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There were exactly 148 tiles on the ceiling above Childe.
He had counted them from the far-right corner all the way to the left, then counted them again in reverse. At some point, he had even tried alternating between the odd- and even-numbered tiles, deliberately skipping over the sixteen darkened lamp panels embedded in the ceiling grid, only to arrive at the exact same number every single time.
Granted, there was little else for him to do in his current —hospitalized— state.
With a long, frustrated huff, Childe shifted beneath the thick hospital blanket that smelled sharply of detergent. He had never liked hospitals. They were always too gloomy, too quiet, too unnaturally clean; as though the staff had drowned every surface in disinfectant and considered the job done.
Honestly, Childe barely had the idea of why he was here in the first place.
Being the youngest of the Harbingers, unfortunately, came with an excess of restless energy, only worsened by his natural craving for battle and adrenaline; something that had spiralled even further after his time in the Abyss under Skirk’s brutal tutelage. The combination led him to volunteer for far too many dangerous field operations, to the point that the hospital receptionists visibly frowned whenever he—or, more commonly, his subordinates—dragged him in for treatment. Or hospitalization, if Childe proved too unconscious, half-dead, or otherwise incapacitated to protest.
The latest mission had seemed straightforward enough. He had been assigned to escort a research team to the southwest part of Cinnabar Cliff, just at the border between Liyue and Sumeru. It was a joint division formed from Pulcinella’s administration and Dottore’s researchers. They were there to test a new machine invented by the mad scientist himself, something related to disrupting spatial rifts formed by Ley Lines corrupted with Abyssal energy.
From the briefing Childe had only skimmed moments before departure, the project’s success would mean a significant breakthrough for Snezhnaya. The technology could potentially neutralize the strange Abyssal distortions scattered throughout Nod-Krai before they spread farther north, before they reached the borders of Snezhnaya itself.
But forget successful, the mission itself had turned into an absolute catastrophe.
The Abyssal rift proved far too unstable for the machine to suppress. Instead of severing the corrupted Ley Line flow, the device triggered an explosion of condensed Abyssal energy. To make matters worse, the blast somehow widened the rupture instead, opening a tear large enough to connect with another rift all the way near Kipumaki Cliff.
The first horde of creatures that poured through were the Fishers. Then came the Wild Hunt. The frontline personnel barely stood a chance. The initial wave alone tore through entire squads before most of them could even regroup.
Childe had immediately ordered an emergency retreat while doing his best to cover the surviving researchers and soldiers. Dottore might have had little to no attachment to his subordinates, but Pulcinella certainly did—and the old man would lecture Childe for the next decade if casualties from his division piled up under Childe’s watch.
Protecting people while fighting, however, was significantly harder than simply fighting alone. Childe still remembered the sharp crackle of Electro surging through his veins as he used his Delusion to blink across the battlefield, intercepting a Fisher just before its claws reached a Fatui soldier’s throat.
Unfortunately, the creature’s jagged beak found his stomach instead. The strike hit with enough force that the tip nearly pierced through his back; had Childe been even a fraction slower in decapitating the Abyssal creature, it probably would have skewered him clean through.
Blood and injuries were hardly unfamiliar territory to someone leading a violent life like Childe. Pain had long since become another companion on the battlefield, one he welcomed with gritted teeth and exhilarated laughter.
And like projecting a bad omen into himself, the universe had decided their disastrous mission still lacked sufficient misery; the larger ghouls of the Wild Hunt began forcing themselves through the rift.
One of the researchers had shouted that the portal needed to be sealed immediately. Apparently, Dottore had installed a failsafe mechanism into the machine should the experiment spiral out of control. The problem was that the emergency lever sat directly beyond the densest concentration of monsters; someone would have to force their way through.
So, as the responsible Harbinger present on site, Childe activated his Foul Legacy transformation and tore through the battlefield in impressive time records.
But then something happened, because Childe didn’t even remember releasing his transformation. He just remembered briefly scanning the monster carcasses around him, before a strange, crushing sensation dragged him under, swallowing his senses whole. And the next thing he knew, he was back in Snezhnaya—lying in the VIP ward of the Central Hospital, the private floor reserved exclusively for the Fatui Harbingers.
Childe lifted his right hand slightly, watching the IV line sway from where it had been taped to his wrist.
