Michael's alarm blared at 5:00 a.m., a harsh buzz that yanked him from sleep.
He sat up in his Seventh Street apartment, the neon glow of New Eridu seeping through the cracked window, casting jagged shadows across his sagging mattress.
His dark eyes, still heavy with the remnants of a bizarre dream, darted to the empty coffee table where the tarot card had vanished.
The Wheel of Fortune's symbol—the silver snake-wheel—had burned into his vision last night, only to disappear when he blinked.
Now, the dream had brought answers, and they were stranger than any Hollow rift.
He shuffled to the bathroom, the linoleum cold under his bare feet.
Splashing water on his face, he stared into the mirror, trimming his scruffy beard with a cheap electric razor.
The blade hummed, neatening the edges until he looked less like a drifter and more like a man with a job at the White Star Institute.
"So I really did get a cheat," he thought, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
In New Eridu, where Proxies and Agents wielded Ether like weapons, he'd expected a system, maybe some game-breaking skill from Zenless Zone Zero.
This was something else entirely.
The dream had been vivid, the giant white snake from the void coiling before him, its golden eyes piercing his soul.
Its hiss had carried words that explained what he had stumbled into; they were not spoken, but they were etched in his mind.
Of all the cheats he could've imagined, he'd received Sequence abilities from Lord of the Mysteries—a novel he'd binged on Earth, its pages filled with tarot, pathways, and dealing with evil gods.
He was well aware of the story, which was as popular as any other web novel work, if not the best.
But to live it? That was his least expected twist.
The snake had been clear: he was now a Sequence 4 Misfortune Mage, a high-level Beyonder in the Wheel of Fortune pathway, capable of manipulating luck and calamity.
Not the flashy combat of a Proxy or the raw power of an Ethereal, but subtle, dangerous, like a loaded die in a city that played for keeps.
"That was already more than I could ask for," he thought, brushing his teeth with a worn toothbrush.
A Sequence 4 was no small thing—godlike compared to the average New Eridu grunt.
But the dream had warned him: these powers came with risks; if Destiny is wielded in the wrong way, I can face consequences for it.
Michael spat into the sink and turned to his apartment, still a mess despite last night's efforts.
He grabbed a broom, sweeping ramen wrappers and dust into a pile, and wiping down the counter where pizza grease lingered.
The busted Bangboo in the corner stared blankly, its LED eyes dark. He'd fix it someday, maybe, now that he had a paycheck coming.
For now, he needed to focus—on work, on the powers, on not screwing this up.
He checked his wallet, the leather frayed but heavier with a few pennies from his advance.
At the bottom, tucked under a crumpled receipt, was a single coin—brass, worn, etched with New Eridu's gear-and-star emblem.
It felt heavier than it should, warm against his palm.
"This will be my medium," he thought, a spark of excitement mixing with doubt.
The snake had mentioned rituals, small acts to channel a Misfortune Mage's abilities.
Nothing flashy like a Proxy's Hollow dive, but enough to tilt the scales of luck.
To test it, he dressed in his usual outfit—white shirt, black tie, dark slacks, and suit jacket—and headed to the 141 Convenience Store.
The streets of Seventh Street were quiet at this hour, save for a lone Bangboo sweeping the pavement and the hum of a noodle stall firing up.
Inside the store, the clerk—a bored teen with a cybernetic arm—barely looked up as Michael bought a lottery ticket, a cheap one with a 10,000-Dennie jackpot.
He didn't expect to win, not really, but if the dream was true, if the coin was now something more than metal, he needed to know.
Back home, Michael sat on his couch, the lottery ticket on the coffee table.
He held the coin, its edges biting into his fingers.
Closing his eyes, he didn't divine like a seer might but performed a small ritual, as the snake had instructed—a focus of intent, a nudge to fate.
He whispered no words, only pictured the wheel turning, the snake's coils shifting luck in his favor.
Opening his eyes, he scratched the ticket, revealing numbers he couldn't yet judge.
The winning numbers would be announced tonight on the news.
"Please, don't be a hallucination," he thought, pocketing the ticket.
Hope flickered, fragile but real.
He grabbed his ID chip and headed out, the city waking around him.
The bus to Brant Street was packed with early commuters— W-Engines and office workers scrolling on phones.
Michael's thoughts churned as the city blurred past.
A Misfortune Mage.
If this is real, I could change everything—rent, jobs, maybe even the HIA. But doubt crept in.
What if it's a trick? LotM powers aren't free. There's always a price.
The White Star Institute loomed on Brant Street, its concrete facade stark against the morning haze.
Michael stepped off the bus, adjusting his tie.
First day. Don't blow it.
The lobby was as sterile as before, its holographic Hollow Rift display cycling data.
A Bangboo escorted him to the third floor, where Dr. Lin waited in a conference room, her lab coat crisp and her tablet glowing.
"Mr. Varen," she said, gesturing to a seat.
"Welcome to the data analysis team. You'll start with rift metrics—cross-referencing Ether fluctuations from recent Hollow sightings."
She slid a data slate across the table, its screen dense with graphs.
"It's grunt work, but critical. Questions?"
Michael shook his head, his mind half on the coin in his pocket.
"I'm ready," he said, forcing focus.
This job's my anchor. Powers or not, I need it.
The morning passed in a blur of numbers and jargon—Ether spikes, rift stability, anomaly thresholds.
His team, a mix of nerdy researchers and ground operators, was quiet but professional, tossing him tips when he fumbled the slate's interface.
He caught names—Lia, a tech whiz with pink hair; Marcus, a former agent with a scarred arm—but kept to himself, his thoughts drifting to the lottery ticket.
