How had this become Nadu's reality? Once among the most knowledgeable gods in the entire system, sought after for his wisdom and insight, he had now been reduced to a glorified scribe for the god of murder.

  Cain had assigned Nadu to monitor and document every event unfolding in a tutorial known as 'The Great Forest.' Not that Nadu minded—he was fascinated by the new race tearing through the rules of the System. But Cain? Cain terrified him. The god was a lunatic, brilliant and volatile, and working under him was as thrilling as it was maddening.

  So, when one of the highest-ranking pantheons announced an event to address the growing disruption in divination magic across any tutorial involving these so-called humans, Nadu leapt at the opportunity. He would record everything and report back to Cain—who, of course, loathed such gatherings.

  The hall was vast, with seats stretching to the horizon, all oriented toward a modest central stage. A massive projection screen hovered above, ensuring even those seated at the very back had a clear view of the proceedings.

  Nadu had barely settled into his seat when the lights dimmed.

  Silence washed over the gathered audience, anticipation holding every breath still. Above the stage, the air rippled gently—like moonlight shimmering on the surface of a hidden lake.

  Slowly, gracefully, a figure emerged from this ethereal distortion. Her form descended, suspended effortlessly, as though drifting through unseen currents. A gown of countless shimmering threads flowed around her, individual strands of pure white and soft silver woven intricately, highlighted here and there with threads of delicate gold. Each thread rippled gently, capturing the soft light like silk spun from starlight.

  Her pale hair billowed around her, suspended as though she floated beneath clear, deep water—an otherworldly cascade of white that framed her serene face in waves of gentle motion. Her expression was tender, wise, and filled with quiet warmth. She touched down lightly, so gently that it seemed she hardly connected with the stage at all.

  For a moment, she stood quietly, the soft rustle of her threads and her flowing hair the only sound breaking the silence.

  When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle, carrying clearly through the hushed awe:

  "Today we stand at the dawn of a new weave within the great tapestry. A fresh thread, filled with vibrant promise and infinite potential. A gift has been granted—beautiful, unknown, and radiant with possibility."

  Her voice held a reverence, as though she spoke not just of fate, but of sacred promise itself.

  Clotho, a goddess from the Olympian pantheon, stood as the divine embodiment of the past. Known across pantheons for her mastery in weaving the threads of history, she specialized in the divination of past events, unravelling forgotten truths, hidden contexts, and the echoes of choices long since made. Her insights often shaped policy among gods, her memory serving as both a ledger and a mirror for divine accountability.

  Nadu watched in quiet awe. Clotho had always had this effect on him—her depth of knowledge rivalled his own yet carried with it a grace he could never quite replicate. That the Olympians had chosen her to speak at this gathering spoke volumes. This wasn’t a routine discussion. They were bringing out their heavyweights.

  Her hands extended, revealing threads of light that coiled delicately around each finger. As more and more appeared, they twisted and intertwined with graceful precision, gradually taking shape—until, suspended in her grasp, a small blue and green planet emerged, woven from memory and magic alike.

  Clotho began to drift gently across the stage, the hem of her gown gliding just above the surface as if guided by unseen threads. Her gaze swept across the audience, not in judgment, but in warmth—soft, knowing.

  "The gift the All-Powerful System has granted us," she said, her voice low and melodic, "is these humans."

  She paused, letting her words settle, then continued, eyes glimmering like stars. "Many of you have studied their threads, as I have. You've seen what I have seen—their courage, their ingenuity, their hunger for growth."

  She twirled slowly, lifting her hands as if catching something unseen in the air. "Their potential isn't just impressive... it's breathtaking. They are new, yes. But in them glows a spark that could one day illuminate the very fabric of existence."

  As the gentle echo of the Clotho's voice faded into silence, the air above the stage stirred again, but this time differently. It was not a ripple of tranquil water, but something more precise, structured.

  Lines of gentle amber light etched themselves into the air, forming intricate geometric patterns, symbols of calculation and careful design.

  From within this precise lattice stepped a second figure, descending with purpose and graceful precision. Her presence was poised, intelligent, and distinctly calm. She wore a refined gown of muted earth tones and rich, scholarly hues: deep browns accented with subtle golds. At her waist, an elegant golden cord hung, bearing intricate measurement markings, reflecting her role as a meticulous keeper of balance and order.

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  Her dark brown hair was neatly pinned back, not a single strand out of place. A pair of delicate, gold-rimmed spectacles rested comfortably on the bridge of her nose, framing her discerning, analytical eyes—eyes that seemed to see far beyond what others could.

  She touched down onto the stage carefully, precisely, without drama or flourish. Her fingers traced lightly along the golden measuring cord at her side, as if calculating something invisible yet critically important.

  When she spoke, her voice was measured, calm, each word chosen carefully:

  "Yet with new threads come unforeseen complexities. The weaving becomes tangled, the patterns clouded. This vibrant new thread challenges the very order we strive to maintain, scattering clarity like leaves caught in an autumn wind."

