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UH CH 23: Fate? Choices?
🕑 Added 2025-11-30 03:55:52 +0000 UTCThe walk back from the black market should have been tense. I'd just fought off cultists, nearly died, and was carrying enough illegal weapons to get me imprisoned for life. But all I could think about was fate.
"You're quiet," Iron Fist said as we navigated the dark streets. "That's not like you."
"Just thinking."
"About the Necromancer?"
"About fate." I adjusted the weapon case on my shoulder. "And about the SLF."
Iron Fist's jaw tightened. "What about them?"
"Will they come after us again? After you?"
He was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. "Not immediately. Romero's careful—he doesn't make moves without planning. Plus, Zhou Mei embarrassed him. He'll need time to lick his wounds and rebuild his reputation before trying anything."
"But eventually?"
"Eventually, yeah. But that's tomorrow's problem." He glanced at me. "You've got enough on your plate without worrying about the SLF. Focus on whatever insane plan you're cooking up with those weapons."
I wanted to ask more—about his history with Romero, about what the SLF really wanted with him—but Iron Fist's expression made it clear the topic was closed. Some questions would have to wait for another loop.
"Do you believe in predetermined destiny?" I asked instead.
Iron Fist snorted. "I believe in bullets and fists. Everything else is philosophy for people with too much time."
Normally, I'd agree with him. But I'd died twice now, traveled through time, and carried the bloodline of something called Ouroboros. Philosophy was becoming increasingly relevant to my survival.
"Maybe you're right," I said.
"I am all right," He clapped me on the shoulder with his mechanical right hand and gave me a meaningful look.
It took me a moment to understand the lame joke he was telling.
“Dad’s jokes truly don’t suit you, man.. But thanks for trying.”
He chortled. "Get some rest, kid. Whatever you're planning with those weapons, you'll need to be sharp."
We parted ways at his bar. I made my way home through the empty streets, mind churning with possibilities.
***
Only after reaching home did I remember that I forgot to ask Iron Fist to join the Cleaning team. Or did I?
I sighed. My head was pounding.
My room looked even more pathetic with a case full of illegal weapons sitting on the bed. The contrast between the peeling wallpaper and military-grade gear would have been funny if it weren't so depressing.
I laid everything out methodically. The shotgun, the grenades, the broken holy sword, which, despite its damaged enchantments, still hummed with residual power when I touched it.
Then there was the unicorn rod.
{Finally! Do you have any idea how undignified it is to be carried around like common luggage?}
"Can you actually do anything useful, or do you just complain?"
{I am a magnificent weapon of purity! In the hands of a worthy maiden, I could channel enough holy power to purge entire armies of undead! I can protect my wielder from all curses, and I can uncover the most hidden secrets.}
"But I'm not a maiden."
{No, you're certainly not. You reek of carnal knowledge and poor decisions.}
I pushed mana into it experimentally. The rod resisted, then sparked with angry red light.
{What... what are you doing? You shouldn't be able to channel any power through me!}
"I'm special," I said, but the resistance was stronger than I'd expected. My SSS-ranked Resistance protected me from the effect of forcibly using it. But it did not help in drawing and using more power.
If I wanted to use it to the fullest, I needed to convince it.
"Look, we need to make a deal. Help me fight tomorrow, and I'll find you a proper virgin owner afterward."
I felt like I was trying to sacrifice someone to a demon.
{Absolutely not! I refuse to aid someone so thoroughly debauched!}
“Holy exaggeration! I was active but not that active. Aren’t you overreacting?”
{Hmph! Someone like you could never understand.}
Should I just use it as a beating stick?
"Will you keep the same stance even if the one I am hunting a Necromancer?"
The rod went quiet for a moment. {A Necromancer, you say?}
"Yeah. Undead, corruption, the whole deal."
{...Tempting, but no. I have standards. Find yourself another weapon, libertine.}
I set the rod aside with a sigh, but not much disappointment. The weapon had clearly hesitated at the end. This means that, while it was more stubborn than a mule, it was not impossible to reason with.
Maybe with more mana or a different approach, I could convince it later.
With this done, I examined the Etherium compression core. The device looked innocuous enough—a cylinder of twisted metal and crystal. But knowing it could detonate with enough force to vaporize anything with mana made my hands shake slightly.
I checked my status again:
[Karma Points: 876]
The temptation to spend them gnawed at me. Just a few hundred points could push my Speed to H-rank. More stats would make tomorrow's hunt easier.
But...
I could not use points carelessly. What if the points spent did not follow me after death? It would feel quite shitty. I at least knew that points saved would not vanish after death. So better to keep them now and act depending on the situation.
"I need to be smart about this," I muttered. "Can't just throw points around without understanding the consequences."
I closed the status window. The points would stay unspent for now. Better to complete one successful loop with minimal changes, then experiment once I have a stable reference.
The real problem was my memory. I knew the Gate would open in District 62-West tomorrow morning, but the exact time? The exact location? It was frustrating how many crucial details had already faded.
The more loops, the bigger the time between loops, the more primordial my memory would become.
"I need memory-type skills," I said aloud. "Can't rely on perfect recall of events I never thought I'd need to remember."
But I did remember one thing clearly—the ex-soldier with prosthetic legs. His face, his stance, the way he'd immediately helped when everything went to hell. If I could find him, I'd find the right bus.
