Inside a hidden laboratory deep within Ishgar, a row of massive water tanks lined the dimly lit chamber. Each one held a floating figure suspended in thick, translucent fluid—half-formed, incomplete, and waiting.
The hum of machinery filled the air, the steady beep of monitors echoing throughout the sterile room. A group of scientists stood before the tanks, their faces cold, detached, observing their creations like mere test subjects rather than human beings.
A man in a pristine white lab coat stood at the forefront, his sharp gaze scanning the data displayed on a glowing terminal. His expression twisted with impatience.
"This cloning process is still too slow." His voice cut through the silence like a scalpel.
One of the scientists hesitated before stepping forward, voice laced with caution. "But sir, we've already accelerated the growth rate. We can now take a clone from infancy to children in just three months."
A flicker of hope—quickly crushed.
The lead scientist turned sharply, eyes narrowing as he fixed his subordinate with a piercing glare. The scientist instantly shut his mouth, his confidence evaporating under the weight of his superior's unspoken fury.
"And that's still three months wasted!" The lead scientist's voice rose, his irritation bubbling to the surface. "Three months that could have been spent perfecting the Superhuman Project! Three months wasted on multiple, disposable clones!"
His hands clenched into fists, veins subtly visible against pale skin.
"This world is different. Unique. We have magic—a force that defies reason, that allows us to bend the very fabric of life itself! And yet we're still shackled by mundane limitations? We should be surpassing the laws of nature, not crawling after them like primitive fools!"
The room remained silent. None dared to speak.
The lead scientist exhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain composure. A moment later, his voice dropped back to an icy calm.
"Increase the growth rate. I don't care how you do it—adjust the magical infusion, rework the cellular structure, sacrifice a dozen more prototypes if you must. I want a fully-grown adult clone in half a year. No exceptions."
His gaze turned toward the tanks once more, as if already envisioning the next phase of his grand design.
"Once we reach that milestone, we move to the next stage. We begin cloning the Devil Hunter."
A chilling silence followed.
Then—
"Yes, sir!" The scientists responded in unison, a mixture of fear and unwavering obedience in their voices.
Without another word, the lead scientist turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his white lab coat billowing behind him like the flutter of a vulture's wings.
The moment the doors slid shut behind him, the others finally allowed themselves to breathe.
In a vast, desolate land blanketed by snow, a lone figure trudged forward, his heavy boots sinking into the ice with each slow, deliberate step. The howling blizzard raged around him, whipping against his tattered cloak as the relentless cold bit into his skin. His somewhat long white hair danced wildly in the wind, strands freezing at the tips as the temperature dropped even further.
"Damn it, Fate! How the hell did we end up in a place like this?!"
A feminine voice, laced with frustration, echoed from beneath his cloak, making his left eye twitch in annoyance.
"How should I know?" He exhaled sharply, the cold turning his breath into mist. "Unless I deliberately choose a world I've already been to, it's randomized."
His gaze drifted downward toward his cloak—or rather, toward the stubborn woman clinging to him underneath it.
"And why are you even out here!?"
Morgan, her usual grace lost to sheer exhaustion, was latched onto his chest like a desperate survivor clinging to driftwood in a storm. Her arms wrapped tightly around his torso, her legs locked around his waist to keep from falling into the thick snow beneath them.
"Like I'm going to let you suffer in the cold alone!" She declared, confidence unwavering despite the glaring contradiction of her actions.
Fate sighed. They were both completely drained. Neither of them had a shred of magic energy left, their reserves completely depleted after the last battle. Normally, Morgan could float effortlessly or craft a protective barrier against the cold with her Magecraft. But here, in this desolate land, there was nothing.
Even more concerning—this world didn't seem to have magic energy in the air. Unlike the previous worlds they had traveled to, where they could passively absorb mana to recover, this place was barren. Magic did not exist here.
That realization weighed heavily on Fate's shoulders, along with the woman clinging to him.
