The day blurred past, and at nine sharp, Liam locked the cafe doors, the hum of fifty machines fading into a stillness that begged for the all-night chaos he'd once thrived on back home.
In his school days, Internet cafes were his nocturnal haunts—high school and college nights bled into dawn more often wired than sleeping, a habit he'd confess to with a sheepish grin.
Not that often, mind you, but enough that bleary-eyed marathons outpaced restful nights, a rhythm he'd love to revive here if not for running this show solo.
Hiring help loomed as the fix—night service demanded a network manager—but who'd fit the bill in Liyue's bustling sprawl, a question that nagged as he mulled his options.
Random passersby? No chance—shifty types prone to mischief wouldn't touch his haven, their chaos a risk he'd never stomach for a second.
Famous faces like Hu Tao or Zhongli? Out of the question—Liyue's luminaries had their own orbits, too tangled in their duties to moonlight behind his counter.
Travelers, then—those wandering souls drifting through Teyvat—might do, and a merchant fresh from Mondstadt today dropped a tantalizing lead on that front.
Mondstadt buzzed with wind dragon woes, he'd said, and whispers of a yellow-haired outlander with a flying sprite—Paimon's telltale flutter—hinted at Lumine or Aether's arrival.
Liam's heart tipped toward Lumine, the spunky sister outshining her brother—Aether's stoic heft felt bland, a shadow next to her naive spark, his sins better left to some cosmic thrashing.
A big guy himself, Liam favored the little firecracker over the dour hero—let Aether bear the weight while Lumine's mischief might one day grace his cafe, a dream he tucked away with a smirk.
"Today's haul's a beauty," he mused, tallying the day's emotional points—over 24,000, triple yesterday's take, a windfall that curved his lips into a grin of pure satisfaction.
Zhongli's unflappable calm had chipped in steady clarity, but the real jackpot? Liam's own Dig to Ascend demo—two minutes of mastery that left the crowd slack-jawed and reeling.
With 24,000 points burning a hole in his system, temptation tugged—blow it all, roll the dice, maybe snag a godly prize or a wife to mind the shop, a fantasy he nearly chased.
Reason won out—self-defense was covered, and his focus sharpened on scaling the cafe, boosting its draw; fifty rigs weren't cutting it, not with queues snaking out the door.
Too many watched, not played, their sidelined awe a trickle next to the flood of those who grappled firsthand—more machines were the answer, and he'd make it happen now.
He sank 15,000 points into an upgrade, the cafe's interior swelling overnight—120 computers blinked to life, a private room carved out, mirroring the sprawling dens of his past ventures.
Tomorrow, time limits would vanish—grab a seat if you could, a free-for-all that'd pack the place dawn to dusk, amplifying the chaos he craved to harvest.
With 9,000 points left, he turned to new content, splitting the pot—4,000 for one draw, 5,000 for another—determined to juice every drop from his emotional hoard.
First, 4,000 points spun the wheel, landing on Resident Evil, and Liam's pulse quickened—a zombie-slaying classic, a boyhood love that still thrummed in his veins.
From its gritty roots to the eighth chapter before he'd crossed worlds, Resident Evil reigned as the zombie king—though its films faltered, only the first pair decent, the rest and that web series pure dreck.
The upcoming Resident Evil 4 remake had teased his old life's horizon, but this version—he'd hold it back, unleashing it the day after tomorrow, letting Mario and Digging ripen first.
By then, someone might clear those two, or near enough, and Resident Evil's undead hordes would storm in fresh, a jolt to keep the cafe's pulse pounding strong.
He wagered the last 5,000 points, the system chiming—The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring—and Liam's jaw dropped, reverence washing over him like a holy tide.
"By the Archons, Lord of the Rings?" he breathed, awe-struck—this wasn't just a film; it was Tolkien's magnum opus, the fantasy epic that lit the genre's path for decades.
A grade-school obsession, its special effects had plunged him into Middle-earth's sprawl, a magic undimmed even years later—world-building, plot, characters, acting, all flawless in his eyes.
Back then, peers balked at its length, too restless for art, but Liam saw a beacon—though only the first part landing now left him torn between glee and a pang for the trilogy's whole.
Then it clicked—dangle Fellowship alone, let the crowd devour it, then stew in suspense for Two Towers and Return of the King, their impatience a vein of emotional gold to tap.
"Perfect," he chuckled, imagining their clamor for the next chapters, a slow-burn tease that'd swell his points as they begged for resolution—beautifully cruel, brilliantly lucrative.
Points spent, Liam stretched, the night's work done, and turned to his ritual supper—fuel for the mastermind steering Teyvat's boldest into his ever-growing web of wonders.
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