***
Sleep didn't come easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Iron Fist's head rolling across the dungeon floor. Saw Jana freezing up as Richard screamed. Saw my own body exploding in defiance.
So I spent the remainder of the night using my slightly larger mana to create more bullets for my shotgun as well as prepare equipment I might need. My recovery speed had increased a little. Not much, but with how slow I already was, any improvement was massive.
When dawn finally broke, I was already up, checking and rechecking my gear. I was not particularly tired.
The weapons went into a modified golf bag—suspicious, but not immediately illegal-looking. The unicorn rod got strapped to the side, still grumbling about indignity. The etherium core stayed in its case, wrapped in three layers of cloth to prevent accidental activation.
I stopped at the mirror, noting the bags under my eyes, the tension in my shoulders.
"You look like shit," I told my reflection.
But there was something else there, too. A hardness that hadn't been there before.
I thought about the Seer's words from the first loop: "Death is only the start of a new Journey."
She'd known. Somehow, she'd known what would happen to me.
"Time to get some answers," I decided.
***
The morning market was just opening as I made my way through the twisted alleys. I opted against meeting Iron Fist for now and made a line to the seer.
The fortune teller's spot was exactly where I remembered—under the patchwork tarp, surrounded by flickering candles that shouldn't still be burning from the night.
She looked the same. Warm brown skin, grey-streaked hair in a braid, simple clothes that had seen better days. But when she looked up at me, her expression shifted from welcoming to confused.
"You..." She frowned, shuffling her cards with suddenly nervous fingers. "Sit. Please."
I sat carefully, keeping my weapons within reach. Hunters of the seer class were generally not fighters. But nothing was certain.
"You…Who are you? Did we meet?" she said, studying me. "No, that's not right. You're..." She spread the cards, then gathered them again, frustrated. "I can't read you."
"What do you mean?"
"Every person has threads of fate. Past, present, future—all woven together in patterns I can see. But you..." She reached toward me, then pulled back. "You're like a black hole absorbing all possibilities. A void where certainty should be."
[The Silent Watcher observes with interest.]
"The cards won't settle around you," she continued, attempting another spread. The cards scattered as if pushed by an invisible wind. "Every time I try to read your future, it changes, as if multiple futures are fighting for dominance."
I wondered why she was answering me so easily, but I was not about to stop her. The more answers, the better.
"Can you see anything?"
She forced the cards into position, her hands shaking with effort. The first card revealed itself.
"The Fool," she whispered. "Did I draw this card once?” She hesitated.
The second card was flipped. "The Wheel of Fortune, reversed. Fate itself rebels against you. Or perhaps you rebel against it."
The third card turned black the moment it was revealed, the image burning away.
"Stop," I said, seeing blood trickle from her nose. "You're hurting yourself."
I wanted to ask more, but it was affecting her. This woman had been very kind to me so far, and I did not wish to hurt her because of my selfishness.
She wiped the blood away while giving a bitter smile. "I am getting old. In my youth, even punking blood because of a failed prediction or violating a taboo would not affect me too much."
Once she finished, she asked. “What do you want from those old bones, child?”
"A prophecy.” Was my prophecy still the same? The choice between peaceful death and a life of suffering, or was it already too late?
She laughed, but it was strained. "Prophecy? Child, prophecy requires a fixed future to read. You have no fixed future. Every moment, every choice, you're rewriting what should be written in stone."
"Then fate is truly predetermined?"
Her laughter grew stronger, more genuine. "Oh, that question. Let me tell you something about fate." She leaned forward, eyes bright despite her exhaustion. "Fate is like a river. It has a current, a direction, and banks that contain it. Most people float along, carried by the current, occasionally swimming left or right but always heading toward the same ocean. The most powerful ones can swim counter-current or even anchor themselves. But it takes a tremendous amount of power. Power that you are far from.”
She pointed at me. "Despite how weak and small you are, you are different. You're not in the river. You're standing on the shore, throwing stones, damming sections, and digging new channels. You're not carried by fate—you're reshaping it with every choice."
“If Fate truly exists. Does free will even matter?”
She shook her head. "Fate exists. The river is real. But we choose how we navigate it. We can swim against the current, though it's exhausting. We can dive deep or stay surface-level. We can even, in rare moments, leave the river entirely. This is what it means to have free will.”
“For example. Death is a predetermined Fate for many of us. But how or when we die is up to our own choices. All the roads lead to Rome, as they say. But some roads are faster, and some roads are more dangerous.”
“Once again, this does not apply to you.” She gathered her cards with trembling hands. "You've left the river. I don't know how or why, but you're walking along the banks now, choosing where to re-enter. That's why I can't read you—you're not bound by the same rules anymore."
I stood, feeling like I had more questions than answers now. But at least a gnawing doubt vanished from my mind. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I've told you nothing you didn't already know." She smiled weakly. "But here's a free piece of wisdom: when someone steps outside fate's river, they can pull others out too. Every life you save, every death you prevent—you're changing their fates as well. Be careful with that power and make sure to avoid other Seers if you can. Your existence affects our predictions. Many of my peers might not appreciate it.”
“What about you?”
“Me? For me, there are no coincidences in this world. Everything is Fate. Even an existence that denies Fate is a form of Fate. I have no reason to make you an enemy.”
She started arranging her cards and walked away.
Leaving Cain alone.
