Dining at Liuli Pavilion seems to be almost as illustrious as an invitation for a banquet in Yujing City. Or, who knows—maybe you don’t need to wait months to see the court plotting and judging, on the contrary to tasting the most distinguish examples of Li cuisine.
“There is nothing Your Illustrious Highness should apologise for.” Mr Zhongli not only respond with ease and dignity, but also shakes his head slowly before reaching for the deep-fried meat on lotuses’ leaves.
“There is, though.” Childe leans in, cursing the large, oval table in his mind. “I reached to you in your workplace. I hope I didn’t cause you any troubles?”
“Ah, no.” Mr Zhongli's smile is actually encouraging. Childe can feel his toes instinctively curling. “Director Hu doesn't see a problem in passing on my correspondence. But,” he halts; something hard to describe appears on his face, as if he was part flabbergasted, part annoyed, just as a parent would be perturbed with their child’s behaviour. “If she were to approach you, please, don't pay much attention to her words. Director Hu is known for her sentiment to mischief.”
Childe laughs, truly delighted with the news. In the non-stopping flow of the new faces—many of whom were too alike to recall—he could meet this Director Hu already, apparently a known troublemaker and thorn in Mr Zhongli's side. A mischievous smile slowly appears on Childe’s face—and when it takes its rightful place, Mr Zhongli sighs deeply.
As charming as sly, it seems, this Mr Zhongli is.
“Does it mean she has some compromising stories about you, xiansheng? I'm thrilled to meet her,” Childe laughs again, not hiding his sentiment.
Why, given that he could receive this delightful face of pure astonishment in return?
“People do tell you're a troublemaker yourself, Your Illustrious Highness,” Mr Zhongli discloses, a long sigh leaving his fine lips. Clearly, he finds his fate to be sealed—set in stone, as they say in Liyue.
“Are you fond of them, perhaps?”
Mr Zhongli sighs again. “I'm afraid I have no other choice.”
It's another delighting, exciting answer. The laugh is born deep in Childe's stomach and when it spreads across the room, Childe can feel it in his entire body. He throws back his head, sweeping hair from his face with one, swift movement of his hand. When he catches Mr Zhongli’s gaze, there is more than simple amusement in these golden eyes.
Or is it just Childe's wishful thinking?
Every explanation Mr Zhongli gives to a dish placed on the table between them—yet another obstacle between their bodies, needed to be pressed together—is deep in knowledge and admiration to his culture. Childe loves food, and he loves cooking (even if he does it only on the field or these rare moments he visits Morepesok), but to him food is just… food. There is a story in it, yes, but the story of the hands preparing it, so often exhausted but full of determination—that’s what being a lowborn does to you; you see people hidden behind your comfortable life.
But Mr Zhongli? He doesn't just see any hands—no, he sees those which prepared it for the first time. He sees Lisha’s plantations of rice and Jueyun Karst, providing the best chillies in the country. He tells a story of the reason the cashew nuts and mushrooms are placed in this particular way on the plate and how it changed during the centuries and ruling dynasties.
“I'm honoured you offered to be my guide, xiansheng,” Childe admits, his voice unusually soft. He reaches for the bowl of noodles, the grip on the chopsticks unbearably wobbly.
Mr Zhongli fills his plate in such a dignified, elegant way Childe could spend minutes just staring at it.
“It is my pleasure to keep you company,” Mr Zhongli replies easily, but the sparkle of amusement in his eyes intrigues Childe… And doesn't sit well with him, when Mr Zhongli shares the reason for it. “Nonetheless, allow me to notice you are not particularly adept at using chopsticks.”
Childe sighs, staring miserably at the annoying utensils, laying on the side of his plate.
“I took lessons,” Childe admits, not yet defeated. “I was perfectly aware you Liyueans are allergic to forks, long before my arrival.”
It clearly stirs an interest in Mr Zhongli, who elegantly swallows a bite of his duck. “Prior to departing the Zapolyarny Palace for your trip, have you made plans to visit Liyue?”
“I had to leave it,” Childe might say if he wanted to be honest—but honesty is not something he can afford… and not something he would offer someone he barely knows. He is open-minded and charming, people say, easygoing and entertaining. But he is a general and a duke, Her Majesty’s weapon and favourite Harbinger. “I had to leave it,” thus, he tells nobody but himself, “I had to leave it because my ambitions, and my hunger for power, and my arrogance brought destruction upon my country.”