  Lachesis, sister of Clotho, stood as the goddess of the future. While Clotho unravelled the past, Lachesis studied what was yet to come—analyzing the movement of mortals, charting trajectories, and forecasting outcomes with unrivalled precision. Her gift lay in discerning patterns before they fully formed, seeing possibilities like constellations waiting to align.

  She reached out and took the threads from Clotho’s grasp. As they passed into her hands, the strands grew taut, shimmering with a newfound tension. Slowly, they began to untangle, aligning into a deliberate, elegant formation—each thread falling into place as if responding to her will alone.

  "You all know me. You know the precision of my calculations. And I stand before you now not out of fear, but responsibility." The threads in her hands shimmered with resistance, writhing gently as if reluctant to yield to her control—chaotic, reactive, alive with their own will.

  "This new race is not dangerous by nature—but by unpredictability. Their potential is undeniable, but so too is their volatility. What gleams with brilliance may still cast long, chaotic shadows and we, who map the stars, may find ourselves blinded by that very brilliance." One by one, the threads began to shift, slipping from her carefully ordered grasp. She had lost control—they moved on their own now, ever-changing, refusing to settle, a living testament to the unpredictable nature of the new race.

  A tense quiet hung over the gathering after the analytical woman's words, but it shattered abruptly as the air above the stage twisted sharply, almost violently. Dark threads sliced through the fabric of space, unravelling reality itself, forming a stark and jagged doorway from which a third figure stepped forth.

  She descended swiftly, landing with a grace both fierce and lethal, her presence commanding immediate attention. Unlike the other two, she wore heavy, battle-worn robes—deep black fabric edged subtly with metallic shades, like iron woven into shadow. The robes moved fluidly around her powerful frame, practical yet regal, clearly made for combat.

  Her hair was black as obsidian, pulled back firmly, severe and without softness. Her eyes glinted sharply, assessing the crowd with a gaze that pierced through illusions and saw truths others feared. Across her back rested twin blades, their hilts protruding prominently above each shoulder—two swords shaped with elegant precision, curved inward so that their edges, if brought together, would form the blades of deadly shears.

  Each step echoed with inevitability, a quiet but relentless rhythm. Her presence was defined not by gentleness or intellectual precision, but by a stark, inescapable finality. When she finally spoke, her voice cut through the silence like a sharpened blade, firm and unyielding:

  "Yet potential and analysis mean nothing without decisive action. Threads that disrupt the weave, that resist guidance—must be severed. Mercy and hesitation are luxuries we cannot afford. Balance requires sacrifice."

  Her hand brushed casually against the hilt of one sword, as though already anticipating the necessity of its use.

  "A tapestry frays only once. And when it does, it cannot be mended. We act not in haste, but in remembrance of every world that unravelled when we did not cut in time."

  A shiver crept down Nadu’s spine at the appearance of Atropos. Her presence alone was unsettling—but the fact that all three Fate sisters had gathered in unison? That spoke volumes. It wasn’t just concern anymore. This new race was shaking the very foundations of divine order.

  "We know the blessings bestowed upon these humans have already yielded great returns," Clotho said softly, her voice threaded with hope. "To grant a blessing is not just power—it is trust, connection. It is our divine responsibility."

  She glided forward, her steps quiet and graceful, and gently placed a hand on Atropos's shoulder—a gesture not of opposition, but of unity, as if to say, 'Let us guide, not just judge.'

  "But are the rewards truly worth the risk?" Lachesis asked, her voice still calm but edged with concern. "We are usually able to calculate the most efficient allocation of our resources within these tutorials. Yet with the humans, even that certainty eludes us. Which tutorial deserves our divine attention?"

  She stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Atropos's other shoulder.

  "Chaos serves none of us," Atropos said, her tone edged with steel. "How many of these 'humans' will reach godhood? The calculations offer no clarity. Can we risk their threads becoming too strong to cut?" With a slow, deliberate motion, she slid her blade back into place—though the threat in her words lingered, sharp as ever.

  Nadu understood the subtext—they weren’t being subtle. The pantheon typically invested their resources in individuals they had calculated to possess the highest potential: granting blessings, sponsoring tutorial events like the 'Guarded Spoils.'

  This gathering wasn’t just about caution. It was a warning—a calculated attempt to discourage other gods, other pantheons, other factions from pouring support into the humans.

  The humans were interfering with the flow of divine resources—and the major pantheons didn’t like it. Smaller gods were starting to receive greater returns than the established powers, and that shift in balance was threatening more than just pride.

  But Nadu believed they had made a strategic misstep by holding these talks so publicly. Instead of discouraging attention, they were sending up flares—drawing the eyes of smaller gods who might have otherwise remained indifferent.

  The hall erupted into a cacophony of voices, dozens of gods speaking over one another in a rising tide of concern and speculation. It was time for Nadu to return. As he rose and gently closed his tome, he felt Atropos’s gaze settle on him—a flicker of sharp awareness. But before their eyes could truly meet, Nadu vanished in a blink, the soft hum of teleportation the only trace he’d ever been there.