Morgan pressed herself closer, seeking whatever warmth his body could provide. Her icy breath tickled his collarbone, and the faintest tremor ran through her body as she tried to suppress a shiver.
Fate groaned. "Well, thanks a lot. It's really warm with your freezing breath seeping into my chest."
His sarcastic remark earned an eye roll from the woman nestled against him, but despite herself, the corners of her lips twitched upward—just slightly.
Because there was no malice in his words.
"Hey, could you just make a skill that protects us from the cold?"
Morgan's voice broke the silence, her tone half-lazy, half-expectant.
Fate came to an abrupt stop, snow crunching beneath his boots.
"Why didn't I think of that?" He muttered to himself, quickly pulling up his status screen. His gaze flickered over his 284,707 SP and 28 unused Points.
Morgan chuckled, amusement dancing in her eyes as she rested her head against his chest.
For all his overwhelming power—for all his potential to be the most powerful being in existence—Fate still thought too much like a human. Even with his ability to rewrite reality at will, his first instinct was always to endure rather than to fix.
She found it endearing.
But at the same time... it was a problem.
The time he had spent with those Titans had brought back his human side. Unlike the cold, detached machine he had once been—mercilessly hunting down Phantasmal Beasts and supernatural entities without hesitation—he was acting more like himself again.
And that worried her.
Because she was responsible for pushing him into that emotionless state in the first place.
She had tampered with the system. Manipulated the screen. Tossed around his memories.
She had made him forget things.
Morgan's smile faltered for a moment, a shadow flickering across her face as the weight of her actions pressed down on her.
But Fate didn't seem to notice.
Trust: 28%
Loyalty: 9%
Love: 27%
Affection: Dom 96%
Mental: 69%
Now that she knew she was compatible with him—as long as she didn't do anything stupid enough to make him hate her—her chances were almost guaranteed.
She finally had a better grasp on how this ridiculous love system worked.
[Trust]
Simple enough—it measured how much he actually trusted her. At the very least, he had finally pushed past the roadblock of 25% that had frustrated her before. Progress.
[Loyalty]
As the name suggested, it reflected how loyal he was to her. And judging by the abysmal percentage, it was clear that he wasn't particularly loyal to her at all. Yet.
[Love]
This one… gave her pause.
For a while, she had believed that he loved her. But when she realized the sudden shift in numbers, what he felt for her wasn't love but sympathy.
Sympathy for her Alter self.
That thought left a bitter taste in her mouth, as she is determined to make him truly love her.
[Affection]
…Yeah, she didn't even need a percentage to tell her what this one meant. She doesn't need the data, she really confirmed it herself, becoming his plaything in bed.
That wasn't necessarily a bad thing—
—she thinks...
[Mental]
This one was… complicated.
It measured the stability of their relationship. How strong their bond was, how fragile it could become.
She understood the logic. If one partner was too mentally unstable, the entire relationship could crumble under the pressure.
…Unless, of course, both of them were equally mentally unstable—in which case, they might somehow make it work out of sheer dysfunction.
That was probably where they stood.
A relationship built on mutual entrapment.
A twisted bond where they were both prisoners in one way or another.
And yet…
Despite all of this, she didn't want to lose him.
She needed to stabilize her position before it was too late.
Because if she didn't, she might have to stand by and watch the only man who didn't hate the real her…
…fall for someone else.
That thought alone made her stomach twist.
Then—
A new realization hit her.
'Wait… a prisoner falling for their captor…'
'Isn't that just some insane justification made by mentally ill people?'
Morgan frowned.
She had never heard of Stockholm syndrome before.
But if she had, she probably would have had a lot more to think about.
'Hmm… Well, I suppose I should be grateful to my Alter self for showing me this possibility—and for giving me a new goal to work toward.'
Morgan mused, though she did note the significant drop in Fate's mental stability after everything that had happened.
Before she could dwell on it further, she suddenly felt a shift—his body heat rose, and the cold that had been biting at her skin faded away.