“Her Majesty gave me permission for a year-long travel,” Childe spins a tale in his cheerful voice, leaning back and smirking. “Mondstadt was an obvious first stop, the geography, right? Frankly, I assumed I would only be passing through Liyue on my way to Fontaine. But the moment I stepped on the observation tower in the Stone Gate and looked upon Liyue…” He sighs, shivers going down his spine.
Liyue is, in fact, a beautiful country. Its landscape is so vast and diverse, its prosperity and riches seen from far away. He knew how powerful the country became under the ruling of the Celestial Dynasty, under the ruling of Rex Lapis, the dragon-emperor, the fury on the battlefield and wisdom in board chambers. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the surge of power that was calling to him with each step in Liyue—power that was both calming and warning.
Liyue Harbour is a dizziness in his head, Yujing City itself a feast of opium. Childe knows the strength of Liyue’s ley lines comes from the Emperor.
If he were to see him, he would devour his company and beg for more.
But Childe knows it doesn't work like that. Her Majesty would never make him leave if he could just… decide. He doesn't choose, he only takes and takes, and destroys. Like a leech, greedy for power and bringing its consequences upon the roots of Teyvat.
How long will he be able to stay in Liyue before the powerful and flourishing country will feel the heavy shadow of the Abyssal greed?
“How long do you plan to stay here?” As if he were inside Childe's chaotic mind, Mr Zhongli ponders the same.
“Ah, I'm not sure, xiansheng,” Childe teases him, in spite of his own insecurities ruining his date. “The Emperor doesn't want to see me and apparently, I can't use chopsticks.”
“It surprises me, Your Highness,” Mr Zhongli’s voice is teasing, his eyes amused, his cheeks slightly pinkish from the laughter or spices. A sight to behold—a sight that gave up on illustrious. First step to shamelessly moaning Childe's name. “Your renown as a versatile warrior precedes you. Do you want to tell me, Your Highness, that a warrior able to master every weapon, doesn't have hands agile enough to conquer mere chopsticks?”
Gods.
No matter if that's a flirt or a challenge, Childe is oh-so-in. His mouth dry, his gut tight, ready for the next words.
But they don't come—Mr Zhongli offers only a calm, waiting smile. Childe doesn't dare to decide what he waits for. His fingers are swift as well, long and slim, using the damned chopsticks with obvious ease. It's truly effortless to imagine them wrapped around his length, here, in this private room, or obscenely in the sedan, or in Childe's quarters behind the Yujing City’s tough walls.
“Are you familiar with wielding any weapon, xiansheng?” Childe inquires instead, his unsteady fingers reaching for fried radish with osmanthus flowers—but he decides to give up on the flower, its petals too thin and delicate for him to catch them with his chopsticks.
“Indeed. My education included wielding many kind of weapons, but I must admit being the most fond of polearms.” After rising from his seat and reaching through the table to place petals on Childe’s plate with the communal chopsticks, Mr Zhongli adds smoothly, “Here, please. You shouldn’t taste it without the flowers—it entirely changes the flavour.”
How was he able to not make a mess of food or his sleeves, Childe has no idea. Everything Mr Zhongli does, he does with pristine elegance.
Would he be just as pristine and elegant between Childe’s legs?
“Thank you,” Childe doesn’t leave the man without a word, but quickly focuses on another jest. “How patriotic of you. Isn't a spear the Emperor's favourite weapon?” Childe doesn't really ask, knowing the story of the Emperor defeating the general of the rival army with the swift cast of his spear. “Let me see you in action, xiansheng. I promise I'll be gentle.” He grins and raises his hand before Mr Zhongli says a word, a frown between his brows. “No, xiansheng, you aren't allowed to say no. I'm not pressing on now and here. After all, we're here to enjoy not only our company, but dinner as well.”
Childe is aware how he must look, smug and enthused. A spar is one thing, Mr Zhongli's company something different.
He makes me think, Childe realises. He makes him wonder and consider his position, his situation, his options.
And he isn't even aware of this; this impressive, thrilling man, a well-born consultant to one of the ministries. The Tsaritsa would sigh deeply seeing Childe's sentiment. Then, she would kiss his forehead, ordering him to be careful.
She always orders him to be careful. Yet, it's the risk he takes that wins battles for her.
She knows, but she worries anyway, too fond of him, too caring. For what he has done, he should receive a death sentence, and rightfully so, not travel expenses.
“I hope my company isn't tiring,” Mr Zhongli wonders, his voice betraying his concern.
Childe hates when people are worried about him.
