I Was Sent To Capture My Rival, But I Ended Up Claiming Him In The Storm

The salt spray and rain hit Childe’s face with the force of a slap. He stepped off the swaying boat onto the black, volcanic sand of Yashiori Island, his boots sinking with a wet sigh. Above, the sky was a deep, bruised purple, torn open every few moments by a silent, jagged line of lightning. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and wet earth. A grim welcome, but one that felt strangely appropriate.

He pulled the heavy wool collar of his diplomat’s coat tighter around his neck, the charade already feeling thin. This was no place for diplomacy. This was a hunting ground. He could feel the mission directive against his ribs, the scroll tucked into an inner pocket, its edges crisp and official. He didn’t need to read it again; the Tsaritsa’s words were seared into his mind. Locate the Sixth Harbinger, The Balladeer. Retrieve him. By any means necessary.

By any means necessary. The phrase was a release, a key turning in a lock. It was a promise of violence, clean and uncomplicated. It was an execution order dressed up as a retrieval mission, and the thought sent a thrill, pure and sharp, through his veins. This was what he was made for, not the endless posturing and political games that so many of the other Harbingers seemed to relish.

And the target was Scaramouche.

Just thinking the name was like tasting metal. Childe could picture him with perfect clarity: the wide brim of that ridiculous hat casting a shadow over a face that was unnervingly perfect, almost doll-like, if not for the venom that so often twisted his features. The condescending smirk, the indigo eyes that missed nothing and judged everything. Their every meeting had been a veiled contest, a sparring of words and wills that left the air buzzing with unspoken energy. Scaramouche’s insults were like surgical instruments, precise and designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain. Childe had always met them with a cheerful smile, but the cuts still bled.

Most of their colleagues were terrified of the Sixth Harbinger’s volatile nature. Childe wasn’t. He was drawn to it. There was a current of wild, untamed power in Scaramouche that called to the part of Childe forged in the Abyss. It was the call of a worthy opponent. The idea of facing him now, free from the constraints of their shared allegiance, was intoxicating. This would be a real fight, a clash with no rules and no audience. Scaramouche, rogue and desperate, would be a cornered animal. He would be at his most beautifully, terrifyingly dangerous.

A genuine smile finally touched Childe’s lips, a flash of predatory delight that was entirely at odds with his diplomatic attire. He could almost feel the cool weight of his Hydro blades materializing in his hands, the low hum of anticipation building in his chest. Let the storm break. He was ready for the hunt to begin.

The trail was easy to follow. Not by tracks in the mud, but by the ripples of fear he left in his wake. In a small, rain-lashed fishing hamlet, the locals spoke of a short, furious young man in an enormous hat who had strode through their village like a minor god of destruction. He hadn’t harmed them, but the nets they’d left to dry on racks were now nothing but heaps of melted twine, and the metal lanterns hanging outside their homes had been twisted into scorched, unrecognizable shapes. The path of destruction was petulant, almost childish, yet possessed a terrifying power.

Childe followed the trail of fried mechanisms and singed earth inland, the land rising toward the skeletal remains of the great serpent Orobashi. The air grew heavier, thick with a static charge that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He knew he was close. The scent of ozone was so strong it was almost sweet, masking the smell of the damp earth and the sea. Then, another smell joined it. Something burnt. Something organic.

He found the Fatui reconnaissance team scattered around the giant, fossilized vertebrae of the serpent’s spine. His initial thought was that a pack of Kairagi had ambushed them. But as he drew closer, his stomach tightened. There were no clean cuts from blades, no arrow wounds. There was only black.

The bodies were frozen in their final, panicked moments. One Skirmisher was on his knees, his hands clasped as if in prayer or begging, his entire upper body a blackened, fused mass. Another was still standing, propped against a rock, his face a featureless ruin of charcoal. The Electro energy required to do this was immense, far beyond what a simple Vision-wielder could produce. It was the work of a Harbinger. Childe walked through the scene, his diplomat’s coat flapping in the wind, his eyes cataloging the horror with a cold, professional detachment. The metal of their armor had bubbled and melted in places, fusing to the flesh beneath. This wasn't a fight. It was an execution.

Scaramouche’s methods had always been precise, almost surgical. A quick, clean application of force to achieve his objective with minimal fuss. He was above messy displays. This, however, was the opposite of precise. This was a chaotic, furious outburst. It was pure, unadulterated rage made manifest. Childe crouched beside the remains of the team’s lieutenant, his gaze clinical. This wasn't just Scaramouche covering his tracks or eliminating a threat. This was a message. Each blackened corpse was a word, and together they formed a sentence of absolute scorn, aimed directly at the Tsaritsa. This wasn't a rogue agent throwing a tantrum. This was a declaration. Scaramouche was not simply running; he was daring them to come for him, and promising this fate to any who tried. A grim smile touched Childe’s lips. The game had just become infinitely more interesting.

He left the bodies to the rain and followed the crackling energy in the air. It led him away from the serpent’s bones, toward the island's jagged eastern edge where the land fell away into the churning sea. The storm was at its peak here, a maelstrom of wind and water that seemed to want to scour the island clean. The static electricity was a physical presence, a pressure against his skin, a low hum that vibrated in his teeth. He felt drawn forward, a moth to a violent, purple flame.

And then he saw him.

He was standing at the very precipice of the cliff, a small, defiant figure against the vast, violent backdrop of the storm. His back was to Childe. The ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat was gone, and his dark hair was soaked, plastered to his head and neck by the relentless wind. He wore Inazuman robes, simple and dark, which whipped around his slender frame. He looked less like a Harbinger and more like a ghost, a spirit of the storm itself. He stood perfectly still, a beacon of calm in the absolute chaos, staring out at the tumultuous waves as if they held some profound answer.

As if sensing him, Scaramouche turned. He didn’t turn quickly, not with a start of surprise. He turned slowly, deliberately, a predator acknowledging another. His face, when it came into view, was pale and rain-streaked, but his expression was one of pure, unadulterated mania. A wide, unhinged smile stretched his lips, and his indigo eyes burned with a wild, gleeful light that was terrifying to behold. He looked utterly deranged and beautiful. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes said everything. You found me. The fun can begin.

Childe’s own lips parted, a breath of cold air catching in his throat. Before he could form a word, before he could even summon his own power, Scaramouche’s hand lifted in a casual, almost dismissive gesture. There was no incantation, no warning, just a blinding flash of purple. An immense bolt of raw Electro energy tore from the sky and slammed into the ground right where Childe had been standing a split second before. He threw himself sideways, landing hard on the wet, muddy ground, the impact jarring his bones. The air sizzled, and the scent of burnt rock filled his nostrils. He looked back to see a crater, smoking and glowing with residual power, where solid earth had been moments ago.

A laugh echoed over the howl of the wind. It was not a sound of mirth. It was sharp, high, and utterly devoid of warmth, like the shattering of ice. It was the sound of pure, joyful cruelty. Childe pushed himself up onto his elbows, his heart hammering against his ribs not with fear, but with a surge of pure, unholy adrenaline. He looked toward the cliff’s edge, but the space was empty. Scaramouche was gone, vanished as if he had been an apparition all along, leaving only the sound of his laughter and the smoking hole in the ground as proof he had ever been there.

Childe slowly got to his feet, wiping the rain and mud from his face. A wide, dangerous smile of his own spread across his face. This was no desperate quarry fleeing for his life. This was a challenge. An invitation. The Sixth Harbinger wasn't just running. He was turning the entire nation of Inazuma into his personal hunting ground, and Childe had just been formally designated as the prey.