[ It's not like Gen's blind to the fact that he's severely outclassed by many other fighters here. It's not like he's ever lost sight of the fact that he's just a highschooler who was thrown into this chaos and forced to adapt. Were he in a slightly better state of mind, he might have caught onto the fact that Childe is clearly holding back for whatever reason. Maybe.
But he isn't, so he doesn't.
All Gen cares about at the moment is pushing past the crushing exhaustion weighing down on him, and venting his mounting frustration on this conveniently-available target, consequences be damned. He feels the staff of Childe's spear crack against his side, a blunt pain hammering through his lungs as the impact shivers through his ribs. But he ignores it. Ignores that hard-to-read expression on Childe's face, too. Ignores the thoughts of anything other than simply winning this fight, whatever that means.
Childe staggers back from the blow to the ribcage, and Gen surges forth to maintain that close distance between them. His boot stomps down hard on the ground between them, but it's not a simply intimidation tactic. The impact of his boot sends a rapid shudder through the ground, causing it to crumble beneath Childe's feet, destabilizing his footing and ideally forcing his balance into a precarious position.
And pressing that advantage, Gen lunges forth to aim a tight but vicious back-hand swing of the mace aimed at Childe's chest. Not something that would kill, were they fighting with real weapons. But more than enough to cause injury and a significant amount of pain. Enough that it might, might help vent some of the wretched sensation that's been long building in his chest, he thinks. (He hopes. Desperately.) ]
no subject
But he isn't, so he doesn't.
All Gen cares about at the moment is pushing past the crushing exhaustion weighing down on him, and venting his mounting frustration on this conveniently-available target, consequences be damned. He feels the staff of Childe's spear crack against his side, a blunt pain hammering through his lungs as the impact shivers through his ribs. But he ignores it. Ignores that hard-to-read expression on Childe's face, too. Ignores the thoughts of anything other than simply winning this fight, whatever that means.
Childe staggers back from the blow to the ribcage, and Gen surges forth to maintain that close distance between them. His boot stomps down hard on the ground between them, but it's not a simply intimidation tactic. The impact of his boot sends a rapid shudder through the ground, causing it to crumble beneath Childe's feet, destabilizing his footing and ideally forcing his balance into a precarious position.
And pressing that advantage, Gen lunges forth to aim a tight but vicious back-hand swing of the mace aimed at Childe's chest. Not something that would kill, were they fighting with real weapons. But more than enough to cause injury and a significant amount of pain. Enough that it might, might help vent some of the wretched sensation that's been long building in his chest, he thinks. (He hopes. Desperately.) ]