Tartaglia’s Ghostly Gauntlet

Tartaglia swaggered into the cafe with an easy grin, his youthful charm masking the ruthless edge of a Fatui Harbinger honed by a brutal past and unyielding ambition.

Beneath that approachable veneer lay a cold truth—every executive of the Fatui bore a heart forged in cruelty, their evil roots tangled in tragedies they'd long turned into weapons.

His childhood's scars had twisted him into a battle-hungry fiend, his loyalty sworn to the Tsaritsa, his warmth reserved solely for his siblings, leaving the rest of the world to face his icy disregard.

Unleashing the Vortex Demon God Osial might've fit Zhongli's grand design, but the act alone proved Tartaglia cared little for the thousands of lives teetering in Liyue Harbor's balance.

The Rock Abyss's advance Fatui teams had crumbled under his neglect, their blood a silent testament to a man who'd sacrifice anything—or anyone—for his ends.

Liam, grounded in a simpler moral code, felt a quiet revulsion stir as he watched Tartaglia, unable to muster fondness for a soul so callous beneath the bravado.

Tartaglia caught the chill in Liam's curt greeting, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his face as he puzzled over the "Dada Duck" jab— smoother than "Dadalia," sure, but still odd.

Undeterred by the lukewarm reception, he flashed a wad of Mora, cutting the line with a princely sum to claim a machine, eager to probe this alien cafe for himself.

He'd come to Liyue bearing the Tsaritsa's heavy charge—to seize the Geo Archon's Gnosis—and this sudden Internet cafe loomed as a wild card he couldn't ignore.

Settling in, he eyed his options: Silent Hill, a horror gauntlet, or Dig to Ascend, a test of grit, and with a chin-scratching hum, he picked the former, craving a thrill to match his daring.

Tartaglia thrived on challenges, his fearlessness bordering on madness—after all, plotting to strike at Morax during the Rite of Descension wasn't courage so much as a brain wired for reckless gambles.

He slipped on the virtual headset, plunging into Silent Hill: PT's eerie world, his confidence a shield against the creeping dread he assumed he'd shrug off with ease.

His boldness outshone Hu Tao's by leagues, her earlier shrieks a faint echo to his steady stride, yet without weapons or powers, even his bravado began to erode with each cycle.

By the fourth loop, after a ghastly face leered from the bathroom door, he stumbled into the fifth, his nerves fraying beneath the game's relentless psychological grind.

The corridor stretched ahead, its lights still glaring, the clock frozen at 23:59, but a low, guttural moan slithered through the silence, pricking his ears with unease.

Frowning, he edged toward the corner, his usual swagger tempered by a growing itch of doubt, the sound tugging him forward despite his better instincts.

He rounded the bend, and his breath caught—under the chandelier at the hall's end stood a towering figure, cloaked in shadow, its features lost to the light's cruel tease.

A strange, mournful groan rolled from it, chilling Tartaglia to his core, his pulse spiking as the crowd behind him froze, their gasps mirroring his own racing heart.

This was no cheap jump-scare ghost, popping out to startle—this specter loomed openly, its oppressive presence a suffocating weight that pinned even a Harbinger's feet in place.

Tartaglia stared, his mind blank, the fearless warrior undone by a foe he couldn't punch or outwit, his bravado faltering under its silent, towering menace.

The onlookers broke the tension with hushed, urgent chatter, one hissing, "Back up, back up—get out of there fast!" their collective panic buzzing like static.

Another whispered, "It's blocking the way—that means you can't pass; retreat before you anger it!" their voices a lifeline Tartaglia clung to in his daze.

"Turn around, check what you missed—there's got to be a clue!" a third urged, while a fourth nodded, "Yeah, something's off, or it wouldn't just stand there waiting to scare you dead."

Their words clicked—Liyue's ghost lore ran deeper than Snezhnaya's frostbitten tales, and if they saw sense in backtracking, he'd trust their instincts over his own rattled gut.

He nudged the controls, stepping his character back, his eyes locked on the figure, half-expecting it to lunge, but a flicker of motion stopped him cold—was it an illusion?

He retreated another step, and this time it was clear—the shadow shifted, gliding closer, its groan deepening into a sound that clawed at his spine.

Panic surged, his mind racing as he stammered inwardly, "No way—this can't be right!" his retreat suddenly a trigger for the ghost's advance.

Had he botched the move? Maybe staring at it was the mistake—yes, that had to be it, he reasoned, clinging to a shred of logic in the chaos.

With a sharp twist, he spun his character away, breaking eye contact, hoping to outsmart the specter with a clever dodge born of desperation.

The instant he turned, a piercing scream ripped from the ghost, shattering the air, and Tartaglia's bravado buckled, his fearless mask cracking under the game's unrelenting terror.

Liam watched from the counter, his system gorging on the Harbinger's spiking dread, a delicious twist to the day's haul after Keqing's tearful exit.

The crowd leaned in, their whispers turning to gasps, hooked on Tartaglia's unraveling—proof even a Fatui elite could quake before Silent Hill's shadowy grip.

This cafe wasn't just a playground; it was a crucible, stripping bravado bare, and Tartaglia's plunge into its depths promised more chaos to fuel Liam's growing power.

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