“What? No!” Childe laughs quickly, dismissing Mr Zhongli’s absurd doubts. “Xiansheng, I've met the Ministers of Work, and Justice, and Revenue, and the previous Minister of War. Hell, I was even introduced to the empress dowager and I doubt many can say the same.” Mr Zhongli hums in agreement. “But your company is…”
Surprisingly, Childe can't quickly find a word that wouldn't insult others and praise the consultant. The gap is filled with Mr Zhongli's amused face. His eyes truly shine, like the pretty stones and gold Liyue is known of. Someone who wouldn’t expend so much effort to learn the details of his face, wouldn’t even notice the ever so slight arching of his lips.
“You prompt me to think a lot. Apologies, if it makes me appear aloof,” Childe admits softly, a gentle smile tugging his lips.
A glint of surprise passes through Mr Zhongli's face, but he quickly composes himself. He is not used to honesty—and Childe isn't either. But this honesty is innocent, it simply makes their relationship more real. More trustful. Doesn’t hurt and doesn’t endanger. It’s… sweet, in a way that chilli cakes are sweet. Childe hopes he’s not the only one with a burning body and pounding heart.
“Do you only ever sample three bites of each dish?”
Mr Zhongli appears to be not only surprised but a little embarrassed of Childe's question, his eyes darting between his chopsticks, his plate, and Childe's face.
Does he need a rescue? Childe isn’t certain whether his teasing will be sufficient to protect this gorgeous man from Childe himself, but he continues with innocent curiosity, “I heard it's typical for the Emperor. Hm, but as you know, I didn't have a chance to dine in the same room as him, so my knowledge may be poor. Something about precautions or proof of abundance?” Childe chuckles involuntarily; the amount of legends around the imperial rituals are larger than he could remember.
He wonders, though—is it an assassination scare or abundance what drives Mr Zhongli?
“It's a known habit, yes.” Mr Zhongli nods, but Childe has to notice he is not truly relaxed.
It doesn't sit well with Childe. It doesn’t sit well with Childe that he doesn’t continue the topic, explaining how exactly silver may cleanse a dish from the poison and when exactly silverware became the only one used within the Imperial City. Or anything else—Childe isn’t particular; he merely wants to listen to Mr Zhongli’s velvet voice, beaming with the mirrored passion.
“Don't you mind I ask you a lot about another man?” Childe decides to reach for his best weapon—jest. He smirks, leaning in, as if he could close the unnecessary distance between them.
This soothes the man. He smiles in response, first kindly, but then almost as teasing as Childe. “I don't mind, Your Illustrious Highness. The Imperial Majesty is an astonishing man.”
Oh, gods. Did Mr Zhongli just say that the Emperor is a head turner?
Childe can't with him, truly.
“Mm, I wish I could verify your assessment, xiansheng. But Rex Lapis is as far away from me as when I was in Snezhnaya.” Childe chuckles. He's curious what is the reason behind the Emperor's lack of public appearances… and if it has anything to do with Childe himself.
“Is he?” Mr Zhongli muses, his chin resting on his palm. Childe is hypnotised by the way his thumb rubs his lips in an innocent gesture. “Despite your unfulfilled wish to meet the Son of Celestia, I hope I can contribute to your pleasant stay.”
Childe's unfulfilled wishes have a lot to do with a wall, a neck and inappropriate sounds.
“I have an idea. What do you think about a trip outside of Liyue Harbour?”
“If only I could say yes.” Childe sees in Mr Zhongli's eyes genuine regret. “Unfortunately, the next few days will be extremely busy. Enough to find an hour for you, Your Highness, do not fret, but not enough for a longer trip. Although…” Mr Zhongli pauses, his lips curling up in a moment of amusement. “I believe I have a perfect candidate for a guide in mind.”
Leaving the Inner City—and then Liyue Harbour—allowed Childe to breathe. He hadn’t realised this dyspnea of his until he reached the western gates of the city. The Millelith guards gazed at them judgmentally for a moment, but Childe was wearing the sign of the Emperor’s guest for a reason. The judgment faded from their eyes, replaced, instead, by curiosity—because the foreign prince is one, and the guards in Liyue Harbour, thousands.
Liyue smells like spices and flowers—the Emperor’s precious glaze lilies and silk flowers treated almost religiously in every garden and on every lawn. Childe knows the pretty Liyue, the proud Liyue, and the drunk Liyue (surprisingly, he didn’t end up in some pit, fighting the local thugs for no reason other than boredom—apparently, Yujing City offered him enough entertainment).
