The twin tales of Resident Evil—Jill's rocket-fueled finale and Chris's fiery escape—had burned through Liyue's Internet cafe on easy mode, their endings a blaze of triumph that left Hu Tao and Chongyun victorious, yet the melon-eaters hungered for more, their appetites whetted by unanswered shadows.
Wesker's survival gnawed at them—a snake uncrushed, slithering from the wreckage—while Umbrella's puppetmaster loomed unseen, the mansion's secrets a vault uncracked, and the virus's fate a specter whispering of outbreaks beyond the blast's reach.
Like The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, the story dangled on a cliff—Sauron's eye unblinded, the ring uncast—and the crowd grumbled, their voices a chorus of restless need, "What's next? We can't just stop here!" their fervor a heat Liam felt in the cafe's buzzing air.
His answer chilled them—"The sequel? No clue when it's coming," he shrugged, his casual tone a splash of cold water on their flames—and the room erupted, groans and protests ricocheting off the rigs, a symphony of discontent that drowned the hum of cooling fans.
Nine p.m. struck—the cafe's lanterns dimmed, its doors locking with a click—and Hu Tao lingered, her hall-master's grin unfading as she roped Liam and Tier Harribel into a supper jaunt, the night streets of Liyue unfurling in a tapestry of lantern glow and vendor calls.
Tier Harribel trailed them—her teal eyes scanning the bustle, a queen of the virtual circle tasting mortal life after millennia of hollow strife—her face a mask of stoic calm, though curiosity flickered beneath, a spark Hu Tao caught like a moth to her pyro flame.
No pulse thrummed in Harribel's veins—no breath of the living warmed her—and Hu Tao sidled to Liam, her voice a conspiratorial hush, "Where'd you dig her up? She's no human—more ghost than guest, and I'd know!" her fingers itching for a burial rite she couldn't quite place.
Qiqi danced in her mind—the little zombie of Bubu Pharmacy, a half-dead sprite tied to immortals—yet Harribel's stillness dwarfed even that, a presence that tugged Hu Tao's instincts, "If I could bury her, I would—but she'd probably bury me first," she mused, half-joking, half-wary.
Liam chuckled—"She's no human, true; Harribel's a Vasto Lorde, a hollow born from souls twisted after death," his tone light but layered, unveiling a tale of devoured spirits forging new selves, her evolution a climb to a broken mask and a queen's fleeting crown.
"She ruled the virtual circle once—'til gods clashed and she got caught in the crossfire; I pulled her out, and now she's mine," he added, and Harribel's gaze dipped, a rare flush of shame at her reign's collapse, a throne held only 'til stronger hands snatched it away.
Hu Tao whistled—"Can't bury that, huh? What a world—evil spirits climbing ladders while our dead just rest," her awe a spark against Teyvat's simpler shades, Harribel's saga a mirror to her own craft, a dance of death she'd never lead but couldn't ignore.
Supper unfolded—steaming buns and jade parcels from a street stall, their steam curling in the crisp night—and Harribel nibbled, her indifference thawing as flavors teased her tongue, a mortal joy she sampled under Hu Tao's watchful, teasing eye.
Back at Wangsheng, Hu Tao flopped onto her bed—her slim frame sank into silk, a glance down confirming her feet peeked out, a petty victory she clung to, "Harribel can't see hers—hah! Xiangling's got nothing on me," her smirk a shield against her peers' edges.
Liam returned to his den—the cafe's quiet a stark shift from its daytime roar—and settled at his console, the glow of his system a beacon as he weighed his haul: 50,000 emotional points, a trove dimmer than Lord of the Rings' epic pull but ripe for a new spark.
Resident Evil had thrilled—its chills and guts a hit—yet its standalone sprawl paled beside Tolkien's saga, and Liam mused, "Time for something fresh—multiplayer, chaos in teams," his mind drifting to LAN battles, a shift to bind the cafe's growing flock.
Online realms loomed too vast—his rigs too few, his reach too young—but LAN games beckoned: Warcraft's clashing hordes, Red Alert's tank duels, Counter-Strike's sharp cracks, each a fit for squads to clash in this digital crucible he'd forged.
Random draws irked him—"Too much chance," he muttered, fingers hovering over the system—and it chimed back, "Krypton's your key—specify types, pile the points," its blunt greed a jab that drew a groan, "MiHoYo's a saint next to this racket!"
Precision bled points—dozens of tags could drain his 50,000 dry for a single pull—and Liam strategized, "Narrow it, then roll," settling on 5,000 per tag: multiplayer, LAN, shooting, a 20,000-point gamble that spun the system's wheel with a hum.
The screen flared—"Congratulations: Counter-Strike acquired," it sang—and Liam nodded, a grin cracking his calm, the classic's sharp gunfire a pulse he'd felt in youth, a perfect spark to ignite his cafe's next storm, its LAN roots a fit for Liyue's eager crowd.
The cafe slept—its rigs dark, the night outside a velvet shroud pierced by lantern light—and Liam leaned back, envisioning Dust2's sands, the bomb's tick, a clash of tactics where Hu Tao's guile and Tartaglia's fury might meet, a new saga brewing in his hands.
Hu Tao stirred—sleep eluded her, the day's thrills a restless echo—and she paced Wangsheng's halls, their wooden beams creaking underfoot, the air thick with incense and the faint wail of spirits she'd ushered, her mind snagging on Harribel's tale.
A subplot glimmered—what gods felled a queen? Harribel's fall hinted at wars beyond Teyvat's Archons, a cosmic clash she'd prod Liam for, her curiosity a flame that danced with questions of death's many faces across worlds she'd never roam.
Chongyun's skewer fiasco flickered—a laugh she'd stifled—and she grinned, "He'd blaze through CS, yang or not," picturing his icy calm cracking under gunfire, Kaeya's taunts a spice to rival her own, a team she'd drag into Liam's next game with glee.
Action loomed—imagined rounds of Counter-Strike flared: Hu Tao ducking flashes, her pyro spirit in a knife fight, Tartaglia sniping from crates, their cafe a battlefield where Liyue's bold clashed, a chaos she'd stoke with every gleeful shot.
Emotion tugged—Harribel's hollow rise mirrored her own craft, a shepherd of souls; the cafe's pull echoed Wangsheng's duty, a haven for the living she'd guard, her hall-master's heart weaving pride and weariness into this night's restless muse.
Liam tweaked settings—CS's files hummed, ready for dawn—and the cafe's quiet thrummed with promise, a stage for Teyvat's heroes to test their mettle, a new dawn where Hu Tao's fire, Chongyun's ice, and Tartaglia's storm would collide in pixelated glory.
Hu Tao paused—moonlight spilled through a window, bathing her in silver—and she smirked, "Tomorrow's a war—better rest," her spirit alight, the cafe's next chapter a call she'd answer with a hall-master's flair, unbowed by the night's embrace.
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