Gandalf's plunge with the Balrog—a gray-robed wizard, warm and wry—left the cafe's watchers gutted, his kindly charm a flame snuffed too soon in The Fellowship of the Ring's fiery depths.
Peril had loomed from the start, the road a gauntlet promising loss, yet his stand to shield the team—dragged into shadow—hit harder than any foresaw, a sacrifice too swift for such a guide.
"Shouldn't leaders endure to the end?" one murmured, their unease a ripple through the crowd, his role as the Fellowship's anchor making his fall a jagged tear in their expectations.
Zhongli's gaze darkened, memories of Liyue's Demon God War surfacing—countless allies lost to bring peace, their graves a bedrock for his unyielding calm, a price he knew all too well.
"Sacrifice paves salvation's path," he intoned, his voice a low echo of battles past, where comrades dwindled to a handful, their ghosts steadying him against this tale's fresh sting.
The film pressed on—grief cloaked the Fellowship as they trudged forward, Gandalf's absence a wound still raw when Boromir, Gondor's heir, met his end, the second to fall in their quest.
Saruman's Uruk-hai ambushed them, a brutal clash erupting, and Boromir—once doubted, his heart teetering under the Ring's pull—stood firm, dying to shield Frodo from their blades.
He'd wavered, tempted by the Supreme Ring's whispers, yet in his final breath, he forged a hero's resolve, spilling his lifeblood to guard Middle-earth's hope and humanity's tattered honor.
By a Gondor king's stone statue, he fought to his last gasp, a redemption that choked the crowd—tears welled, their scorn flipping to awe at a man who'd reclaimed his race's dignity.
"Misjudged him—he's a hero!" one cried, while another roared, "He beat that cursed ring's lure in the end—humans aren't weak!" their pride surging against earlier shame.
"Sauron's toast—humans crushed him 2,500 years back, we'll do it again!" a voice bellowed, defiance drowning sorrow, though a softer plea followed, "No more deaths, please—not after this."
The Fellowship shrank again, and Galadriel's counsel spurred Frodo—fearing the Ring's sway would claim more lives—to strike out alone, sparing his allies its corrupting snare.
Sam, steadfast as stone, chased him down, and the two hobbits stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on a road bristling with peril, their mission to destroy the Ring unbowed.
For Middle-earth's freedom, for Gandalf's fall, for Boromir's stand—they'd brave the thousand threats ahead, their small frames bearing a world's weight in that final, fading frame.
The screen darkened, hobbits dwindling into dusk, and The Fellowship of the Ring closed—its epic sweep had gripped the cafe, slowly releasing them to reality with a reluctant sigh.
"Magnificent—beyond words!" one gasped, the tale's grandeur a thunderclap, not mere fiction but a living chronicle from another realm, its truth etched in every clash and cry.
A handful of souls—less than ten—carried Middle-earth's races' dreams, their trek to shield and shatter the Ring a legend too vast, too real, to be Teyvat's make-believe.
But then—silence turned to murmurs, then shouts—Frodo and Sam's march left dangling, the story halved, its end a void that gnawed at them like a hunger unmet.
"What's next? They're alone—what happens?" one demanded, while another groaned, "Did they destroy it? Did Sauron win? This can't be all!" their itch a rising tide of unrest.
Liam's system pinged, emotional points surging—discontent flared as the crowd rose, faces sour, their craving for closure a feast he'd engineered with this abrupt, delicious cut.
He smirked inwardly—this was the plan: hook them deep, then leave them dangling, their agitation a wellspring of points, a mental tease he'd milk for all it was worth.
Even Zhongli bristled, his calm fraying—the saga's halt after such brilliance stung, a rare spark of longing for more flickering in eyes that had seen millennia pass.
Ningguang steadied herself, her voice cool but edged, "Boss Liam, this Lord of the Rings doesn't end here—where's the rest?" her Tianquan poise masking a hunger for the tale's arc.
Zhongli nodded, his tone measured yet keen, "It's been ages since a story gripped me so—I crave its continuation; when might we see it?" his curiosity a crack in his granite facade.
The melon-eaters clamored louder, their itch a chorus—"Tell us! We need the rest!"—the cliffhanger a burr under their skin, their voices a storm Liam met with a raised hand.
"Quiet down," he called, palms out, "There's more—three parts total—but when they arrive? Could be tomorrow, could be moons from now; the otherworldly net's a fickle thing."
He shrugged, a helpless gesture laced with glee, and the cafe erupted in wails—Liam's vagueness a dagger, their frustration a fresh wave of points swelling his coffers anew.
This wasn't just a film—it was a trap, The Fellowship of the Ring a lure that sank deep, its half-told epic a torment that'd keep Teyvat's watchers hooked and howling for more.
***
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