Childe leans against the bridge’s barrier. Here, it’s the scent of the sea and the clear river beneath his feet filling his nose. As if, in leaving the beauty of the Liyue Harbour, he’d leapt straight into the wild beauty of Liyue’s fields and hills, unfolding before his eyes, blanketed in clean grass and ginkgo leaves scattered here and there.
Where does all the dirt of Liyue go? Is it hiding just as well as the Emperor?
No city is perfect. Life is all about contradictions, about gains and losses—the beauty of the Zapolyarny Palace and the main streets is paid for with the dirt and neglect of the poor, overpopulated districts. It’s normal, something that can’t be changed. But Liyue… the stink doesn’t trickle down the roads alongside yesterday’s rain. The houses are colourful and well-kept wherever he goes. And he wanders and watches during this trip through the divine capital of Rex Lapis—the dragon-emperor, loved and worshipped as a god.
Childe doesn’t know how he does it—how he hides the filth, the stench, the screams of the poor and abused.
What power is that?
It takes him a moment—and a worrying look on Nadia’s usually professional face—to realise his jaw is clenched, his body unnaturally tense.
“Excited about the trip, comrades?” he asks brightly, a smirk curling on his face—that’s more like him. That makes his guard relax, and she smiles in response.
“Quite, Dear Sir.”
“She couldn’t stop talking about it all day,” Vlad betrays his woman, laughing when she hides her groan in her hands.
One thing is sure—no matter how perfect Liyue Harbour’s façade may be, its Emperor doesn’t joke with his subordinates; doesn’t see them as comrades.
How would one of the Yakshas react if the Emperor ever acted friendly with them? Any display of kindness, any acknowledgement of labour, is seen here as a faux pas.
“Your Illustrious Highness,” a rough but composed voice greets him, drawing Childe’s attention to the man approaching.
Childe had been eyeing him since he passed through the gate—his posture rigid like a seasoned warrior’s, every muscle tensed, accustomed to discipline. Up close, he’s shorter than his frame first suggested, but what Childe hadn’t seen from afar was the look in his eyes.
He sent me a warrior, Childe thinks, touched and amused all at once.
“Hello to you, too. This is Nadia, and this is Vlad—my guards. You can use their names or ranks, up to you. What’s your name, comrade?”
The warrior’s body flinches slightly, just a jolt of something unpleasant. Childe watches him more closely. He wears travel-ready attire—loose purple pants and a dark shirt, with a single white layer over his upper body, tied at the waist, its loose sleeves falling halfway down his forearms. A belt slung across his torso holds a polearm strapped to his back.
“My name is Xiao. I was asked to be Your Illustrious Highness’ guide on this trip.”
He is calm, his every word measured, but despite feeling safe he doesn't feel comfortable. Is it a Childe thing or a people thing? Childe eyes him once again while Nadia and Vlad introduce themselves.
“Are you a Yaksha?” He inquires matter-of-factly. There's no reason to scrutinise him more, to steal crumbs of answers from the secretive man. No, when a gust of wind and a tilt of his wrist revealed a part of a teal tattoo going up his arm.
In Liyue, tattoos are popular, especially among the warriors, not only sailors and scums. But this sort of tattoo… Everyone can have it, sure. But a Yaksha is marked with pride and humbleness.
Xiao seems to consider his options for a moment, before he answers, resigned, “Yes.”
“A Yaksha! Comrade, that's how you should introduce yourself!” Vlad reacts with a chuckle, but he doesn't pat the man’s back, as he would have done a minute ago.
No; nobody touches a Yaksha’s back.
“Just as you always introduce yourself as the general’s security officer whenever you get the chance?” Nadia slowly shakes her head, a hint of affection in her eyes.
“Don't bother Xiao, comrades,” Childe chuckles. I will bother him instead. “What do you think about Lingju Pass for today? I’ve been told nothing can match the views from it.”
Xiao nods. “It is true. Lingju Pass is a considerably safe destination.”
“Oh, we're not bothered with a little danger,” Childe responds smugly, wrapping his arms around the shoulders of his guards and squeezing them slightly. “Right, comrades?”
“We gave up on keeping him out of trouble,” Vlad explains. “Dealing with the troubles is much easier.”
“And much more fun!” Childe adds enthusiastically, grinning at Nadia’s chuckle.
The Yaksha doesn't seem convinced. He nods—and clearly ponders how to save himself from the troubles the foreign prince may attract.
“What's the story behind your acquaintance with Zhongli-xiansheng?”
