Hu Tao stared at her grayed-out screen—the spectator's view a cold slap after her bold Rush B boast—and her eye twitched, the sting of a Desert Eagle headshot from Ningguang still ringing, a fall mid-charge that left her pride bruised on Dust2's sandy floor.
The kill feed mocked her—"Ningguang (Desert Eagle headshot) Hu Tao," followed by "Ningguang (Desert Eagle headshot) Bandit No. 2"—and she jolted, "Ningguang?! That Ningguang?!" her voice a yelp, the Tianquan's name a shockwave through her hall-master's bravado.
Ningguang ruled the lobby—room owner, police camp's ace, her geo-sharp mind a blade in Counter-Strike—and Hu Tao gaped, "She's here before eight? Work's light for the Qixing today, huh?" her rival's presence a spark that lit her competitive fire anew.
Ningguang had arrived early—subordinates whispered of the cafe's dawn opening, and she'd claimed a rig, her game sense blooming fast, Dust2's twists mastered in an hour, her flashbang trap a masterstroke that turned Hu Tao's rush into a blinding rout.
Zhongli scooped the C4—Hu Tao's death thrust the bomb onto him, his steady hands a rock as the three surviving bandits bolted for B, their boots pounding Dust2's tunnels, the map's sunbaked walls a gauntlet they'd brave to salvage their hall-master's gambit.
Point B stood empty—no ambush waited, a stroke of luck—and Zhongli planted, the C4's beep a heartbeat as Bandits No. 1 and 3 covered the tunnel and door, their Glocks trembling, the police camp's response a thunder rolling closer with each tick.
Ningguang strategized—her voice crisp over the police channel, "Cave B, two; Door B, three—move!"—and her team obeyed, her Desert Eagle primed as she flanked the tunnel with a lackey, the other trio storming the door, her intellect a tide they rode willingly.
Flashbangs flew—grenades arced after, a barrage to crack the bandit hold—and Zhongli's vision flared white, a grenade's blast shredding his cover, the C4's wail silenced as Ningguang's crew swept in, dismantling it with time to spare, a crushing win for round one.
Round two swapped fates—Hu Tao spawned as a cop, her face a storm beside Zhongli and three sheepish extras, the first loss a weight that shrank their funds, their rigs glowing in the cafe's hum as they faced a bandit Ningguang flush with mora and menace.
Gear strained—Hu Tao grabbed an MP5, her budget pinched, "No kills, no cash—thanks, Ningguang," her growl a spark—while Zhongli hefted a UMP45, Ningguang's bandits opting for P90s, grenades, and armor, their wealth a taunt across the LAN.
Prep ticked—Ningguang split her bandits, "Mid with me; three to A with the bomb," her calm a blade, and Hu Tao countered, "Zhongli, A with me; you three, B—hold tight!" her voice a whip, Dust2's sprawl a chessboard she'd flip or burn.
A-door loomed—Hu Tao and Zhongli crouched, MP5 and UMP45 primed—and three bandits breached, their bomb-carrier a shadow as gunfire erupted, Hu Tao's flashbang soaring, "Eat this, suckers!" her cry a flare as white light swallowed the fray.
Bullets sang—her flash caught all three, a rookie blunder on their part—and Hu Tao charged, Zhongli at her heel, their guns blazing, "MP5 kill: Bandit No. 1," "UMP45 kill: Bandit No. 2," "UMP45 kill: Bandit No. 3," the feed a balm until she scowled, "Zhongli stole two?!"
Her pout flared—"I'm the hall master—those were mine!"—but Zhongli's calm nod, "Efficiency, Master," doused her spark, the bomb thudding to Dust2's cracked floor, a prize she'd guard with every ounce of her pyro soul against Ningguang's next move.
Kill feed flared anew—"Ningguang (Grenade) Police No. 1," "Bandit No. 4 (M4) Police No. 2," "Ningguang (P90) Police No. 3"—and Hu Tao cursed, "She's mopping B too?!" the Tianquan's mid-door blitz a scythe that left their flank in tatters.
Three dead each—the bomb at A, a ticking heart—and Hu Tao hissed, "Zhongli, ambush up—Ningguang's mine this round," her vengeance a fire stoked by that flashbang shame, her MP5 a tool to reclaim her pride in this digital dustbowl.
Ningguang advanced—her last bandit a shield, P90 ready, smoke bomb in hand—and she crept from mid's slope to A, her geo mind plotting, "Smoke it out—force their hand," her voice a whisper over the channel, Dust2's silence a canvas for her art.
Smoke billowed—Hu Tao's screen hazed as the grenade burst, A's small room a fog-choked trap—and she coughed, "Sneaky jade—can't see a thing!" Zhongli's UMP45 swept blind, "Hold, Master—wait it out," his calm a rock she clung to amid the murk.
Action surged—Ningguang darted, her bandit baiting shots, and Hu Tao fired, a stray MP5 burst clipping the decoy, "Got one!"—but Ningguang's P90 cracked back, a headshot felling Zhongli, his groan a thud as Hu Tao spun, "Not again—stay down, old man!"
She ducked—smoke swirled, the bomb's beep a taunt—and Ningguang planted, her silhouette a ghost as Hu Tao lunged, MP5 rattling, "You're mine, Tianquan!"—a bullet grazed Ningguang, but her foe's armor held, a return shot dropping Hu Tao, her screen graying once more.
The cafe thrummed—rigs blazed, melon-eaters gasped, "Ningguang's a wall!"—and Tartaglia smirked nearby, his Resident Evil zombies falling as he peeked, "Outplayed twice, Hu Tao? Rough day," his jibe a spark she'd repay if her trigger finger ever caught up.
A subplot twisted—Ningguang's rise in CS mirrored her Qixing reign, a mind that bent chaos to order—and Hu Tao stewed, "She's too good—too smug," her rivalry a thread from Teyvat's jade chambers to Dust2's sands, a duel she'd chase 'til victory burned.
Round three loomed—Hu Tao respawned, "AK this time—no more games," her voice a vow, Zhongli's nod a steady pulse, "Precision now, Master," their bond a forge, her hall-master's fire tempered by his geo weight, a team to topple Ningguang's throne.
Action flared—bandits rushed B, Hu Tao flanked mid, AK barking as she dropped a foe, "Headshot—taste that!"—and Ningguang countered, a flashbang whitening her screen, Tartaglia's cackle ringing, "Third time's the charm, huh?" her curse a blaze as she fell again.
Emotion surged—each loss pricked her pride, a hall-master's swagger humbled; Ningguang's edge echoed Liyue's power plays, a sting she'd turn to fuel, her resolve a ember to bury her rival in Dust2's dust, a comeback she'd claw from the LAN's grip.
Liam watched—breakfast cooled, his cafe a crucible of clashing wills—and Tier Harribel mused, "She fights like a hollow—bold, then broken," her hollow queen's gaze a lens on Hu Tao's storm, a tale of grit and guile unfolding in his glowing den.
Hu Tao glared—gray screen, third fall—and she growled, "Next round, Ningguang—I bury you or bust," her spirit a pyro torrent, unbowed by flashes or headshots, a hall-master's saga in Counter-Strike a fire yet to peak, her team her pyre to stoke.
***
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