Master Skirk had warned him about the toll of using Foul Legacy, but this did not feel like that. Childe then tried to vaguely remember the Delusion’s instruction manual, trying to recall the listed side effects, only to arrive at the same conclusion: this was different. Especially when Dottore himself had once explained that the Delusions issued to the Fatui Harbingers were far more refined than the mass-produced ones given to ordinary troops—more stable, less corrosive to the user’s life force.
So, what exactly was wrong this time? It was strange for Childe to black out after a fight. Exhaustion was normal. Injuries were normal. But unconsciousness? That was rare. And while the battle had certainly been brutal, it was far from the worst situation Childe had ever thrown himself into.
Questions popped inside Childe’s mind like bubbles, but then his attention sharpened to the soft click of heels that stopped just outside his room. Childe would have paid it no more attention if not for the fact that he recognized those footsteps.
The door of his ward slid open, and a blur of light blue graced Childe’s sight.
“Benevolent Tsaritsa,” Childe groaned aloud, dragging a hand down his face as he sank deeper into the mountain of pillows propping him up. “Please—anyone but him. I’ll take any medic but him.”
“Glad to see your vocal cords are still functioning, Childe,” Dottore replied smoothly as he sauntered inside Childe’s hospital room. And, by some stroke of terrible luck, Childe recognized the timbre of this Dottore.
This was the Omega-build; the most insufferable one.
“Are you even allowed in here?” Childe cracked one eye open, already grimacing. “Seeing you inside a hospital is deeply unnerving.”
Dottore merely hummed in absent acknowledgment. The bastard did not even spare him a glance. Instead, his attention remained fixed on the clipboard in his hands. Only then did Childe notice the absence of the usual beaked mask, leaving the man’s face fully visible as his scarlet eyes scanned whatever medical report had apparently condemned Childe to this hospital bed.
“What?” Dottore asked mildly after a slight pause. “Did you think my ‘Doctor’ title was merely decorative?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a degree-doctor, not a medical-doctor?!”
“And how convenient it is, for me to happen to be both.”
“Are you even a licensed medic? I don’t trust you with anything related to my life.” Childe threw a suspicious glare at Dottore’s outfit to further prove his distrust.
For once, the Second Harbinger was not dressed in his usual eccentric blue-and-white Fatui uniform. Instead, he wore dark blue scrubs beneath a pristine white lab coat, blending disturbingly well into the hospital environment around them.
Honestly, seeing Dottore without the beaked mask had already been unsettling enough. This was somehow worse. Childe had never seen Dottore in this field throughout his life.
“I’ll have you know, that I personally helped develop the initial curriculum for Snezhnaya’s first modern medical school.” Dottore scoffed, flipping through the documents again, before abruptly pausing at something on the page. A faint frown tugged at his expression.
“It was not… warmly received at the time,” he continued absently. “‘Dangerous,’ they called it.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him, like the memory genuinely amused him.
“Well, new science often is.”
The amusement was gone as quickly as it appeared, and Dottore’s gaze narrowed back onto the report with renewed intensity, as though the papers themselves had personally offended him.
Childe blinked slowly, still trying to process what he had just heard. Something about that explanation absolutely did not add up.
“First modern medical school…?” Childe repeated dumbly. “The Derznov Institute of Medicine? But that was centuries—!”
The second the question almost escaped Childe’s loose mouth, Childe belatedly realized what hell he would unleash upon himself by asking such things. So, Childe did the most logical thing: he stopped himself immediately by biting on his tongue, stopping the rest of the sentences.
“No— Actually, do not answer that. I don’t want to know.”
The rude bastard had the audacity to laugh.
“If it eases your concerns, yes, Childe, I am a trained medic,” Dottore said smoothly. “I was—and still am—a licensed physician. I could show you my credentials, but unfortunately, we are somewhat pressed for time.”
He set the clipboard down onto the bedside table with a soft tap.
“Besides, you may ask Regrator if you require confirmation. That man visits my medical office far more frequently than my Harbinger one.”
At the mention of the Ninth Harbinger, Dottore released a long, theatrical sigh.
“Though in Regrator’s case, his condition is entirely self-inflicted. I have long since lost count of how many times I warned him that smoking is detrimental to his already deteriorating lungs.” He shook his head in visible disappointment. “At this rate, every Harbinger will perish before Her Majesty can even execute her grand design.”
