Morning broke over Liyue Harbor—its golden light spilling across tiled roofs and bustling docks—and just past nine, Hu Tao burst into Liam's Internet cafe, her pyro spark undimmed, Zhongli trailing with his measured stride, Tartaglia lagging behind with two hefty food boxes and a scowl veiled by a forced grin.
Tartaglia's hands ached—breakfast for the trio, a post-meal stroll, and now this delivery to Liam and Tier Harribel, all to butter up Zhongli, his geo-clad ticket to favor—and he sighed, "No rest for the generous, huh?" his cheer a mask for the grind of currying grace.
Hu Tao swaggered to the counter—no Liam in sight, just Tier Harribel's cool silhouette—and her smirk bloomed, "Knew it—seven a.m. open means Harribel's up, not him," her hall-master's glee at catching Liam's laziness a spark that lit her amber eyes.
"LIAM! Breakfast's here—drag yourself down!" she bellowed, bounding up the stairs to the second floor, her voice a whipcrack through the cafe's morning hum, the scent of steamed buns wafting from Tartaglia's boxes a lure she'd wield without a shred of guilt.
Tartaglia set the boxes down—mora flashed as he snagged seats for himself and Zhongli, a ritual that pricked his pride each time—and he muttered, "Hu Tao's VIP throne—makes a Harbinger jealous," his envy a flicker beneath his wealth, her perch a dazzling prize in this packed den.
Upstairs, Liam groaned—Tier Harribel had planned a noon rise, her hollow stamina a boon, but Hu Tao's arrival torched his sleep-in dreams—and he rolled out of bed, "Can't even snooze with her around," his grumble softened by the promise of free grub, a peace offering he'd accept.
Tartaglia's mind churned—his Resident Evil hard-mode grind loomed, Chris's line half-conquered yesterday, a beast he'd slay today if the cafe's chaos allowed—and he settled into his rig, Zhongli beside him, their breakfast a fuel for the digital battles ahead.
Hu Tao claimed her VIP seat—its cushioned glow a throne amid the rigs—and her eyes snagged on Counter-Strike, a new icon pulsing on her screen, its promise of gunfire and teamwork a siren call she couldn't resist, "Zhongli, ditch the rings—join me for this!"
She dragged him in—the geo sage, who'd replayed Lord of the Rings thrice, now roped into her LAN spree—and they clicked into a Dust2 lobby, ten souls syncing fast, the game kicking off in a blaze of two-out-of-three blasting mode, a battlefield she'd conquer or burn.
Bandits they became—Hu Tao spawned with a Glock, C4 blinking in her pack, and she crowed, "The bomb's mine—I'm the chosen one!" her pride a flare as she pictured it ticking down, a detonation to crown her hall-master's reign in this sun-scorched sprawl.
Funds stretched thin—three teammates armored up, vests and helmets a shield against death, clutching Glocks—while Hu Tao scoffed, "Armor's for cowards," snagging an MP5, its submachine chatter a song she'd sing, Zhongli opting for a P90, his calm a steady hum beside her fire.
Prep ticked down—Hu Tao barked over the team channel, "Follow my lead—Rush B, full charge, plant and boom!"—her plan a wildfire, bold and brash, her voice a crackle that jolted the chat, a hall-master's command none dared defy outright.
Bandit No. 1 blinked—"Hall Master Hu?" his tone a mix of awe and dread, and Hu Tao grinned, "The one and only!"—her cheer a spark as No. 2 chimed, "First game, huh? Maybe listen to us," No. 3 nodding, "We've mapped this dust pile already."
She waved them off—"What's to fear? Point, shoot, win—I've got Dust2 in my skull already!"—her bravado a blaze, Zhongli's voice cutting in, "Master, caution for round one," a geo plea she drowned with, "No guts, no glory—charge!"
They bowed—her landlord clout, her tie to Liam, a weight they couldn't shrug—and as the round flared, Hu Tao led the pack, MP5 primed, barreling toward B-tunnels, the map's left vein a straight shot to glory, her team a reluctant tide at her heels.
Tunnels loomed—Dust2's sandy walls pressed close, shadows pooling in the dim—and a cop's silhouette flickered by the stairs, a mid-door scout caught in their rush, Hu Tao's pulse spiking, "Chase or plant?" her mind a split-second war as she aimed.
A cylinder arced—a flashbang bounced, its white bloom erupting like a star—and Hu Tao's screen flared, "My eyes—can't see!" she yelped, blinded, Zhongli's calm a lifeline, "Back up—cave's behind," as No. 1 groaned, "Flash got us—done for!"
Gunfire cracked—bullets sang through the haze, and Hu Tao stumbled, a headshot dropping her, No. 2 collapsing beside her, their blind rush a grave—and the cop retreated, his timing a scalpel, leaving three bandits blinking back sight, their shots wild and late.
Zhongli fired—P90 rattling as vision cleared, clipping the cop's arm—and No. 3 cursed, "He's gone—knew the flash's fade!" their foe a ghost in Dust2's maze, Hu Tao's corpse a lesson sprawled on the tunnel floor, her bravado snuffed in a blink.
Tartaglia smirked nearby—his Resident Evil grind paused as he peeked, "Rush B? Classic newbie trap," his taunt a barb she'd hear later—and he dove back, Chris facing a zombie swarm, his hard-mode grit a counterpoint to her LAN stumble.
The cafe buzzed—rigs hummed, melon-eaters cheered, and CS lobbies swelled, Dust2 a crucible where Hu Tao's fire met cold tactics—her team rallied, Zhongli's P90 a steady pulse, but the cops held B, her bomb unplanted, a round slipping through her fingers.
A subplot brewed—Tier Harribel watched, her teal eyes tracing the chaos, a hollow queen musing on mortal games—and she murmured to Liam, "They fight like Arrancar—rash, then wise," her insight a thread, her past a shadow she'd weave into this den's tale.
Hu Tao respawned—round two loomed, her MP5 swapped for an AK, "No more flashes—I'm sniping now!"—and Zhongli nodded, "Steady this time, Master," their bond a rock amid her storm, a duo forged in Teyvat's trials now tested in digital dust.
Action flared—cops stormed A, Hu Tao flanked, AK barking as she dropped one, "Headshot—eat that!"—but a flash arced again, her screen whitening, Tartaglia's laugh ringing, "Twice? You're a magnet!" her curse a muffled blaze as bullets found her again.
Emotion surged—her rush mirrored Wangsheng's bold rites, a dance with death she led; the flash's sting pricked a pride she'd shield, a hall-master's fire dimmed but unbowed, her resolve a ember to stoke for the next round's revenge.
The cafe pulsed—200 screens blazed, CS a tempest binding them, Tartaglia's zombies fell as Hu Tao's bandits rose—and Liam grinned, breakfast warming his hands, his den a forge where Liyue's bold clashed, their saga a crackle of grit and glee in Dust2's sands.
Hu Tao glared—blind again, downed again—and she vowed, "Next time, I plant it—or bury them all," her spirit a pyro flare, unquenched by flashes, a hall-master's tale in Counter-Strike just begun, her team a chorus to her unyielding tune.
***
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