Tartaglia simmered in the aftermath of his broadcasted disgrace, a wound still raw and festering.
The melon-eating masses of Teyvat, however, basked in unrestrained delight at his expense.
His wild dance lingered in their minds, a jarring clash with his harbinger's mantle.
Yet his parting shot in the chat cast a shadow over their mirth, a warning laced with venom.
Keqing had been the first to fall, her dignity skewered by the broadcast's cruel jest.
Ningguang and Beidou followed, their own legends twisted into farce for all to see.
Now Tartaglia joined their ranks, a third victim in this relentless parade of humiliation.
The spectators had cheered each tumble, reveling in the chaos from a safe perch.
But his words lingered like a storm cloud—what if the spotlight turned on them?
Amber: "Teyvat's brimming with souls—surely I'm not next," she typed, clinging to hope.
Jean: "I'd like to believe that, yet a flicker of dread remains," she confessed, voice tight.
Lisa: "Oh, is our poised Grand Master buckling under the weight of her title?" she purred.
Yae Miko: "The pattern's clear—Keqing, Ningguang, Beidou, Tartaglia—all titans of renown," she observed.
"The broadcast hungers for fame, picking those who shine brightest," she added, her tone sly.
Arataki Itto: "Then I'm a prime cut—let's see it try me!" he boasted, chest puffed.
Kuki Shinobu: "Boss, are you seriously courting that kind of shame?" she groaned, exasperated.
Gorou: "Doesn't that put our general in the crosshairs too?" he whimpered, ears drooping.
Kokomi: "No need to fret—just stay grounded; it's all a fabrication," she counseled, serene.
Yoimiya: "Easy for you to say—I'd collapse if it's me," she admitted, sparks dimming.
Beidou: "She's right—I laughed at Keqing's flop, then wept when it was my turn," she rued.
Keqing: "Some allies you are, chortling while I burned," she snapped, indignation flaring.
Ningguang: "Peace, Keqing—we're comrades in this misfortune now," she soothed, resigned.
Tartaglia: "Feel my terror yet? It'll be your turn soon," he hissed, malice dripping.
Zhongli: "In terms of universal rationality, I'd posit that—" he began, measured as ever.
Hu Tao: "Rationality? Quit gawking and hustle some clients with me!" she barked, impatient.
The five-minute timer wound down, and the crowd dispersed back to Teyvat's sprawl.
Tartaglia stood at Liyue's west gate, a lone figure amid the city's ceaseless flow.
Merchants hawked wares, adventurers bartered tales, travelers shuffled past.
Millelith stood sentinel, their spears glinting under the midday sun.
All eyes swiveled to him, recognition sparking in their gazes.
The vodka-soaked dance replayed in their heads, a vivid reel of absurdity.
Laughter bubbled up, a chorus barely restrained by decorum's thin veil.
Even the Millelith, trained to stoicism, twitched with suppressed grins.
Most lacked their discipline, faces splitting into open, unguarded mirth.
None dared voice it—his Fatui rank hung like a guillotine's blade.
"Don't push me too far," Tartaglia snarled, teeth flashing in a feral grimace.
Rage surged, a tide urging him to paint the stones red with their insolence.
Reason clamped down, a cold chain binding his fury in place.
"Move it—get back to your business," a Millelith barked, dispersing the gawkers.
Tartaglia's glare eased, a grudging nod to their swift intervention.
He slipped through the gate, veering into a shadowed alley off the main drag.
The bustling thoroughfare promised more stares, a monkey's parade he'd not endure.
His heart thrummed with wrath: "Laugh now, Liyue—your joy's days are numbered."
He burned to unleash his scheme, to summon a demon god's terror upon them.
Osial's shadow loomed in his mind, a tool to drown their smugness in dread.
Meanwhile, Xander savored the last of his meal at Wanmin Kitchen, belly full.
The third broadcast had gifted him another lottery draw, a prize ripe for claiming.
He rose, intent on finding a spot steeped in luck's favor for the pull.
Past draws haunted him—trash heaps and that cursed stall chair mocked his fortune.
Another flop might break him, a madness no Archon's grace could mend.
He stepped into Liyue's streets, the city's pulse a steady hum around him.
Tartaglia's alley retreat went unseen, their paths diverging in the urban maze.
Xander's mind churned, plotting a haven for his next gamble with fate.
Perhaps the Statue of the Seven, Morax's stone gaze a beacon of prosperity?
Or the harbor's edge, where commerce's flow might tilt the odds his way?
He weighed each, superstition warring with his pragmatic core.
The Shadowfang Blade thrummed at his hip, a quiet cheer for his brewing resolve.
Tartaglia's disgrace was a triumph, a spark fanning Xander's mischievous flame.
Liyue thrived beyond, its people blind to the twin storms taking shape.
One brewed in a harbinger's vengeful heart, the other in Xander's playful schemes.
The broadcast's echo lingered, a ripple of laughter across Teyvat's breadth.
Xander's steps quickened, the draw a tantalizing lure pulling him onward.
Tartaglia's fury festered, a promise of chaos coiled in his silence.
The west gate stood as a threshold, a line between their fates' unseen dance.
***
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