“That’s different!” Childe protested immediately. If he had the strength, he absolutely would have sat upright just to argue properly. “Pantalone only does that because he wants to spend time with you!”
This time, Dottore blinked at him. Not the cold, calculating stare Childe was accustomed to—but a genuinely startled pause, almost owl-like in its confusion.
For one brief, horrifying second, Childe became convinced he had somehow unlocked the ability to read minds, because Dottore was very clearly reconsidering whether Childe had also sustained a head injury during the mission.
“You are remarkably energetic,” Dottore observed dryly as he stepped closer to the bedside, “for someone whose condition was described as life-threatening in the report.”
Before Childe could recoil, two gloved fingers pressed lightly to his wrist. It lingered for a couple of seconds before the touch moved upward—to the inside of his elbow, then finally to the side of his neck—cool, clinical, and invasive. Very invasive.
Even through the haze of exhaustion, Childe could feel the faint circulation of elemental energy beneath Dottore’s touch, subtle currents threading through his body as the Doctor examined him with methods far beyond ordinary medicine. Childe vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that sufficiently advanced elemental control could rival even the most sophisticated medical technology.
Unfortunately, his pulse betrayed him immediately, fluttering unevenly beneath Dottore’s measured pressure.
Instinctively, Childe tried to pull his arm away.
“Stop moving,” Dottore reprimanded without looking at him, his attention still fixed on the erratic rhythm beneath his fingertips.
Childe wriggled harder out of sheer spite.
“Stop touching me.”
“The faster you cooperate,” Dottore replied flatly, “the faster I will stop touching you. Now behave.”
Childe absolutely did not pout like a scolded child. He did, however, come dangerously close.
“Now then—” Dottore went on.
“Strip.”
The request-slash-command went through Childe’s head.
They locked in a very long, very awkward stare-down.
Eventually, Dottore released a slow, exhausted sigh, sounding like a man who wished he were literally anywhere else. Well, jokes on him. Childe felt exactly the same.
“Childe,” Dottore said patiently, in the tone one might use for a particularly dense child, “I need to examine the wound on your stomach. Might I remind you that you were nearly skewered through the abdomen by an Abyssal creature?”
As if to agree with the Doctor, Childe’s traitorous body suddenly answered with a sharp jolt of pain that snapped him fully out of his stupor.
“Oh. Right.” He winced. “Okay.”
Two things immediately became apparent the moment he tried to move: First, his hands were trembling badly. Second, he felt weak.
Embarrassingly weak.
Something as simple as unbuttoning the hospital gown felt absurdly difficult. His fingers felt heavy as lead, clumsy against the buttons, and by the time he managed to shrug the thin fabric off his shoulders, exhaustion was already creeping unpleasantly into his limbs.
If Childe very deliberately ignored the sharp scarlet gaze tracking every sluggish movement, then that was entirely his business.
“Hm.”
That single hum made Childe glance downward—and immediately regret it.
Oh. The wound actually looked awful.
Bandages had been wrapped tightly around his abdomen, but blood had already soaked through portions of the dressing in ugly crimson stains. Childe inwardly groaned at the thought of having to unwrap all of that himself, only for Dottore to beat him to it. With swift, practiced movements, the Doctor peeled away the bloodied bandages.
And somehow, the injury looked even more worse underneath.
The entry wound had already been stitched shut, but the surrounding skin was inflamed an angry red, threaded with faint traces of purple Abyssal corruption creeping outward beneath the surface. The beak had pierced through the upper right portion of his abdomen, and judging from the shape of the injury, the creature must have dragged downward after impact.
Had the monster been any stronger—or Childe any slower—the strike likely would have torn straight through his lower back.
“Lie down,” Dottore instructed.
A firm hand pressed against Childe’s shoulder, guiding him back against the pillows. Childe expected the Doctor to continue inspecting the stab wound. Instead, Dottore rested a gloved hand against the center of his sternum.
For several quiet seconds, Dottore simply observed the shallow rise and fall beneath his palm.
Then he pressed down.
The added pressure made discomfort spike sharply behind every inhale. Childe’s chest tightened instinctively, pain beginning to bloom beneath his ribs before Dottore eased off almost immediately.
