Zhongli's haul—one month free, a ten percent discount thereafter, a Mora-gold trophy, a certificate, and a blazing spot on the Honor List—lit a fire under the cafe's crowd, their envy a palpable heat.
Free Internet access dangled like a golden carrot, promising thousands of Mora saved if limits eased, while the trophy and certificate gleamed as badges of glory they all craved.
The Honor List, though, was the real prize—its prestige a siren call to every ego in the room, a chance to strut atop Liam's digital pantheon, and they'd claw for it with all they had.
Fueled by Zhongli's triumph, the melon-eaters ditched Silent Hill's settled dust, splitting their frenzy between Super Mario's gentler slopes and Dig to Ascend's brutal peaks, a mad dash for firsts.
Super Mario drew the bigger pack, its kinder learning curve a beacon for those daunted by Digging's relentless grind, their screens alive with plumber hops and pixelated foes.
Those sidelined, machines claimed, fidgeted in anguish, each rival's progress a stab to their pride, their fingers itching to join the race and snatch a slice of that honor pie.
Hu Tao's eyes blazed, her resolve iron—she'd be Super Mario's first conqueror, its rules clicking into place as she blazed past the fifth level, leaving the pack in her dust.
The game bowed to her knack for spotting patterns—jump here, dodge there, predict the traps—and she surged ahead, her pace a taunt to the slower souls trailing behind.
Tartaglia, though, wavered—Super Mario tempted with its first-pass crown, but Dig to Ascend's unfinished torment gnawed at him, a personal gauntlet he couldn't abandon.
A Fatui Harbinger didn't stoop to easy wins; he craved the brutal, the challenging, and Digging's cliffs called louder than Mario's pipes, his pride demanding a harder fight.
Three hours in, he'd eclipsed Keqing's mark, storming past the castle into a snowy stretch, his bald man swinging with a finesse that left him grinning, smug and unstoppable.
"Hah, Tartaglia's got this in the bag!" he crowed, pausing to bask in his lead, his chest puffed as Keqing rolled in, her eyes narrowing at his snowy perch.
Keqing bristled—her title as Digging's top climber hung by a thread, and letting a Fool snatch it was unthinkable; she fired up her machine, fingers flying to reclaim her throne.
Tartaglia scoffed, unfazed, "She's got no shot," his confidence a steel wall as he swigged a soda, the fizz fueling his return to the snowy cliffs with a swagger.
A pit loomed ahead, a cliff to leap using the hammer as a pivot, and he eyed it coolly—miss, and he'd plummet, not to the hometown but low enough to sting his pride.
His hands danced, steady and sure, hooking the stone and vaulting over, a clean landing that swelled his ego further—smooth, precise, a Harbinger's touch.
The snow-slick stones ahead tested him, their slipperiness thwarting two jumps, forcing a detour left to three tiny, hovering platforms that mocked his every move.
Small, treacherous, they demanded pinpoint aim—jumping atop them with a hammer was a tightrope walk, one wrong tilt spelling a fall, and Tartaglia's jaw clenched at the sight.
He inhaled deep, steadying his pulse, then swung the hammer, launching the bald man toward the first stone, only to slip off, the slick surface spitting him downward with a cruel twist.
"Damn it!" he snarled, veins bulging, the drop mercifully short of the happy hometown, though close enough to his last perch to keep his temper just shy of boiling.
He clambered back, resolve hardened, and after half an hour and a dozen tumbles, he conquered the trio, his mentality fraying with each slip, a slow bleed of patience.
A bucket dangled next, roped from above, and he grinned—hook it, swing high, latch the upper stone—a trapeze act he'd nail, his focus laser-sharp despite the wear.
To his left, a snake—or branch?—poked from the clouds, its sinuous shape a flicker of doubt, but he shrugged it off, intuition whispering to steer clear of its coils.
Liam caught it, his grin sharpening—Snake Land, ripe for chaos, he thought, a silent bet on Tartaglia's coming crash, his system primed for the emotional fallout.
Tartaglia hooked the bucket, rocking the mouse to build its sway, eyes locked on the perfect arc, then released, the hammer grazing the stone's edge—too short by a hair.
It bounced, flinging the bald man left, and the hammer snagged the snake's head, a jolt that sent him sliding down its neck like a twisted ride through the mist.
Clouds parted, the snake's body a rail, and he plummeted, the screen flashing to the water tank, the tree, the dreaded words—Happy Home welcomes you back.
A message scrolled—Starting over is harder than starting; if you're not ready, pressure mounts; rest, I'll wait here—its gentle tone a mocking balm to his gut-punch defeat.
Tartaglia froze, hands trembling, the cafe's hum fading as his screen mocked him, that snake's betrayal a venomous sting to his Harbinger's pride, now dust.
Liam's laugh was silent, his system gorging—panic, rage, despair from Tartaglia's fall spun a richer yield than Zhongli's calm, a feast of folly he'd banked on.
Hu Tao glanced over, her Mario run humming along, a smirk tugging her lips—Digging had humbled another, and her lead widened, the Honor List hers to claim.
The crowd buzzed, some snickering at Tartaglia's crash, others redoubling their own quests, the cafe a crucible where glory and ruin danced in equal measure.
Tartaglia slumped, the snake's hiss echoing in his mind, his resolve teetering—quit, or climb again?—a warrior's spirit wrestling with a game's cruel jest.
This wasn't just a loss; it was a gauntlet thrown, and Liam savored the chaos, knowing Tartaglia's next swing could fuel his coffers or break him anew.
***
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