She didn't even have to ask. She already knew Fate had done something.
[Vector Manipulation] – 5,000,000 SP
Fate stared at the cost with a look of pure despair.
Five million SP.
For what was probably one of the most broken abilities he could ever get his hands on.
If only he could afford it.
Even [Black Friday], his go-to discount ability, had its limits. It could only be used once per day, and the max discount it could apply was 1,000,000 SP.
'Goddamn it…'
In the end, he settled for something more practical.
[Thermoregulation] – 21,000 SP
A relatively cheap skill, but useful. It allowed him to manipulate his body temperature at will.
Now, carrying Morgan through the howling blizzard, he barely even noticed the cold anymore.
Still, a nagging thought lingered in his mind.
Most of his powerful abilities either:
Unlocked through hidden conditions, Came from his overuse of Class Cards, Or were the result of stacking skills in weird, lucky combinations.
But he hadn't been able to create a truly broken ability without some kind of drawback.
Take [Restoration], for example. Originally, it had cost 1,500,000 SP.
To make it more affordable, he added a drawback—it couldn't be used on himself.
That reduced the cost to 1,260,000 SP—still expensive.
Then, he stacked it with [Black Friday], cutting it further to 260,000 SP.
Still a ridiculous amount, but at least it was manageable.
'Damn it! I really wish this system would go back to the good old days when 10,000 SP was enough to make any skill or talent I wanted.'
Fate sighed as he continued walking—but then, something clicked.
He stopped.
"Wait a minute!"
He hurriedly opened his system, fingers typing as he searched for the first skill he ever created—
Word for word.
The original [Self Deception], not the evolved version that had grown alongside him.
[Self Deception] – 37,000 SP
…Wait.
It used to cost 10,000 SP.
'Does this mean… the first talents I created—no matter how ridiculous—will still only cost 10,000 SP?!'
A realization hit him like a truck.
Like a gacha player who had missed out on an important login event, Fate fell to his knees.
His left fist slammed into the ground, violently.
Morgan, lying against the cloak that shielded her from the snow, blinked in confusion.
"…You okay?" she asked.
Before Fate could answer, the ground rumbled slightly.
For a moment, she thought they were under attack.
Then, as quickly as it came, the shaking stopped—and the only sound that remained was the howling wind of the storm.
"...Yeah," he muttered, standing back up and dusting off his cloak.
"Just annoyed at my own stupidity."
Morgan snorted.
"Congratulations. Now you understand my pain."
She smirked, finding way too much enjoyment in teasing him.
Fate grumbled.
"Fuck you."
Morgan's smirk widened.
"You already did that."
Fate opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Because, unfortunately—
She wasn't wrong.
'Goddamn it.'
With an exasperated sigh, he resumed walking—
Then suddenly, he froze.
He felt it.
The air above them shifted.
The wind was no longer just blowing snow in all directions.
It was moving against the storm—
Something was coming.
Using [Mind Rope], Fate's senses expanded beyond his physical sight, allowing him to detect a large humanoid figure circling above. The being had massive wings and had already flown past them once before turning back.
His grip on Morgan instinctively tightened.
Both of them were completely drained of Magic Energy, and to make matters worse, this world had barely any ambient mana to help them recover.
An unknown entity was circling them—
And two Magus with no mana were as good as a knight without armor.
Or an archer without a bow.
"Something's coming," he whispered.
Morgan stiffened but remained quiet, understanding the gravity of their situation.
Without hesitation, Fate called forth his Devil Arm, Nehala, splitting it into its dual scythe form. His body moved on instinct, swiftly pivoting on his heel as he raised one of the scythes toward the incoming figure.
Then—
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hey, calm down! I mean no harm," a voice called out.
It was deep, calm, and carried the weight of someone in their forties, maybe fifties.
Fate's icy blue eyes narrowed as the figure descended, landing a few feet away with his hands raised—a universal gesture of non-aggression.
Now that he got a good look at the man—
His breath hitched.