The Doctor muttered something under his breath, likely to himself rather than Childe, before swiftly jotting several notes onto the medical report beside the bed.
“Liver laceration. Severe internal bleeding. Gastric trauma. The puncture came dangerously close to your right kidney.” Dottore listed off the report for Childe to hear, as though listing ingredients from a recipe rather than catastrophic injuries. “I also detected traces of elemental energy woven around the damaged tissue. I assume that was your body instinctively attempting to stabilize the wound?”
Did he do that? Childe honestly had no idea.
Combat came as naturally to him as breathing. Survival had been drilled into his instincts so deeply that the possibility of his body unconsciously trying to preserve itself sounded entirely plausible. So he merely shrugged—neither confirming nor denying it. Dottore took that as an answer enough.
“Hm. The surgical team performed adequately.” The Doctor’s fingers pressed lightly around the inflamed skin near the stitches. “The internal sutures are holding well. It is only the outer stitches that have reopened slightly. It seems I will not need to intervene surgically after all.”
That… sounds good? Weird.
“If the wounds are already treated, then why did they specifically call you here?” Childe asked.
To his own surprise, there was no accusation in his voice this time—only genuine confusion. Knowing Dottore was medically trained was one thing. Having Dottore personally assigned to oversee his treatment was another matter entirely. Something else was clearly wrong.
“Why, indeed,” Dottore said the question in a sing-a-song tone. “Do you have any idea what is actually afflicting you? Besides the obvious physical wound, of course.”
“…Uh, no?” Childe admitted. “Injuries like this aren’t exactly new to me. I do feel weirdly lethargic, though.” He glanced around the luxurious hospital suite. “But I figured it must’ve been pretty bad if they brought me all the way to Central Hospital instead of patching me up at the Fatui headquarters infirmary.”
“Pretty bad, you said?” Dottore chuckled, parroting Childe’s words. “Yes. Which is precisely why you were placed under my care. Out of everyone in Snezhnaya, I highly doubt there is another person capable of properly handling your… particular condition.”
As usual, Dottore’s answers were always explained absolutely nothing while simultaneously sounding deeply concerning. Still, it confirmed one thing: something other than the stab wound had landed Childe here at the hospital.
“They’re exaggerating,” Childe huffed. Experimentally, he shifted slightly, testing how much strain his abdomen could tolerate before the pain worsened. He waved a weak hand dismissively, “Sure, I passed out, and yeah, I feel… off, I guess. But I’m fine now. Whatever this is, I probably just need to sleep it—”
He hesitated.
“…off. Maybe.”
The uncertainty in his own voice clearly did him no favor.
Dottore’s expression immediately flattened into something sharper, more severe. Without warning, the Doctor held up three fingers directly in front of Childe’s face.
“Allow me to clarify the situation for you, Childe.”
One finger folded down.
“First, your Foul Legacy transformation destabilized abruptly. Moments later, you began throwing up blood as though you’re in the final stages of terminal pulmonary failure.”
A second finger lowered.
“Second, you experienced a seizure severe enough that several soldiers became convinced you were actively dying because of a heart attack. I believe at least two of them nearly suffered actual heart attacks themselves.”
And finally, the last finger.
“Third, my subordinates reported your core energy reading surging to catastrophic levels, as though it were on the verge of rupturing outright.”
Dottore leaned closer, voice turning flat and unimpressed. “Those are not symptoms one simply ‘sleeps off.’”
Childe blinked once. Twice. Thrice.
“Um, okay.” Childe tried at last, finding his own voice. “I don’t even remember doing all that. Uh, that sounds kinda bad…?”
If whatever was afflicting Childe failed to kill him first, Dottore certainly looked prepared to finish the task himself. There was this mixed expression of exasperation, bafflement, and irritation all at once on the Doctor’s face. He truly was an expressive man without his mask covering half of his face.
“At this rate, you are going to die young,” the Doctor stated flatly.
Something about the sheer dullness of the delivery pulled a strained laugh from Childe despite himself.
“Well, that part, I was already aware of,” he admitted sheepishly, flashing a boyish grin that looked painfully out of place given his current condition.
Dottore rolled his eyes and stared at him with the long-suffering expression of a man reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this room. Was all Dottore this dramatic? Or was it special to the Omega-build?