Vlad and Nadia are a few steps behind them, giving their superior a little privacy. They know him well—who would have thought he rescued them from boring work for Pantalone a few years ago? Three? Four? Time goes by too quickly; Childe misses these times when he worked for his position with sweat and blood. The Tsaritsa’s Vanguard. Her protégée. A boy from nowhere elevated to a rank of a general—and a duke. Prince, they call him, but it's bittersweet, His Illustrious Highness one of the most powerful titles they have in a snowy imperium of Snezhnaya.
They're in Liyue now, he is in Liyue now, the sun high in the sky scorching the world relentlessly. Childe wipes sweat off the nape of his neck. Even though he shouldn't be surprised, he is still taken aback by how unconcerned the people they see on the way to southern Liyue are to the heat. The carts are laden with the goods of merchants, while others are simply ordinary citizens who are en route to the capitol.
Every patrol of the Millelith seizes them suspiciously. How welcomed is Liyue to foreigners.
“We know each other from… work,” Xiao answers after an awkward pause.
Childe raises his eyebrows, trying to ignore the heat. He long forwent his official uniforms, but if he's to stay in Liyue for longer, he should make an appointment with a tailor. “But don't you work close to the Emperor?”
Xiao appears almost as uncomfortable as Childe feels in his top-boots and wool breeches, but the Yaksha’s discomfort cannot be caused by the heat. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of Vlad and Nadia sharing an amused look.
“I do.”
How mysterious. Mr Zhongli, what is your deal? A humble consultant, he calls himself, but how does a humble consultant know a Yaksha from work, if they barely leave the Emperor’s side?
“Zhongli-xiansheng is way too humble.” A man who was sitting on the side of the road and sharpening his dao jumps off the stone, his robust body surprisingly agile.
Unlike Xiao, he doesn't hide his muscular arms, sporting a tight, sleeveless shirt. His tattoo—purple lines and symbols foreign to Childe—swirls around his muscular arm.
Yes, Childe thinks, Zhongli-xiansheng is far too humble.
“Marshal Vritras,” Xiao says, drilling holes in the other Yaksha with his unyielding gaze. He's not pleased with the company… Or his words?
Childe has to admit—Xiao is a good guide, his answers are short but interesting. Childe likes to poke, he likes to question, but it's his personal interest, not a critique. Mr Zhongli was right—he had a good candidate in mind.
“My pleasure, Your Illustrious Highness.” The Yaksha approaches them, focusing fully on Childe after sending Xiao a strangely sweet smile. “I'm Bosacius, the Marshal of Five Yakshas. Apologise for the sudden appearance. You see,” Bosacius’ voice is loud and clear, even as he hovers over Xiao, squeezing his arm and pretending to be subtle. “I decided to save my little brother and ease his duties.”
Xiao shuts his eyes, his nostrils flare when he breathes. Childe can't help but grin.
“Ease? Am I not a good company, Xiao?” Childe teases the suffering Yaksha.
As expected, the man opens his eyes in an instant, the shadow of pain disappearing from his face. “I am not allowed to form an opinion about Your Illustrious Highness.”
Childe is amazed.
“Alatus wouldn't say no to a humble request from Zhongli-xiansheng. And it's true that he is the one who knows the southern regions the best.” Bosacius nods as Xiao grunts quietly, trying to appear professional. Childe doesn't even try to hide his amusement. It's a reward for Bosacius’ easy-going, straightforward approach. Xiao may believe his older brother—brother in arm, Childe presumes—is going to spill too many beans, but Childe knows this type. Exuberant, jovial, generous. They talk a lot, yet give a little info.
Childe knows because he is this type.
Because when Childe introduces Nadia and Vlad to the Yaksha, Bosacius quickly finds their approval—and even a slight flush on Nadia’s cheeks, her eyes on the perfect high to shamelessly ogle Bosacius’ impressive pecs.
He is a lot, but in a way that results in people liking him—and following him. But Xiao—General Alatus, as Childe learnt—told Childe enough.
I don't want to find out his secrets, Childe realises, picturing Mr Zhongli’s mysterious but gentle smile. It wouldn't be difficult, just a few orders, one person following another, a few servants receiving pouches full of mora.
Yet Childe doesn't want to pry. Doesn't want to steal the secrets, doesn't want to rip the knowledge out of Mr Zhongli’s hands. He enjoys… learning.
Liyue is fascinating—not only because of the man whose face is already carved into the back of Childe's mind. They barely leave the slopes of Mount Tianheng, the Dunyu Shrine rising to their right, its pristine walls gleaming in the distance, when Xiao raises a hand and halts.