The stranger was a middle-aged man with blonde hair, dressed in a dark green yukata with gold trim. A pair of large black wings rested behind him, and he wore a green and white hat atop his head.
Fate froze.
'Philza Minecraft?!'
He almost said it out loud.
But no, that was impossible.
And yet—
[Philza].
That was his name.
Fate lowered his scythes slightly, but his guard remained up.
Morgan, for her part, just blinked in mild confusion at his reaction.
Sometime Later
Despite his confusion, Fate accepted Philza's offer to take them back to his house—if only because standing half-naked in a freezing blizzard wasn't an ideal survival strategy.
The whole situation was bizarre.
Philza, from his memories, was a YouTuber—a guy who played Minecraft and was often dubbed the "Internet Dad."
But in this world, Philza's avatar was real.
The house they arrived at was a cozy wooden cabin, surrounded by a fence gate.
Philza pushed the door open, stepping inside before calling out—
"I'm home!"
A moment later, a teenager stepped out from another room.
He had long pink hair, light pinkish skin, and wore a simple white shirt with black pants.
"Hello," the teen greeted Philza casually.
The moment Fate saw him, an intense headache crashed into his skull.
His body stiffened as fragmented memories stirred within his mind—
But he pushed the feeling aside. Not now.
Instead, he focused on getting Morgan off him.
With a tired sigh, Morgan finally let go, her limbs unwrapping from his body. Fate shrugged off his cloak and handed it to her so she could cover herself.
Their clothes were still tattered from their last world, leaving them both shirtless.
Yeah, he might not like her very much but he also didn't hate her to let her stood shirtless without something to cover herself.
As she wrapped the cloak around herself, Philza clapped his hands together.
"Right! Introductions."
He gestured between them.
"This is Fate and Morgan. And this—" He turned to the pink-haired teen. "—is my son, Techno."
Fate's eye twitched.
'Techno.'
As in—
'Technoblade?!'
Something about seeing him as a teenager felt wrong—like there was some gap in his memory that he couldn't quite bridge.
Before he could process it further—
"Phil," Techno spoke, deadpan, "you can't just pick up random orphans."
Fate's eye twitched again.
Because for some reason—
That felt way too familiar.
Like some inside joke from a life he couldn't fully remember.
Philza just chuckled.
After a bit more conversation, Techno handed them some spare clothes—since, at the moment, neither Fate nor Morgan had enough magic energy to project their own.
Fate, being roughly the same size as Techno, had no complaints.
Morgan, however—
"Don't you have anything a bit smaller?" she grumbled, adjusting the oversized pink sweater that drowned her petite frame.
Fate, already dressed, smirked.
"Don't mind her. Women are unpredictable creatures."
Techno, without missing a beat—
"Agreed."
Morgan's eye twitched.
"Oi."
Philza led them around the house, casually pointing out different rooms and areas. He spoke with an easy warmth, like a father proudly showing his home to new family members.
Fate followed along, his mind oddly unsettled.
'Why is he doing this? Out of pity?'
The thought struck him suddenly, and he frowned.
'Wait... why did I immediately assume that?'
The question lingered in his mind, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Was it because his perception of humans was shifting as he unlocked more of his demonic bloodline?
His icy blue eyes flicked to Philza, watching as the man happily showed Morgan around—
Like a father introducing his daughter to their new home.
Fate narrowed his eyes.
'…Wait. Did we just get secretly adopted by Philza Minecraft?'
No, that couldn't be right. He shook his head.
'He's probably just tired of dealing with boys all day. Yeah, that's it.'
His [Self-Deception] kicked in, reinforcing the idea in his head as he convinced himself once more.
Still, the thought lingered.
As they walked through the house, Fate's ears caught the sharp sound of steel cutting through air.
He turned his head.
His eyes locked onto the training room, where Techno was inside—practicing.
His sword sliced through the air with precise, controlled movements, each swing calculated, each strike deliberate.
Fate's grip on Nehala tightened slightly.
