Liyue's Internet cafe thrummed with a restless pulse—Counter-Strike had seized its soul, a multiplayer beast that outshone the solitary thrills of Resident Evil, its LAN clashes a siren call that kept rigs glowing and voices roaring deep into the evening's embrace.
Unlike standalone tales—where plots unraveled and replay dimmed unless shared chaos beckoned—CS thrived on human foes, its simplicity a facade over tactics rich as Liyue's trade routes, a game Liam knew had gripped his old world for decades, a legacy now reborn in Teyvat's glow.
Dust2's sands burned bright—three-quarters of the cafe's 300 rigs ran CS, their screens a flurry of headshots and bomb ticks—and grudges flared, melon-eaters squaring off in one-on-one duels, losers dubbed "sons" in playful scorn, a fire that fueled the night's electric hum.
Hu Tao burned hottest—her rivalry with Ningguang a smoldering coal, her latest loss a sting she'd avenge in a solo showdown—and she barked, "One more, Ningguang—I'll bury you this time!" her MP5 a wand she'd wield, though the Tianquan's aim still danced beyond her grasp.
Defeat piled on—Ningguang's geo-steady hand crushed her in teams and singles, a wall Hu Tao's talent couldn't scale—and yet, each fall stoked her fire, "I'll drill 'til I'm a sharpshooter—Zhongli can't carry forever!" her resolve a ember glowing beneath her hall-master's grin.
Future loomed—Liam's talk of branches in Mondstadt, Inazuma, beyond, hinted at gods clashing in digital arenas—and Hu Tao mused, "If Zhongli's pinned by some thunder queen or ice witch, it's me who'll stand," her pride a spur, her marksmanship a craft to hone alone.
Liam paused his draws—no emotional points spent on new games, his focus on growth—and he'd swelled the cafe twice, 300 rigs now a constellation across the sprawling den, their hum a heartbeat as Liyue's melon-eaters sank deeper into CS's relentless pull.
Tartaglia lost himself—his Fatui mission to snag Morax's heart a faded echo, drowned by mid-door taunts, "Come face me, coward—grandson if you don't!"—his AK47 a scepter as he crowed, "Three-on-one? I'll still win!" his Harbinger's edge honed in Dust2's dust.
Flashbangs flew—cops blindsided him, a sneak attack that dropped his guard—and he roared, "No honor in that!" his screen graying as Zhongli watched, a geo sage musing, "The Ice Queen's envoy, lost to games—her gaze would frost him stiff if she knew."
Zhongli pondered—Ningguang and Keqing flanked him, their rigs aglow with CS fervor, Liyue's elite as hooked as he—and he sighed, "I've no room to judge; a rock god slacking in a cafe," his millennia of war and rule yielding to this den's seductive pull.
Retirement beckoned—he'd grilled Liam, "More games, films to come?" and the nod sparked a vision: sofas, snacks, streams, Xinyuexuan takeout, a haven for a god wearied by eons—and he smirked, "Too indulgent? Tartaglia's footing the bill tonight," his tease a jab at the Harbinger's purse.
A subplot simmered—Pantalone's mora flowed to Tartaglia, a stream that might dry if the banker caught his gaming spree—and Zhongli chuckled, "A reckoning looms for our duck; I'll watch from my rig," his amusement a quiet ripple in the cafe's clamor.
Nine p.m. neared—the melon-eaters braced for the close, their daily joy a candle flickering out—and groans rose, "Tomorrow's too far!" their rigs a lifeline they'd cling to, until Liam's voice boomed over the speakers, a thunderclap that stilled the room.
"Good news, friends—starting tonight, we're open late!" he announced, his tone a spark, "Ten p.m. to seven a.m., 600 mora for the night—but beware washboards at home or sleepy shifts tomorrow," his caution a wink, his conscience clear as cheers erupted.
Silence shattered—shouts of "Long live Liam!" shook the cafe, a wave of glee crashing over 300 souls—and they surged, "All night? I'm in!" their mora clinking at the counter, an hour bought to bridge to ten, a marathon of CS and secrets their prize.
Hu Tao cackled—"Ningguang, you're toast—I'll snipe 'til dawn!" her AK primed, her vendetta a flame stoked by the night's promise—and Ningguang smirked, "Try it, hall-master—I'll bury you in A-long," their duel a thread weaving through the cafe's pulsing sprawl.
Action flared—Tartaglia spawned mid, "One-v-three, let's dance!" his AK barking as cops swarmed, a flashbang whitening his screen—and he ducked, "Sneaky bastards!" a headshot felling one, his Harbinger's flair a storm that held 'til a grenade snuffed his spree.
Chongyun joined—his M4 steady, "B-hold, team—focus!" his icy calm a shield as bandits rushed, Kaeya's knife glinting, "Too stiff, ice boy!"—their clash a flurry, Chongyun's burst downing him, "Precision wins," his yang quelled but fierce in this LAN fray.
The cafe glowed—300 screens blazed, Dust2's sands a battlefield, Resident Evil's depths a side quest—and melon-eaters crowed, "I'll crack every secret tonight!" their voices a chorus, Liam's den a forge where Teyvat's bold forged their tales in pixels and lead.
A twist coiled—night service swelled the crowd, but not all stayed; workers sighed, "Jobs tomorrow—can't," their retreat a quiet tide—and yet, 300 seats filled, Liyue's rich and idle claiming the dark, their mora a tide that buoyed Liam's dream.
Emotion surged—Hu Tao's fire burned for victory, a hall-master's pride bruised but unbowed; Tartaglia's glee masked a mission's fade, a Harbinger adrift; Zhongli's ease hid a god's weariness, his cafe days a balm for battles past, their souls bared in this glowing den.
Liam grinned—counter chaos a symphony, his rigs a legion—and Tier Harribel watched, "They fight like hollows—endless, fierce," her teal gaze a lens on their strife, her hollow queen's calm a counterpoint to the night's wild pulse, a saga unfolding in his hands.
Hu Tao reloaded—"All night means all wins—Ningguang's mine!" her spirit a pyro blaze, her team a pyre to stoke—and Zhongli nodded, "Steady, Master—I'll guard," their bond a rock, Tartaglia's shout, "Mid's mine!" a rival flame in Liyue's endless LAN night.
***
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