“So, Doctor, what exactly is killing me?” Childe continued, still trying to sound casual despite the ache twisting through his abdomen, “I’m guessing Abyssal corruption? I started feeling weird after that thing stabbed me. The weird chicken-looking monsters.”
A gleam shone through the Doctor’s scarlet eyes at the change of topic. Dottore shook his head and straightened to his full height, unfolding from the slight hunch he had maintained while examining Childe moments earlier. “Not quite. Your condition is caused by your proximity to The Chasm at the time.”
“What…?”
“The Celestial Nail,” Dottore clarified. As he spoke, Dottore opened one of the nearby medical drawers and retrieved fresh supplies. From his position against the pillows, Childe could make out neatly rolled bandages, sealed packets of gauze, and several small bottles of ointment lined with clinical precision. “Your body is reacting adversely to the celestial energy leaking from it.”
Childe stayed quiet to prompt more explanation from the older harbinger. Dottore pulled a chair closer to the bedside and sat down, motioning for Childe to expose the wound again.
“Your Foul Legacy transformation is Abyssal in nature, Childe,” he began.
Cool ointment spread across the inflamed skin surrounding the stitched wound, soothing some of the lingering heat almost immediately. Once satisfied, Dottore began rewrapping the bandages carefully around Childe’s abdomen, occasionally adjusting the tightness with practiced precision to ensure the compression remained secure without aggravating the injury further.
“You, out of everyone in this nation, possess one of the highest tolerances to Abyssal energy,” Dottore continued. “The Abyss itself is not inherently harmful to you anymore.”
After securing the final layer of bandaging, he discarded the bloodied wrappings into the medical waste bin before peeling off his disposable gloves and tossing those aside as well.
When Dottore returned to the bedside, Childe’s hospital gown hung from one hand. He offered it back without ceremony.
“But that tolerance comes at a cost.”
Scarlet eyes settled onto Childe, sharp and clinical.
“At this point, your body resembles an Abyssal organism more closely than it does a normal human’s. As a result, celestial energy provokes a violently toxic reaction within your system instead.” Dottore folded his arms loosely. “It is only natural. The powers of the heavens exist in direct opposition to the Abyss.”
A brief pause followed before the Doctor delivered the conclusion with chilling simplicity.
“You are currently suffering from acute elemental energy poisoning. That’s what killing you.”
“…Huh.” Was all Childe could say, really. The mere thought that his body now resembled an Abyssal creature more than a human one was enough to make his head spin.
…Actually, was that metaphorical, or literal?
Because the dizziness suddenly felt very real.
“The stab wound from the Fishers did not corrupt you.” Dottore continued, unaware of the way Childe began blinking repeatedly in an attempt to steady himself. “Your body was merely adapting to and processing the Abyssal energy they carried. However, because your system already contains an overwhelming concentration of abyssal power, the celestial energy identified you as the corruption instead.”
“…”
Blinking rapidly turned out to make the dizziness worse. The room tilted unpleasantly. Dottore’s figure beside the bed distorted strangely at the edges, swaying like dark waves during one of Morepesok Village’s worst storms. Even the ceiling tiles Childe had painstakingly counted earlier now seemed to melt together into a nauseating blur of pale shapes.
“Childe?”
The voice sounded distant despite the Doctor standing barely an arm’s length away.
“…Yeah? Yeah, I’m…” Childe managed weakly. Nausea rolled violently through his stomach. Instinctively, his hand shot toward the bed railing, fingers curling tightly around the metal despite the weakness trembling through his limbs. He swallowed hard. “Still here.”
“Hm.” Scarlet eyes narrowed slightly. A cool hand pressed briefly against Childe’s burning forehead—bare skin this time, the gloves long discarded after treating the wound.
“You are feverish,” Dottore observed. “The elemental poisoning is progressing faster than I anticipated. That’s not good.”
The Doctor reached for something from the bedside tray. Through Childe’s unfocused vision, it vaguely resembled a pen until a sharp beam of light suddenly flashed directly into his eyes. Childe scrunched his nose in protest, though it took quite a while for his brain to catch the brightness.
Apparently, the belated response only deepened Dottore’s frown.
“Follow my fingers. How many am I holding up?” Dottore raised his hand into Childe’s blurred vision before moving his fingers slowly from right to left.