'Practicing, huh… I wonder if I can learn something from him?'
His feet carried him forward before he even fully processed the thought.
He stepped into the room, gaze locked on Techno.
"Yo," Fate called out.
Techno paused, lowering his sword slightly before looking over his shoulder.
"Wanna spar?" Fate asked, already pulling out two metal training swords from the nearby weapon rack with a grin.
Techno turned fully toward him, raising a brow.
"Oh? Aren't you afraid of being stabbed?" he asked, raising his blade as he effortlessly settled into a stance.
Fate smirked, rolling one of the swords between his fingers before gripping it firmly.
"Don't worry, I've been jabbed and impaled more times than I can count," he said casually.
Techno blinked.
Then, his smirk widened.
'Oh, this is gonna be fun.'
The two charged at each other, and their blades met in a violent clash.
Their strikes came fast—blades blurring as they slashed, blocked, and countered in a relentless exchange.
Techno was a master of technique, his movements honed through countless battles and duels. Every attack was precise, every parry calculated.
Fate, on the other hand, fought with raw instinct.
His style was unorthodox, unpredictable—one moment wild, the next frighteningly controlled. He fought like someone who had lived and breathed battle for years, adapting to any situation on the fly.
Despite their different approaches, neither backed down.
Blood splattered onto the floor as their cuts and slashes accumulated, but neither of them cared.
They just kept going.
"Your swordsmanship is lacking," Techno taunted as he broke through Fate's defense, his blade cutting into Fate's side.
Fate grunted but immediately countered, elbowing Techno across the head with enough force to make him roll across the floor.
Techno recovered swiftly, flipping back onto his feet, his smirk growing.
Fate wiped a bit of blood from his mouth and chuckled.
"I'm more of a freestyler than a swordsman," he admitted.
Techno's eyes flicked to Fate's side—
Where his wound was already healing.
His smirk widened.
One relied on skill and experience.
The other relied on instinct and monstrous regeneration.
This was getting interesting.
The fight escalated.
Fate's blade pierced Techno's shoulder—
Techno's sword stabbed straight through Fate's chest.
Both warriors froze, gasping for air, their weapons embedded in each other.
The room was painted red, yet neither of them flinched.
Instead—
A moment of silence.
Then—
"HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
They burst into laughter, collapsing onto the ground, still grinning like maniacs.
Techno laid there, a sword still stuck in his shoulder, staring up at the ceiling with a satisfied sigh.
Fate, still impaled, sat up with a blade going through his guts.
Techno chuckled.
"For once… I actually have a sparring partner I don't have to hold back against," he admitted, rolling his shoulder.
Fate smirked.
"And I get to spar with my idol—though you haven't become The Blade yet."
Techno raised a brow.
"The what now?"
"Nothing," Fate waved it off.
Techno just hummed before reaching for the First Aid kit.
But before he could do anything, Fate placed a hand on his shoulder, activating [Restoration].
Techno's eyes widened as the wounds vanished instantly, leaving no scars.
He moved his arm, testing it.
"Wow," he muttered. "Neat."
Then, he glanced at Fate—just in time to see him casually pull out a metal sword from his own chest as if it were nothing.
Techno raised a brow.
"Does that hurt?"
"Yeah," Fate replied nonchalantly, tossing the bloodied sword aside. "But I'm used to it."
Techno blinked.
Then—
Fate grabbed a spear, twirling it in his hands before leveling it at Techno.
"Alright then," he grinned. "Ready for round two, or are you chickening out?"
Techno's smirk returned instantly.
"Oh, you're on."
The two got back into their stances.
A beat of silence.
Then, they charged at each other again, their weapons clashing, their laughter echoing through the house.
Hours passed.
Philza, deciding to check on them, opened the door to the training room.
And froze.
His heart nearly stopped.
The room was painted red with blood.
Techno lay on the floor with a spear impaled through his gut.
Fate was literally pinned to the wall, a blade stuck through his chest.
Philza dropped his mug.
"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?!"