Liam's roots stretched back to the 1990s—a child of dusty towns and flickering screens—where, in fourth grade, he'd slipped into black Internet cafes, their smoky haze a cradle for his first digital love: Counter-Strike, a game etched into his soul like a Liyue rune.
That first match burned bright—a junior high punk had smirked, "Grab an AWP, kid; squat the mid-door," his tone dripping with jest, and Liam, green as spring bamboo, obeyed, only to shred a bandit rush with rookie luck, leaving the big shot gaping, a triumph he'd never top again.
Memory fueled him—CS thrived on chaos, on voices barking over LAN, and Liyue Port's million souls demanded more than 120 rigs; today's crush, a throng of melon-eaters spilling past the door, cemented it: his cafe needed to grow, to pulse with shared fire.
He'd splurged—emotional points drained to swell the fleet to 200 computers, their screens a constellation in the cafe's dim sprawl—still shy of the port's hunger, but his coffers echoed emptier than a Wangsheng ledger, a gamble on Teyvat's rising tide of gamers.
Time stretched before the Traveler's tale—months, maybe years—and Liam lazed, "No rush; let it brew," his pace a slow burn, the cafe's hum a steady heartbeat as he dreamed of LAN clashes, of Counter-Strike igniting his rigs with shouts and shots anew.
Far from Liyue's glow—under Mondstadt's star-strewn night, where the sea kissed the shore—Lumine stirred on a sandy stretch, her golden hair splayed like sunlight, her eyes fluttering open, a groan escaping as she clutched her throbbing skull, "Where… am I?"
Her mind clung to fragments—fleeing Teyvat with her brother, a god's wrath sundering their path—and now, the salty breeze chilled her, her power a ghost of its peak, her strength barely above a commoner's, a hollow shell washed ashore on this unfamiliar coast.
Hunger gnawed—cold bit deeper—and Lumine staggered up, her boots sinking into damp sand, the horizon a blur of waves and cliffs, her brother's fate a void she'd fill only with a full belly and a fire's warmth to stoke her resolve.
She scavenged—twigs snapped under her hands, driftwood piled into a pyre—and with a flint's spark, a bonfire flared, its crackle a balm as flames danced against the night, their orange tongues licking the chill from her bones, a fleeting comfort on this lonely shore.
Crabs scuttled—pinchers glinting in the firelight—and Lumine pounced, her speed a shadow of her old grace but swift enough, snagging the critters with deft grabs, their shells roasting to a sweet, tender yield, though their meager meat teased her stomach's growl.
A stick and vine became her rod—crab legs her bait—and she cast into the surf, the waves a rhythmic hymn as fish tugged, their silver bodies thrashing ashore, a meal she grilled 'til succulent, her hunger sated, her mind sharpening for the hunt ahead: her brother, her purpose.
Back in Liyue—dawn crept over the harbor, its golden rays gilding the rooftops—and Liam dozed, a late riser, while Tier Harribel, sleepless as hollows are, flung the cafe's doors wide at seven, her teal gaze cool as the crowd surged, a tide of eager souls crashing in.
Queues had swelled—dawn's chill hadn't deterred them—and the sight of 200 rigs sparked cheers, the melon-eaters flooding seats, some diving into Resident Evil's save files, others squinting at Counter-Strike's icon, a new beast in Liam's digital menagerie.
"It's got guns—like Resident Evil," one mused, clicking in—the title's stark letters and pixelated soldier hinting at firepower—and another chirped, "Multiplayer? LAN? This'll be wild!" their buzz a current as they pored over the tutorial, LAN links sparking to life.
Rules unfurled—bandits vs. police, a triad of modes: blasting C4 in tense ticks, rescuing hostages from shadowed holds, or death's raw dance, no frills, just kills—and the cafe roared, rigs syncing as teams formed, Dust2's sands their first battleground, a storm brewing in bytes.
Action erupted—Hu Tao spawned as a bandit, her cackle echoing as she clutched an AK, "Plant it, boys—boom's my style!"—and she darted through tunnels, a flashbang bursting to blind Tartaglia's cop, his sniper scope useless as she danced past, a pyro ghost in digital skin.
Tartaglia snarled—"Missed me, huh?"—his AWP cracking from a crate perch, a bandit crumpling as Hu Tao's bomb ticked, her laughter a taunt, "Too slow, Harbinger!" their clash a whirlwind, the cafe's air thick with shouts, a LAN war igniting every screen.
Chongyun flanked—a cop with an M4, his icy calm a shield as he defused, "Focus—cut the chatter," his voice a blade through the din, Kaeya's bandit knife flashing near, "Cold as ever, huh?"—their duel a flurry, steel clashing 'til Chongyun's shot rang true.
The map pulsed—Dust2's sunbaked walls loomed, crates stacked like Liyue stalls, the bomb's beep a heartbeat—and Hu Tao weaved, her AK spitting lead, a cop falling as she crowed, "Another for the hall master!" her glee a fire that burned through the round's end.
Liam stirred—coffee in hand, he watched the chaos unfold, rigs alive with CS's crackle—and Tier Harribel stood sentinel, her hollow grace unmoved by the frenzy, a queen observing mortals at play, her silence a counterpoint to the cafe's electric pulse.
A subplot simmered—Lumine's shore flickered in Liam's mind, her fish and fire a prelude he'd weave into Teyvat's tale; her brother's loss, her power's fade, a thread he'd tug when Travelers crossed his door, a destiny syncing with his cafe's rise.
Hu Tao reloaded—"Next round, I'm sniping—watch me bury you all!" she vowed, her amber eyes alight, and Tartaglia grinned, "Bring it, pyro—I'll camp 'til you're dust," their rivalry a spark that fueled the cafe, a LAN duel echoing their Teyvat feuds.
Chongyun exhaled—round won, defuse complete—and Kaeya slumped, "You're no fun—where's the flair?" his jibe a prod that drew a rare smirk, "Winning's flair enough," their bond a steady flame amid the gunfire, a partnership forged in Liyue's wilds now tested here.
Emotion surged—Lumine's solitude by the sea, her fire a lone stand, mirrored Hu Tao's bravado, a hall-master's duty to lead; Chongyun's calm hid a yearning, a yang quelled but restless, their Teyvat souls threading through this pixelated clash of wills.
The cafe thrummed—200 screens blazed, CS a storm that bound them, melon-eaters shouting as bombs burst and hostages fled—and Liam savored it, his childhood reborn, a LAN legacy where Liyue's bold wrote their saga, one headshot at a time.
Lumine gazed seaward—fish bones littered her fire, her strength renewed—and she rose, "Brother, I'm coming," her whisper a vow, the horizon a call she'd chase, her crucible by the waves a spark to match the cafe's fire, a tale yet to cross Liam's glowing den.
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