Childe tried to follow the motion. He genuinely did. But the room was spinning far too quickly now, his vision warping like ink dissolving into water. Nausea climbed higher in his throat with every passing second.
“…Two,” he answered weakly, squinting at the unstable blur in front of him. Were those two fingers or three? The words slurred slightly as he frowned harder at the shifting shapes. “…Wait. Three? Three…”
“The poisoning has already begun affecting your nervous system. We will need to move the surgery forward before it reaches your circulatory system.” Dottore said grimly, tapping Childe lightly on the cheek. The younger Harbinger gave no meaningful response beyond a faint, unfocused twitch.
“Still intend to ‘sleep it off’?” Dottore added dryly, because apparently even in this medical emergency, he remained committed to being Teyvat’s foremost asshole.
Childe let out a strained groan, curling weakly against the hospital bed. “I want another medic…”
“Unfortunately for you, you are not getting another medic.” Dottore moved toward the tray of prepared medicine without a trace of sympathy. Worse still, the bastard even giggled like he just spouted the funniest jokes ever.
The Doctor returned with several sealed vials filled with thin, strangely coloured liquids alongside a syringe that gleamed ominously beneath the hospital lights. “I will administer sedatives and pain medication shortly in preparation for the upcoming surgery. You should begin feeling drowsy within the next few minutes.”
One by one, the contents of those vials were emptied. Some were injected straight into Childe’s vein, and the rest Dottore administered them through his IV drips.
“The surgery itself will be somewhat complicated, but the divine energy should be flushed from your system by the time you awaken. So, you may thank me afterward.”
“If I wake up missing organs,” Childe mumbled weakly, already feeling the slow, heavy pull of the anaesthetic clouding his thoughts, “I’m killing you…”
The only response he received was a soft laugh.
“You are welcome to try.”
And Childe’s world faded to black.
Childe did not consider himself a particularly difficult person.
He was not picky with food, nor did he require specific comforts or accommodations. Life had long since taught him to accept things as they came. Somewhere along the way—perhaps after surviving the crushing depths of the Abyss itself—Childe had developed the stubborn belief that everything happened for a reason. That mindset had kept him alive more times than he could count.
Still, if given the choice, Childe absolutely would have loved waking up to literally anything other than Dottore’s smug face hovering nearby.
“Welcome back. How does it feel to return from the far side of the river of death?”
The Doctor occupied the same chair beside the hospital bed as before Childe had gone under anaesthesia—and, presumably, under the knife shortly afterward. The white lab coat from earlier was gone now, replaced by a fresh set of dark hospital scrubs, likely changed after the surgery.
“Not funny, Dottore.”
“And who says I was joking? Now,” he continued, the clipboard once again settling into his hands, “tell me how you feel.”
Like shit— Childe groaned softly, unable to properly feel most of his body. However, at the very least, the heaviness dragging through his limbs and the strange sluggishness clouding his senses felt different from before, less agonizing than the sharp deterioration that had overtaken him before the surgery. “Everything’s buzzing. I feel drunk. Kinda… floaty.”
“That would be the sedatives speaking.” Dottore adjusted something on the tray beside the infirmary bed before pulling a pen from the pocket of his scrubs, the sharp click echoing faintly through the sterile room as he flipped through the clipboard to what appeared to be a page of post-surgical observation notes, the kind nurses usually handled for ordinary patients. “Can you access your elemental power? Try using your Vision.”
Childe weakly turned his head toward the bedside table where his gleaming Vision rested, the blue orb pulsing softly as though responding to the command before he even touched it. Gritting his teeth against the dizziness swimming in his skull, he raised an unsteady hand —the one free from the IV drip— and forced Hydro energy through his fingertips, though the faint shimmer of blue only flickered weakly for a brief moment before sputtering out almost immediately.
“Hm. The energy flow is weak,” Dottore observed without surprise, calmly scribbling the result into his notes. “Though that is to be expected. You only just came out of surgery.”
Childe let out another exhausted groan, his eyelids already growing heavy again as he caught sight of his Delusion resting just beyond his Vision, and with visible reluctance, he dragged his gaze back toward the Doctor. “Should I try the Delusion too…?”
“No need.” Dottore dismissed the suggestion with an almost absent wave of his hand. “The Delusions are my creation. I am fully aware of how they function. If you are still capable of accessing your elemental abilities, then your Delusion should remain operational as well.”