If I win, it's proof. If not… maybe I'm just crazy.
Lunch was a quick synth-noodle bowl in the cafeteria, where chatter about Hollow raids and Proxy rankings filled the air.
Michael ate alone, his fingers brushing the coin. A Misfortune Mage manipulates luck, right?
So why do I feel like the unlucky one?
The dream's promise starts to feel like a sham, like a hollow rift ready to swallow him.
He remembered LotM's warnings—Beyonders could lose control, their powers twisting them into something inhuman.
"Not me,"
He thought, gripping the coin tightly.
The afternoon dragged, more data crunching under fluorescent lights.
Dr. Lin checked in, her sharp eyes noting his progress.
"Not bad for a first day," she said, a rare hint of approval. Michael nodded, exhaustion creeping in.
If I can keep this up, maybe I'll climb higher.
Maybe the coin's just the start.
As he left the Institute, the setting sun painted Brant Street in crimson, and a news drone overhead blared about a new Hollow sighting.
Michael's thoughts turned to the lottery numbers, to the snake's golden eyes, and to the wheel that had marked him.
He boarded the bus back to Seventh Street, the coin warm in his pocket.
Tonight, he'd watch the news, check the ticket, and face the truth.
***
Michael trudged up the stairs to his Seventh Street apartment, the weight of a long day at the White Star Institute settling into his bones.
His first day had gone well—better than he'd dared hope.
Dr. Lin hadn't chewed him out, his data analysis was solid, and Lia, the pink-haired tech whiz, had even tossed him a grudging "Nice work" over lunch.
'I might actually pull this off,' he thought, a flicker of pride warming him.
For once, he could see the light in his life, a crack in New Eridu's relentless pressure.
He unlocked his apartment, the door creaking as he stepped into the familiar mess—ramen wrappers, a busted Bangboo in the corner, and the faint smell of last night's pizza.
His black tie was loosened, his suit jacket slung over a chair, and his trimmed beard itched slightly from the day's sweat.
Dropping onto the couch, he grabbed the remote and flicked on the TV, the screen flickering to life with the evening news.
The lottery announcement was due, and the scratched ticket from the coin-making ritual sat on the coffee table, its numbers a quiet hope.
Michael's fingers brushed the brass coin in his pocket, warm and heavy.
He had been promised power by the white snake in his dream—a Sequence 4 Misfortune Mage from Lord of the Mysteries who could turn the tables on his luck.
He'd tested it that morning, using the coin as a medium in a small ritual before scratching the ticket.
If this works, it's real, he thought, his rational side tempering his excitement.
He wasn't some starry-eyed kid expecting a cheat code to fix everything.
New Eridu didn't hand out wins, and LotM's powers always came with strings—madness, corruption, or worse.
But 10,000 Dennies could mean a new Bangboo, a month's rent, maybe even a shot at something bigger.
The news anchor's voice cut through his thoughts.
"And now, the New Eridu Lottery results for tonight's 10,000-Dennie jackpot."
Michael leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on the screen as the numbers flashed: 7-14-23-28-36.
His heart skipped. Grabbing the ticket, he checked each digit, then again.
They matched. Every single one.
"No way," he breathed, a grin breaking across his face.
He double-checked, half-expecting a glitch, but the numbers held. With this, it was confirmed—he truly had the ability to manipulate luck.
The coin, the ritual, the snake's promise—it was real.
Excitement surged, and he leapt to his feet, grabbing his wallet. I'm not dreaming. This is mine.
The 141 Convenience Store was still open, and he needed to collect his winnings before New Eridu threw another curveball.
He jogged down Seventh Street, the neon signs buzzing overhead, his loafers clicking on the pavement.
The city was alive—vendors hawking synth-tacos, W-Engine, and a Bangboo waddling with a delivery.
Michael's mind raced, but he kept it grounded. 10,000 Dennies isn't a fortune.
Pay some bills, save the rest. Don't get cocky.
The snake's golden eyes lingered in his memory, a reminder that luck could turn as easily as it came.
Misfortune Mages didn't just win—they could lose, spectacularly.
At the 141 Convenience Store, the same bored clerk scanned his ticket, the machine beeping in confirmation.
"Lucky guy," the teen muttered, handing over a chip loaded with 10,000 Dennies.
Michael pocketed it, his grin unshakable.
First the job, now this.
Maybe I'm finally playing the game right.
He stepped outside, the night air cool, ready to head home and plan his next move.
Then, screams pierced the quiet. Michael froze, his hand on the chip.
The sound came from a nearby alley, sharp and desperate, followed by a sickening silence.
His stomach twisted, but curiosity—and a nagging sense of responsibility—pulled him forward.
Probably just a street fight. Don't be stupid, he thought, but his feet moved anyway.
Gulping down his nerves, he crept toward the alley, the neon glow fading into shadow.
What he saw stopped him cold. Five bodies lay sprawled across the pavement, blood pooling beneath them, their wounds jagged and deep—knives, maybe, or something worse.
Their eyes stared blankly, faces frozen in terror.
Michael's breath hitched, sweat beading on his brow.
This isn't a Hollow attack. This is murder.
His rational mind scrambled for context.
New Eridu had its share of crime—proxy gangs, Null_Face operatives—but this was brutal, even for the city's underbelly.
How does this happen on Seventh Street?
Before he could back away, alarms blared, red and blue lights flooding the alley.
Boots hit the pavement, and a sharp voice barked, "Hands up! On your knees!"
Michael's heart sank as New Eridu Public Security swarmed the area, their Ether-charged batons glowing.
"I knew it; insane luck was a trap!"