Keqing’s Hometown Habit

Keqing's small, pale fist slammed the desk in a burst of fury, the mouse jolting with a clatter as her frustration boiled over from yet another crushing fall in Dig to Ascend.

She seethed with a righteous anger she hadn't felt in years, her pride as Liyue's Yuheng star battered by a game that dared to humble her so thoroughly.

Never in her polished career had she stumbled this hard, and to trip over a digital hammer-wielding bald man felt like a personal affront to her storied resolve.

Liam stepped over, his hand gently ruffling her hair as he offered a can of fizzy soda, "Take a breather, Keqing—this game's a beast without the right mindset, so cool off a bit."

She accepted the drink with a murmured thanks, sipping the icy bubbles as she sank into the sofa, her racing pulse slowing under the chill of the happy water.

Then it hit her—Liam had patted her head and called her "Keqing" so casually, a familiarity reserved for childhood kin, flushing her cheeks as she ducked her gaze.

The cold soda steadied her nerves, and with a determined glint, she gripped the mouse again, ready to reclaim her dignity from the game's relentless grip.

But when her three-hour limit ticked out, she slumped back, gray and statue-like, her spirit drained as if the world itself had snuffed out her spark.

The barbecue grill section had broken her—each slip sent her tumbling back to the happy hometown, a cycle that shattered her composure beyond repair.

Her mentality in tatters, she couldn't even clear the first cliff anymore, her once-nimble swings faltering until even the starting tree mocked her with repeated flops.

Up she'd climb, only to crash down again, the narrator chiming in with gleeful barbs: "It's like leaving for an hour and realizing your wallet's still home—back you go!"

Another fall, another jab: "Picture winning big at the casino, betting it all on red, and watching black take it away," the voice needling her with every reset.

Then came, "It's like donning your best shirt for a wedding, only to spill sauce down the front," followed by, "Or convincing a friend in a fight, just for them to flip back to their old nonsense."

After a heavy silence, tears welled in Keqing's eyes, spilling over as her catlike ears drooped, her proud facade crumbling under the game's merciless taunts.

She'd never felt this wronged, not in all her years—why did this cursed hammer game have the power to unravel her so completely, reducing her to sobs?

Liam approached, stifling a grin as he soothed, "It's just a hiccup, Keqing—happy hometown's par for the course here; no need to let it get under your skin."

He added with a shrug, "Fall back there a hundred times, get the hang of it, and you'll breeze through—practice makes perfect, right?"

Keqing's tears flowed harder at his words—hundreds of returns to that wretched start? Once was agony enough, but hundreds felt like a sentence to madness.

What kind of comfort was that, she thought, her glare cutting through her sniffles as she rasped, "Enough for today—don't forget your banquet at Qunyu Pavilion tonight, Liam."

She stormed out, fury radiating off her in waves, her mind already plotting to chop a forest's worth of logs at home to vent this unbearable humiliation.

The onlookers chuckled quietly, reveling in the Yuheng's rare unraveling, their eyes tracing the game's escalating torment with a mix of awe and dread.

This Dig to Ascend was a fiend crafted to break souls, its narrator a sadistic bard whose shrimp-and-pig-heart quips only stoked their thirst to conquer it.

The harder it kicked, the sweeter the bragging rights beckoned, and Keqing's three-hour spiral—past lunch—only fueled their hunger to claim that elusive victory.

Liam, no chef himself, flagged down a loitering kid from the cafe, slipping him some Mora to dash to Wanmin Hall for a hearty takeaway to tide him over.

Kids could play if they paid, he figured, though he'd bar them from anything too grim in the future—no exceptions, not even for spectators.

Lunch arrived swiftly, and as he dug into the steaming meal, a new figure waddled in—Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, strutting with the swagger of a well-fed duck.

The Fatuus paused, his bravado faltering as the cafe's field snuffed out his elemental power and dulled his strength, a shock that dimmed his usual spark.

He'd come itching for a spar with this otherworldly visitor, eager to test Liam's mettle, but the suppression doused his plans like a bucket on a campfire.

Tartaglia sauntered to the counter, all easy charm, "Hey there, Boss Liam—I'm Tartaglia, nice to meet you!" his tone bright despite the unexpected handicap.

Liam glanced up from his meal, his reply cool and clipped, "Yeah, hi, Tartaglia," his lack of warmth hinting at a distaste he didn't bother to mask.

He'd never cared for the Harbinger's reckless flair, a faint disgust simmering beneath his calm—trouble in orange hair, as far as he was concerned.

Liam's system purred softly, still digesting Keqing's emotional feast, her tears and rage a potent brew now spiced with Tartaglia's arrival.

The cafe buzzed on, its machines humming with the day's chaos, a proving ground where Liyue's boldest—be they Yuheng or Harbinger—faced their limits.

Keqing's exit left a void, but her vow to return lingered, a promise of more breakdowns and breakthroughs to feed Liam's growing empire of emotion.

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