After the last scribble finally died out across the paper, Dottore reached for the arm closest to him and pressed two gloved fingers against the pulse point along Childe’s inner elbow, checking it just like before. “Can you transform this arm into its Foul Legacy form?”
“….”
The request alone already sounded exhausting, but Childe still tried.
Though calling it trying was perhaps an understatement.
A familiar pulse of abyssal energy stirred weakly beneath his skin, something dark and ancient crawling through his veins for the briefest moment before it collapsed into a violent, searing pain. Childe sucked in a harsh breath through clenched teeth and forced another attempt, only for agony to lance through his arm hard enough to blur his vision and leave a ringing ache pounding through his skull. It felt as though the power itself hovered just beyond his reach, close enough to sense yet impossible to grasp, and every failed attempt to forcefully drag it forward only sent unbearable pain tearing through his entire nervous system.
“Halt.” Dottore’s command came immediately. “Do not force it.”
The targeted arm had already begun twitching uncontrollably against the mattress, faint traces of abyssal energy flickering and evaporating from the surface of his skin without ever properly moulding into the monstrous armour-like form it was meant to become.
Dottore hummed thoughtfully before channelling a weak stream of Cryo energy into the arm, the cold immediately dulling the pain enough for Childe to finally steady his breathing again. “Your elemental pathway system sustained significant damage from the poisoning. I restored as much as possible during the surgery, but it appears the strain Abyssal energy places upon your meridians is still excessive in your current condition.”
“You will not be able to use your Foul Legacy for quite some time, I’m afraid.” Dottore’s scarlet gaze briefly flickered toward the layers of bandages wrapped tightly around Childe’s torso. “And do refrain from excessive movement. You will reopen the stitches.”
The reminder finally drew Childe’s attention toward the unfamiliar tightness constricting his body, and with visible effort, he craned his head downward as far as his current position allowed. Sure enough, additional layers of bandages had been wrapped firmly around his chest, and together with the heavy wrappings already covering his abdomen, it looked as though nearly his entire upper body had been mummified beneath white cloth.
“Surgery…?” Childe muttered weakly. “Now that I’m thinking about it… Why would flushing out energy require surgery…? And why on my chest…?”
Dottore did not answer him immediately. The Second Harbinger appeared far more occupied with finishing a lengthy series of notes across the clipboard balanced in his hand, his pen gliding steadily across the paper before he neatly clipped the documents together and slid them into a thin folder attached to the side of Childe’s bed, presumably for the nurses and other medical personnel assigned to monitor him.
Only after ensuring every document sat perfectly in place did Dottore finally step away toward the sink positioned just outside the en-suite bathroom.
“Foreign energy within the human body must first be physically manifested before it can be properly removed,” Dottore explained while turning on the tap and meticulously scrubbing his hands clean beneath the running water. “Much like how forbidden knowledge physically manifested as that dark purple goo you saw in the Chasm. During the procedure, I concentrated the divine energy poisoning your system into the primary nexus of your elemental pathways. Unfortunately, that nexus happens to be the human heart.”
“The energy subsequently crystallized into mineral-like deposits within your heart chambers,” he continued after drying his hands, and with nothing more than a casual flick of his fingers, the surrounding space distorted briefly before his medical scrubs dissolved into static-like fragments and reassembled themselves into his usual Harbinger uniform, absent only the furred mantle and the familiar beaked mask. “Surgical extraction was therefore necessary, in order to remove those formations before they induced complete systemic failure.”
Childe blinked slowly, still never quite accustomed to how casually the older Harbinger flaunted abilities that would leave most people speechless. Honestly, using reality-bending power for something as trivial as changing clothes felt ridiculously wasteful.
“…Can you say that in actual human language?” he groaned tiredly. “I didn’t understand a single thing you just said.”
Dottore lifted one hand, and static crackled briefly through the air before his beaked mask materialized piece by piece above his palm, descending neatly into his grasp as though summoned from nowhere. “I turned the divine energy poisoning you into tiny crystals,” he explained flatly while adjusting the mask between his fingers. “Those crystals formed inside your heart. The surgery removed them. Is that simple enough for you?”
“Much better, yes.”