Bosacius obeys without a word, dropping silently to the ground. Childe gives just a nod before Nadia and Vlad follow the Yakshas, all five of them lying flat in the sun-scorched grass. Nadia gasps softly, and Vlad places a calming hand on her shoulder, eyes wide.
Through the tall, yellow grass, dried out by the heat, they spot two enormous adult geovishaps circling each other. Ten—maybe fifteen—meters away. All Childe would need to do is rush down the slope to try his strength against them. They’re not exactly blocking the path, but in a few minutes, once the group reaches the bend where the road curves down into Lingju Pass, the creatures might see them. Apparently, the stone hollows below are home to geovishaps.
They’re beautiful—huge, lizard-like beasts made entirely of stone and muscle. Their tails hum with elemental energy: one glowing Hydro-blue, the other pulsing with the deep violet of Electro. When the Hydro one roars, the pebbles beside Childe’s hand tremble.
A small smirk plays on his lips.
As he watches, awestruck by their raw strength and size, Xiao and Bosacius exchange signals. Then Bosacius rises soundlessly and disappears behind a stone formation.
“We’ve only seen the hatchlings before,” Childe whispers, too entranced to ask what the Yakshas are planning.
“On our way to the capital,” Vlad hums, his eyes bright, following every subtle shift of the creatures. “On the plains east of Dihua Marsh.”
Xiao flinches at Vlad’s volume, his gaze still locked on the vishaps’ circular movements. Childe gives Vlad a slight signal to lower his voice, and Vlad nods, the reddish colour on his cheeks more thrill than shame.
“Where there are hatchlings, there are usually parents. But the plains’ terrain isn't especially vishap-friendly.” Childe shouldn't assume Xiao might willingly pick up the conversation. “Xiao?”
“They’re fast,” Xiao explains, voice flat and low, like he’s forcing himself to speak. “They travel through tunnels they carve themselves. The environment thrives because of them.”
“And the adults?” Childe presses, fascinated. A chill races down his spine as he tracks their almost graceful pacing. His mouth feels dry.
“Adults know the earth like no other living thing. They take only what they need.” Xiao’s tone is hushed and soft, his face unreadable as he watches them.
Then, suddenly, one of the vishaps roars and vanishes underground. The sharp crack of splintering rock beneath them makes Childe catch his breath. No wonder these giants don’t wander Liyue freely. If they did, the land of stone would become the land of rubble.
“One still stands,” Childe notes, voice light, a teasing smile forming. “Finally, a worthy opponent.”
“We don’t kill vishaps here,” Xiao snaps, tightening his grip on the polearm.
“Why?” Childe’s surprise is genuine. His blood is already rushing. Nothing compares to raw strength like this—how could he pass it up? He’s never fought a geovishap before. How can he call himself strong if he walks away now?
“I’ve seen vishaps before, but never ones this massive. And their skin…”
“Looks like stone. Or at least shards, Dear Sir.”
Childe hums in agreement at Vlad’s words, already toying with the image of royal jewellery crafted from geovishap crystal-scales. He doesn’t fight for coin or vanity—but his queen would value such a gesture.
And lately, Childe’s been short on gestures she might value.
“I see an opening under its left foreleg. What do you think, Nadia?”
“Agreed. Your bow, Dear Sir.”
Nadia reaches for the weapon—but the sweep of a polearm blocks her. Vlad reacts too slowly.
Childe only frowns. A Yaksha would never strike unless it were for the Emperor’s cause.
“We do not kill vishaps here,” Xiao repeats, each word slow and carefully chosen. When the three of them stare at him, Childe calmly lowers the spear with unyielding pressure of his hand. “They’re believed to be dragons.”
“Dragons?” Vlad echoes, and Nadia chuckles, but Childe falls silent.
They don’t look like dragons—but they’re magnificent, power incarnate. The ground shivers under their weight, debris rattling. They look nothing like the regal beasts depicted everywhere in the city—the city belonging to its dragon-emperor.
“Ah,” Childe says. “Relax, comrades. We wouldn’t want to insult Rex Lapis or his… cousins.”
Xiao looks like he could kill him for that.
Childe? He just grins.
Before anyone can speak, the remaining vishap lets out a roar, reacting to a tremor from the other side of the mountain—and sinks into the earth.
The silence afterward feels wrong. Suspended.
Not five minutes later, after the group resumes its pace, Bosacius rejoins them. When asked what he was doing, he starts explaining how to confuse geovishaps—to force them underground by imitating territorial rumbles. To protect their homes.
