Tartaglia slumped onto the sofa, the game's narration—half-taunt, half-soothe—ringing in his ears as he released the mouse, his gaze dull, a man hollowed out by four hours of shattered effort.
Four grueling hours of climbing, clawing past cliffs and stones, all undone in a heartbeat—sliding down that cursed snake to land back at the happy hometown, hope snuffed like a spent torch.
"Me…" he croaked, voice cracking, then unleashed a guttural wail—Mmm, heh, ahhh—eyes shut, mouth agape, a stench of despair that mirrored Hu Tao's video shame but cut far deeper.
Hu Tao recoiled, nose wrinkled, "Change your tune, will you? Don't steal my spotlight!" her jab sharp, though Tartaglia barely heard, too lost in grief to care about her scorn.
He hadn't meant to echo her viral flop, but the pain demanded release—four hours of sweat and skill flushed away, a pre-liberation gut punch no warrior's pride could shrug off.
The crowd chuckled, a mix of pity and smugness tinting their grins—fifty steps mocking a hundred, they too had kissed that hometown dirt, their own progress bartered for Mora and lost to slips.
Tartaglia's spirit buckled, a collapse so raw that if he knew Winter Flowers, he'd have belted it out, a dirge for his dashed ascent, his hands slamming the table as he lurched upright.
"Boss Liam, tell me straight—can this game be beaten? Can you beat it?" he growled, teeth gritted, his challenge a desperate plea flung at the counter, doubt and defiance warring in his glare.
The melon-eaters nodded, their own skepticism bubbling up—Dig to Ascend's soul-crushing grind begged the question: was it passable, or just a cruel jest for mortal minds?
Liam met their stares with a sigh, his tone laced with pity, "Your hearts are too frail—I didn't plan to crush you this soon, but since you've asked, watch and learn."
He fired up the game on his counter rig, linking it to the cafe's big screen, a bold flex that hushed the room—every player paused, eyes locked on the looming display, games forgotten.
The bald man spawned, and Liam's hammer hooked the starting tree with one crisp swing, vaulting past branches, snagging an oar on the rock wall, rocketing upward in a blur of precision.
Each strike landed true, fulcrums seized without a waver, the bald man soaring the longest arcs possible, a fluid dance that mocked the crowd's fumbling hours with effortless grace.
Jaws dropped—the Wangxiang Stone, their half-hour slog, fell in thirty seconds flat, Liam's thirty-second blitz a slap to their pride, a revelation of what skill could carve from chaos.
Abandoned rooms zipped by, then horizontal ladders, furniture stacks, castle walls—all crumbling under his relentless pace, the iron-felt cliffs and Tartaglia's nemesis, the hanging stones, mere stepping stones.
The wooden bucket that had sent Tartaglia home? Liam skipped the swing, hooking it mid-flight and leaping atop it, a nonchalant vault that left the crowd blinking in stunned silence.
A snow slope loomed, flat and fulcrum-free, but Liam tapped the hammer rapid-fire, short, sharp jabs propelling the bald man up without a slip, defying the ice's treachery.
At the snow peak, a signal tower rose, and Liam scaled it in strokes, a final hammer push launching the bald man skyward, floating past boulders to pierce the night sky with a star's flash—cleared.
The screen froze—Time: 2 minutes, 06 seconds—and the cafe drowned in silence, the melon-eaters' jaws unhinged, their disbelief a thick fog as Liam's feat sank in.
Two minutes, six seconds—a span so brief it mocked their hours, their days, of struggle, a lightning run that turned their doubts into ash, their faces stinging from the slap of reality.
"By the Archons, two minutes and six?" one choked, the number a hammer to their egos—they'd just questioned the game's end, doubted Liam's prowess, and now stood corrected, humbled.
Liam coughed, snapping them back, "See? Not that tough—stick it out, push past the pain, and you'll clear it; this is just the start, not the summit."
He updated the Honor List, slotting his 2:06 under Dig to Ascend, a gauntlet thrown—clearance was step one; speed was the true crown, and the race was on.
The crowd groaned, some teetering on tears—easy, he says?—their hours of toil dwarfed by a run so smooth it felt like a different game, a blow that left them reeling.
Yet defeat lit fires in others—Keqing's eyes narrowed, Tartaglia's fists clenched; Liam's clinic wasn't a white flag but a dare, a spark to their pride they wouldn't let die.
"Is that all it takes? I'll beat it—and your time!" Tartaglia vowed, his collapse forgotten, while Keqing nodded, her Yuheng resolve steeled to topple that 2:06 mark.
Liam grinned, his system feasting—Tartaglia's wail, the crowd's shock, the brewing defiance spun a richer haul than Zhongli's calm, a chaos of wills he'd milk dry.
The cafe buzzed anew, screens flickering back to life—Mario's pipes and Digging's depths now arenas for vengeance, each player chasing Liam's ghost, their spirits raw and raring.
This wasn't just a demo—it was a crucible, and Liam's swift ascent had forged a frenzy, the Honor List a beacon they'd bleed to claim, one hammer swing at a time.
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