Zhongli tested every fatal misstep in the eighth cycle—turning back to die, entering the bathroom to perish, answering the phone to fade—methodically mapping Silent Hill's lethal edges with unshaken resolve.
He discovered a workaround: walking backward spared him Lisa's wrath, a calm sidestep around the terror that had undone lesser souls like Tartaglia.
At the radio counter by the gate, he zoomed in on a wedding photo, a prompt flashing—Dig down!—and watched as the woman's right eye hollowed out, a gouged void mirroring Lisa's ghastly face.
A click echoed beneath the darkened stairs, the ninth cycle's door unlocking, and Zhongli pieced it together—the photo's mutilation tied to the ghost's own, a clue carved in spectral flesh.
The radio spoke of a husband's gunshot killing his wife, yet omitted eye-gouging, but Lisa's groans—strangled sobs—hinted at a darker truth beyond a bullet's reach.
He strode toward the ninth cycle, his mind churning: was this husband the killer, driven mad by cult whispers, or had something fouler gripped him that fateful night?
Tartaglia gaped, the crowd buzzing in awe—Zhongli's unflinching march through horrors they'd fled left them stunned, his poise a stark contrast to their frantic dodges.
"This guy doesn't know fear exists," one whispered, while Tartaglia marveled, "I'm floored—Zhongli's wisdom and guts outshine mine; he's the real deal."
His admiration swelled—this Wangsheng Funeral Parlor guest was a goldmine of Liyue's secrets, a sage whose calm outstripped the Harbinger's brash courage.
Hu Tao rolled her eyes, muttering, "Six thousand years of monsters and wars—ten thousand ghosts could ride his face, and he'd sip tea through it."
Zhongli reached the ninth cycle's door, a scrawl greeting him—Forgive me Lisa, I have a monster inside me—the name clinching her identity, the plea hinting at a husband's tormented hand.
The radio's cult ties and this confession clicked: possession by an evil spirit could explain the slaughter, a tragedy Zhongli had witnessed in mortals across Liyue's long history.
Even now, in pacified lands he'd tamed, hidden corners harbored such evils, and with a sigh, he stepped into the ninth cycle, its dim hall alive with a baby's distant wails.
The bathroom stood sealed, unyielding, and as he neared the gate, glass shattered from above, shards scattering—yet he pressed on, high heels clicking behind him.
He ignored the sound, pushing through to the tenth cycle's unlocked door, his steady gait a calculated gamble—hesitation would've been his end, he knew.
A few steps in, water splashed underfoot, and at the corner, a sickly red glow pulsed, revealing a refrigerator dangling from the ceiling, blood seeping from its seams.
The radio crackled anew: "Father hanged himself with the rubber hose—or umbilical cord—from his car after killing his family," twin voices clashing, the cord ringing truer in this twisted tale.
Zhongli paused, the puzzle deepening—who was he in this nightmare: the son, shot at ten; the father, self-slain; or a ghost, neither dead nor alive?
The son might've survived, grown, and returned, or the father's death a lie—too few threads held firm, and he filed the question for later, his focus unswayed.
Liam watched, his system purring softly—Zhongli's serene dissection of Silent Hill yielded steady points, not the torrents of Tartaglia's panic, but a reliable stream nonetheless.
Hu Tao's quip rang true—ten thousand ghosts couldn't faze this ancient soul, his calm a fortress Liam longed to breach for the jackpot it promised.
Tartaglia leaned closer, hooked on Zhongli's progress, his own failures dwarfed by this sage who turned dread into a leisurely stroll, clues falling like dust at his feet.
The crowd murmured, split between Mario's bright leaps and Zhongli's dark dive, his methodical pace a magnet for those craving the game's endgame truth.
Zhongli reset his lens, scanning the tenth cycle, the bloodied fridge and umbilical cord weaving into his theory—possession, murder, a fractured family haunting these walls.
Each step was a chisel, carving clarity from chaos, his six millennia of grit a hammer no ghost could dent, even as Lisa's heels echoed in futile pursuit.
Liam's grin flickered—Zhongli's unflappable march was a slow burn, but if that wall ever cracked, the emotional flood could drown Liyue's daily take in a single burst.
This cafe thrived on such contrasts—Hu Tao's giggles, Tartaglia's awe, Zhongli's steel—and Liam savored it, a mastermind watching his forge temper Teyvat's boldest souls.
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