Xiao throws Childe a strange look as Bosacius speaks.
All Childe feels now is the dull ache of a hunt denied.
No wonder he's getting restless. He barely listens to Vlad complaining they aren't horseback riding and Bosacius pushing Xiao to explain why this terrain is more practical for a trek.
Childe cannot stop imagining, cannot stop wondering.
Would he be able to defeat a geovishap on his first try? Would he need help of Nadia and Vlad? How fast would he learn their patterns, their attacks, their defensive tactics? Would he be able to put it down without reaching for the powers of that cursed woman?
Vlad and Bosacious keep speaking in the background, their voices no worse than two flies. Vlad continues listing pros of horseride, Bosacius provokes him on purpose. Nadia smiles, amused but smarter than to argue with two stubborn men. Xiao… Xiao watches him closely. Like a hawk. Worried, but alert, ready to strike whenever… What exactly?
Childe sends him a cocky smile, too smug without a reason, only to see the Yaksha’s scoffs, his fingers tightening on his polearm. “What beautiful craftsmanship,” Childe admits, an urge to touch, to test the weapon rising suddenly like a wave, like a riptide.
Xiao simply nods and when Childe is ready to continue the topic, Xiao opens his mouth, as if he had to add it, “Rex Lapis gifted it to me.”
Ah, so the omnipotent dragon isn't so detached from his subjects? Appreciating them enough to give one of his best warriors a gift?
“My queen gifted me this bow as well. She called it Polar Star, to guide others with my actions and to guide me… so I'd choose only the right battles,” Childe muses, his hand reaching for the weapon on his back.
Xiao stares at him, his scolding features as detached as earlier, but he nods slightly.
“You're known here as the Polar Star, Your Illustrious Highness. A mistranslation, it seems.”
The harsh judgement prompts Childe to laugh wholeheartedly; he bends, wrapping his arms around his stomach. Xiao gets paler, every facial muscle taut. His reaction tells Childe two things: whether he's an idiot, or he thought Childe is one.
Childe certainly isn't. Before he can comment on the sweet—but honest—assessment, they hear a scream.
Childe heard screams of pain and horror too many times in his life to mistake them with anything else. They are etched in the very being of him, the fundaments of his nature. The pure fear is raw in the voice that slices through the air, and as if it could, it brings the stink of blood and gunpowder to Childe’s nose.
All five of them react almost in the same moment, changing their course without asking one another. They run to the source of the scream, of the rough voice breathing panic and pain.
It takes Childe a second to draw an arrow and pierce it through an arm of one of the thugs. His scream is much more pleasant than the woman’s he was holding. She’s trembling, but cold-headed enough to run to the cart surrounded by the masked men.
There’s sixteen of them—and four of their victims; three women, though one uses a long stick as a spear, and a boy.
Treasure Hoarders, they’re called commonly across Teyvat, although Childe learnt it doesn’t necessarily mean the same everywhere.
Liyue, whatever Rex Lapis would love to state, is the crib of one of the largest criminal group. No Treasure Hoarder would trespass Natlan’s borders and none would dare to wander more north than Nod Krai. They’d be eaten alive by the regional gangs and criminals.
Tartaglia’s delegation carts were too luxurious, the road to Liyue Harbour too long and their crew too little to not meet the famous Treasure Hoarders before. It was an easy fight; Childe was barely able to jump off the carriage and bare his sword before the fight was over. They let one of them go—tell Yan’er that a Snezhnayan prince is in the Land of Gold, said Childe’s advisor, surprising him by knowing the name of a Liyuean crime boss. And for now, he has more important things to do than dealing with the likes of you.
Their faces are half-masked with a piece of fabric tied around their heads, their clothes a clash of Liyuean and Sumerian fashion. But every one of them wears an insignia identical to those Childe ripped from a dead body weeks ago.
Another arrow pierces through the unprotected neck of the criminal closest to the boy. His shaking fists are splattered with blood as the attacker falls on the ground.
Vlad pushes the body before it can crush the child and leads him closer to the cart.
Were they merely commoners bringing their goods to one of the largest markets in Teyvat?
That’s the last sane thought Childe has—the rest is the familiarity of the bowstring’s pressure on his fingers, the fresh air on his face as he moves swiftly, the animalistic sounds and the stink of bodies. Sixteen—fifteen—is not much for five experienced warriors, yet Childe feels like he’s slowed down by Xiao’s actions. He doesn’t care, the fight he urged for is here, his sword shivers under the weight and power of another blade, the metallic sound goes to his teeth, the grunts of pain make his blood boil.