“Well. It is reassuring to see your sense of humour survived the surgery.” Dottore gave a quiet scoff as he secured the beaked mask over his face, finally shielding those invasive scarlet eyes from view beneath the metal mask. “You are still delirious from the sedatives. Get some rest.”
Childe let his head sink deeper into the pillow with a weary sigh, shifting carefully in an attempt to find a comfortable sleeping position without disturbing either the IV lines attached to his arm or any of his injuries—a task that proved far more difficult than expected. “How long until I’m cleared for missions?”
Dottore merely sighed at the question as though he had anticipated it from the very beginning. He shook his head tiredly while manifesting the heavy furred mantle of his Harbinger uniform from thin air, “I sliced open your heart, Childe. At the very least, one week of complete bed rest is a must.”
One week. Of bed rest.
Childe’s eyes widened in genuine horror.
Completely ignoring the dramatic and scandalized gasp that escaped him, Dottore continued speaking with the same calmness. “After that, assuming no further complications arise, you will remain restricted to light assignments for an additional three weeks before attempting anything physically strenuous. You will also report to me every weekend for routine examinations over the next two months, and I will personally oversee your mission allocations.”
The final sentence carried a subtle growl beneath the Doctor’s voice, enough to sound almost like a threat. Had the mask not been covering his face, Childe was fairly certain Dottore would have been glaring at him as well. Then again, Dottore was probably fully aware of Childe’s tendency to throw himself into field operations without warning, sneak out during mandated recovery periods, and completely ignore medical restrictions the moment boredom set in. Hey, It wasn’t Childe’s fault that he was easily bored, okay.
“…That sucks.”
“Yes. Being ill generally does that.”
Dottore draped the fur mantle neatly across his shoulders, fastening the clasp with no hurry, before continuing, “In any case, you should feel honoured that Her Majesty displayed even a fraction of favouritism toward you. I was in the middle of preparations for the final stage of the God Project in Sumeru when I received her summons regarding your condition. Let me tell you, Scaramouche was very much not amused that his ascension to godhood was being delayed.”
Ah yes, Childe vaguely remembered reading reports regarding that project. He normally had little interest in the endless research and secretive undertakings of the other Harbingers, but Dottore’s absurdly ambitious attempt at creating a god had become quite the talk throughout the headquarters that even he had heard about it repeatedly.
“Well, sorry for that. I didn’t expect to be poisoned by the divine energy of a magical nail deep underground.” Childe drawled, feeling defensive despite himself.
Dottore actually laughed at that, low and amused, while briefly inspecting his reflection in the mirror near the sink. “Now that the distraction has been resolved, I may finally return to my work. I will assign one of my segments to oversee your recovery.”
“Please not the creepy old man with the full plague mask. He freaks me out,” Childe blurted out before his brain could catch up to his mouth. “The teenager one is fine, a little bit on the moody side, but I survived my younger siblings’ puberty, so he’s alright.”
Dottore tilted his head slightly, visibly entertained. “I was under the impression you did not want me acting as your physician.”
“If it’s between all of your variations, I will try my damndest hard to bargain for the ones I can tolerate the most.”
Maybe there’s something on the drugs Dottore used on him, because somewhere between nearly dying twice in one day and waking up with his chest cut open, Childe apparently had developed a sense of humour dangerously compatible with the Second Harbinger’s. The proof came in the form of the chuckle Dottore actually let out in response.
“You’re becoming rather clever with that mouth of yours.”
“Are you complimenting me? Maybe I am dead.”
“That would admittedly be more convenient for me. One additional experimental subject for my laboratories.” Dottore spoke with horrifying ease as he strode toward the door, the feathered edges of his coat fluttering behind him with each step. “Do try your best to make that happen. I would consider it a noble contribution.”
Right. Saving Childe’s life aside, Dottore remained an unbearable asshole.
“I can’t believe you’re wishing your patient dead immediately after fixing him,” Childe grumbled before adding, purely out of spite, “Your bedside manner seriously needs work, Doctor.”
Dottore paused at the now-open doorway before slowly glancing back over his shoulder, the visible curve of his mouth twisting into a smirk that promised Childe absolutely nothing good.
“Getting greedy now, are we?” the asshole mused smoothly. “You are a little too young for me.”
Childe immediately choked on his own spit, heat rushing violently into his face for reasons entirely unrelated to the fever burning beneath his skin.
“What the fuck— that’s not what I meant!”