Liam’s Gacha Gambit

In Xinyue Kiosk's glow, Liam laid out a lifeline for Keqing's dream—"Full human rule's a pipe dream in Teyvat; gods must linger in the weave, their threads too deep to cut," he began, his voice a steady anchor in her storm of doubt.

"Liyue's dance works now—each year, the Lord of Geo charts the course, and you Seven Stars steer the ship, fleshing out his vision with your hands, a balance of divine will and mortal grit," he explained, sketching the familiar rhythm she knew too well.

"Here's the twist—scrap the yearly Invite the Immortals rite; let the Seven Stars draft the grand plan, pitch it to Rex Lapis, and take the helm while he and his adepti fade to the wings," he proposed, a radical shift that dangled her ideal within reach.

"They'd watch from the shadows, stepping in only if Liyue stumbles into chaos too vast for mortal hands—think of them as a safety net, not the puppeteers," he added, his tone measured, offering a compromise that teetered between her hope and his caution.

Keqing mulled it, her mind churning—Liam's plan was viable, the closest she'd get to human rule without snapping Teyvat's divine spine, a framework where the Seven Stars could shine yet lean on godly might when the abyss yawned wide.

Yet shame crept in—"So we govern, and if we botch it, Rex Lapis cleans up? That's a child breaking toys and crying for papa," she groaned, her pride smarting at the image of Liyue as a toddler needing a godly diaper change.

If all stayed smooth, fine—but Liam's grim take on human nature promised trouble, a near-certain fumble that'd drag the Emperor back to mop up, a humiliation she could already taste, bitter and sharp.

"Give me time—I need to chew on this," she muttered, clutching her head, her violet locks a tangled mess as the headache bloomed, her mantra of rule by man now a mocking echo in her skull.

She'd been a fool—her grand notion of mortals steering solo had seemed so bright, so right, but Liam's words peeled it bare, exposing a naivety she hadn't seen till this night's brutal lesson.

Liam shrugged, his piece said—"Your call, Kitty; I've laid it out, but the path's yours to pick," he offered, though he knew Zhongli's retirement loomed, a tide that might force her hand whether she willed it or not.

The meal ended, and Liam escorted a dazed Keqing home—her steps heavy, mind adrift—before returning to the cafe, locking the door behind him, the day's chaos settling into a quiet he'd soon tally with glee.

He cracked open the emotional ledger, and a grin split his face—yesterday's 24,000 points paled beside today's haul: 68,000 emotional points, a dragon's hoard sparked by Lord of the Rings' cut and Keqing's clash of ideals.

Expansion paid off—the cafe's sprawl, the cliffhanger's sting—it all fed the surge, and Zhongli's rare stirrings today proved a goldmine; Liam vowed to shear that wool harder, the old god's calm a vein yet untapped.

Flush with points, the itch to draw hit hard—68,000 was a war chest, and a lucky pull might snag an employee to mind the shop, freeing him to roam Teyvat's wilds when the mood struck.

First, a ten-pull—10,000 points burned—and the haul rolled in: a Klee doll, Xiaozhi's hat, Doraemon gloves, a Hilichurl mask shard, a blackback bass—a junk pile that sparked no joy, only a snarl.

"Ten thousand points for this trash? Congratulations my foot!" he growled, his temper flaring—last time scored a purple four-star, but this? Not even a blue three-star, a flop worse than Mihoyo's stingiest pools, no floor to catch his fall.

Undeterred, he sank another 10,000—Dixia's training sword, a Mars butterfly, a mined-out 3090 GPU, a cat flea collar, a fake Supreme Ring cosplay prop—another bust, the gold ring's gleam a cruel tease that crumbled to costume-grade dross.

"By the Archons, this is a shipwreck!" he roared, his mood a rollercoaster—hope at "Supreme Ring" crashed to rage at its fakery, a mental whiplash that left him teetering, refusing to bow to this cursed luck.

Third time's the charm—he hurled 10,000 more into the void: EVA watches, a Kiana doll, frag grenades, a blue three-star adventurer relic set, and—finally—Beowulf, a purple four-star weapon set from Devil May Cry 3, its gloves and greaves a fist-fighter's dream.

"Not bad—Beowulf's a win," he exhaled, tension easing—Dante's gear promised punch, a tangible gain amid the chaff, a lifeline that steadied his sinking spirits after two rounds of dreck.

He paused—keep going? The cafe hummed smoothly now, Liyue's branch on rails, but Mondstadt beckoned—a second outpost needing staff, a goal that tipped him back into the gacha's jaws, employee or bust.

Two more 10,000-point pulls sank—more trinkets, more junk—until the fifth unleashed a burst: a purple four-star employee card, his first hire, a glimmer of salvation snatched from the brink of a mental meltdown.

The screen flared, details pending, but Liam's grin returned—68,000 dwindled to 18,000, a costly spree, yet Beowulf and a worker tipped the scales, a gamble that finally broke his losing streak.

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