Everything is fast and slow at the same time.
“I will be the most powerful, most fearsome warrior in the entire world!”
Yet another body of an adult man fell beneath the boot of an arrogant boy. He swept sweaty hair off his forehead, his gloved hands curled in fists.
“You don’t believe me?” He asked everyone who questioned his decision, who looked at him funny or raised a brow. “Face me, then!”
They did. Some, to take him down a peg or two. Some, trying to help his worried parents.
Most of them, because a tall and skinny fourteen-year-old boy, running through villages and humiliating their warriors, couldn’t possibly be stronger than them.
“I am the most powerful, most fearsome warrior in Snezhnaya!”
“Face me, then.”
Ajax turned to the source of the mysterious voice, narrowing his eyes at the sight of an odd woman. Her hair was as white as Snezhnayan snow, her hands made of a night sky, her armour a silver creation from another world. He swallowed a gasp forming in his lungs, an awe wandering on his own boyish face. He was a warrior; a soon-to-be soldier of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. One of the best, he promised himself. Her knight.
Not many could match his strength and skill. The adrenaline was as essential for him as oxygen, but all he was—was just a young boy pushing adolescence. But if people knew he defeated someone like her, a creature from stories and dreams…
“What is your name, sword master?” Ajax lolled his head, watching the woman carefully.
The cold wind from the seaside weaved her hair, but her face didn’t show any emotions. She didn’t give him an answer to the question said out loud—but to the one he has been whispering to himself night after night, year after year.
“Defeat me, and you will be known as the most formidable warrior in Teyvat—lose, and you will be bestowed with a power transforming you into one.”
Ajax opened his mouth, ready for a remark or laughter, but he quickly shut it. Curse, huh? Sounded like the sword master wanted to scare him off. If it made him get stronger, push forward, it wasn't a curse at all.
The most formidable warrior.
Ajax felt his heart pounding desperately in his chest, a grin warmly welcomed on his face.
“What are your conditions?”
The body falls at his feet and Childe leaps over it, laughing carefree. Hunger is thrumming in his veins, rummaging through his body. At first, when he tastes blood in his mouth, he doesn't realise it's not from his own wound. His bare teeth are covered in the blood of a dying man. It's not a sweet taste; it's dull. His vision is red and fuzzy, the world around him doesn’t matter at all as long as he fights. All he sees is every Treasure Hoarder, ready to defend their lives, ruthless and brutal. They use explosives and dangerous substances—the amount of them and the cruelty of their methods render them worthy adversaries.
A raw fear—as raw as the one in the scream they heard earlier—is painted on the criminals’ faces. Their eyes flicker with regret, but not with guilt; with a need for survival, but not a fight. It’s disappointing. Their blood smears over Childe’s sword. They’re not worthy adversaries. In this fight, there is no chance to spar with someone deemed worthy.
And then? Then, the thirst for blood, the hunger for the light disappearing from their eyes, is consuming him.
It’s simple to make a reckless decision, to put yourself in danger, when you can only gain.
Childe is aware that both his guards and his guide are trying to keep him safe. But he's too fast, too determined, too enraptured.
The Yaksha is swift as well, but he gives up—no longer stopping Childe, but slaughtering shoulder to shoulder with him, his face dark and unforgiving.
Childe wants to fight more. Wants to kill more. It brings him solace, relaxes him, his heart pounding in his ears, muffling his own laugh. What if the Emperor’s guard wore his famous mask? Does it really give them more power? An entity that transcends the realm of ordinary mortals?
Childe himself is a thing like that.
When they stand in a river of blood, Xiao stares at him with disdain on his face.
It's Bosacius who doesn't judge. He and Nadia reach them when all the obstacles are gone and people are sent on the road, his face flushed with excitement.
“Ah, the thrill of battle!”
“The thrill of unnecessary slaughter,” murmurs Xiao.
“Little brother, aren't you happy we protected civilians? Our countrymen? Our duty?” Bosacius nudges Xiao and takes off his shirt, all covered in blood. Childe sees its droplets even on his mask. The patterns on his arm are not the only tattoo he has. Two additional pair of hands are tattooed on his chest, as if ready to support him in battle.
The little brother doesn't seem to be happy. His gaze… When he looks at Bosacius it's actually full of desperation and regret.
It's like a silent plea to go back.
But go back from where? Childe doesn't know.
But he has to admit, Mr Zhongli does have a taste in guides.