Lord Of The Lost

Metatron's God's Perspective was powerful, but not limitless.

Each time he peered into the future, it drained his spiritual energy.

Before he became a Transcendent, he could observe the future over a hundred times in a row. But ironically, after ascending, his ability to look ahead decreased.

Why?

Because with greater power came greater vision and greater complexity.

The future wasn't a simple play-by-play anymore. It was a chaotic, shifting web of endless possibilities.

Every extraordinary person involved in an event added interference, like ripples distorting the surface of a pond.

Their abilities, equipment, and unique characteristics all acted as unpredictable variables.

The more extraordinary beings in a scene, the harder it became to see the outcome.

If the vision included someone at Sequence 7, then Metatron might as well be blind.

This limitation explained why he had no clue what the Sequence 7 Wolf Lord Mott was doing in Border Town.

Werewolves didn't possess fate-hiding abilities; yet Metatron could only conclude a 50% chance of Border Town's destruction.

In other words, there was an equal chance that Mott could massacre the entire town before Helka arrived.

The problem?

God's Perspective was not omniscience.

It was just a lens, one that could simulate future possibilities, but not see everything.

And like any lens, it had blind spots.

High-level beings acted like black holes, distorting and consuming all predictions around them.

It was like trying to steal a dragon's treasure.

Metatron could see the glittering gold, but not the dragons guarding it.

From his vision, the treasure seemed unguarded, but in reality, the moment he stepped forward, the screen would go black, and he wouldn't even know how he died.

The only way to bypass this blindness was to wait for the right moment, when the dragons left their nest.

But even then, what would happen after he took the treasure?

That, too, was beyond his sight.

God's Perspective was not a long-term survival tool, it only offered scattered glimpses of the future.

If a Sequence 7 warrior were lurking nearby, ready to ambush, Metatron wouldn't see it.

The moment he stepped into their range, he'd be dragged into the "black hole"—ripped apart before he even realized what was happening.

And honestly?

If someone that powerful wanted them dead, it wouldn't matter whether they saw it coming or not.

Even some Sequence 8 Transcendents could hide within fate's blind spots.

But the strangest thing?

William, who was only Sequence 9, the same rank as Metatron, was somehow completely hidden within those blind spots.

That… shouldn't be possible.

In the dim glow of candlelight, a beautiful white quill hovered in the air, spilling ink into the void.

The Playwright wrote.

"A group of outsiders has arrived in Changhu Town. Their origins are unknown, their presence an anomaly in this era. As if they have come from another time… or another world."

"No one knows where they came from. As if they had simply emerged from the mist of night."

The ink flowed effortlessly, shaping destiny itself.

"This group consists of four humans… and a strange little girl. Perhaps, even a hidden sixth member."

"Among them is the Master of the True Knower, the Observer Metatron, Alex the Miracle Assassin, and the reformed Gambler."

"The fifth, the little girl, carries both the ferocity of a werewolf and the mystery of a witch. Like an illegitimate daughter of the moon itself."

"Each of them possesses extraordinary talents, their power nearly complete. What they lack… is time. And for some reason, their time is running out."

"Desperate to escape this fate, they seek a shortcut."

"And so, they have come to Long Lake Town."

"Their eyes are set on the Scarlet Troupe, lurking in the open for all to see."

"Though their time here has been short, they have already gathered a wealth of information, much of it from a traitor who joined the troupe days ago. They have set their plans in motion, agreeing to act the moment Dragon Slaying concludes."

"And their true goal… is the [Anchoring Pen] in the hands of the Playwright."

The quill paused, ink dripping into the void like spilled fate.

Then, with a final flourish—

"The next act begins, with the Playwright taking full control of the script."

"A grand stage unfolds."

"Eras collide, sparking brilliance."

"Life and death intertwine in a fateful dance."

"Who will emerge from this battlefield… and step into the boundless future?"

A smile curled on the Playwright's lips.

She already knew the answer.

Or so she thought.

The Playwright paused, her quill hovering over the glowing script suspended in the void.

For a moment, she remained still, then turned her gaze toward the bed shrouded in shadows.

The figure beneath the covers breathed in deep, steady rhythms, lost in an eternal slumber.

A fanatic's fire flickered in the Playwright's eyes.

"Captain… I've long forgotten how many days it's been. Ten? A hundred? A thousand? A century? I don't even know if you will ever wake again..."

"But it doesn't matter. No matter what happens, the Scarlet Troupe will fulfill your will. That is why we exist!"

She exhaled slowly, a shiver of excitement running through her.

"The play Dragon Slaying is about to reach its final act. Even though those outsiders have disrupted the script, it makes no difference. Because I… have already written the ending."

"Casualties? Insignificant. Any troupe member who dies can be replaced—including me. Just as God's followers ascend to His kingdom, we, too, are ready for the stage beyond death."

Her voice deepened, her conviction unshakable.

"In the name of God, I will show them the true meaning of fate. Fate is unstoppable. Fate belongs to the Scarlet Troupe!"

Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the quill.

"No one—no one—will take away God's gift!"

Then, as if speaking to the unseen, she whispered,

"Captain, I hope you are watching. Enjoy the performance… for tonight, the Scarlet Theater shall bring every tragedy in the world to life!"

She took a deep, reverent bow toward the silent figure on the bed, her posture one of absolute devotion.

Behind her, the candlelight flickered, shadows stretching and warping—until her own silhouette merged seamlessly with the abyss beyond.

She stood there, unmoving, like a lifeless marionette hanging on invisible strings.

The next day.

The Scarlet Theater's fifth act took the stage in Long Lake Town.

The dwarves, entranced by the grand performance, couldn't get enough.

But as the final scene concluded and the audience filtered out, the once-lively theater became eerily silent.

The lights dimmed. The warmth of the crowd faded.

Only the cold emptiness remained.

In the shroud of darkness, the Forum Master and his team crept in.

Their invisibility cloaks rendered them nearly imperceptible as they moved through the deserted theater.

Everything was going according to plan.

Until—

Huh!

A beam of light suddenly flared to life on the massive stage.

A strange, haunting melody drifted through the air.

The intruders froze.

Their eyes darted toward the stage.

And there, standing at its center, was a woman with cropped hair, her posture rigid, her presence radiating authority.

She exuded the cold confidence of a seasoned commander.

And she was waiting for them.

"The script is ready."

Her sharp voice cut through the stillness.

"The actors are in place."

The Playwright, her expression cold and unreadable, spread her arms wide.

"Welcome, everyone… to the Scarlet Theater's grand stage!"

A chill ran down their spines.

As the spotlight expanded, dim silhouettes emerged from the shadows behind her.

Figures stood tall, some hulking, some slender, all exuding an unmistakable killing intent.

Weapons glistened in the half-light, already trained on them.

Though the intruders wore invisibility cloaks, the theater's "lighting engineer" had already accounted for that—their shadows were now clearly visible on the stage floor.

The Forum Master's face twitched.

Something was wrong.

According to their original plan, they should have used the cover of darkness to eliminate key troupe members, including the "sound effects engineer."

That attack would have forced the Playwright to summon the Anchoring Pen—giving them the perfect opportunity to strike.

Even if they lost people along the way, their night raid strategy would have ensured victory.

That was the future Metatron had seen.

The only future that led to success.

But now?

The future and the present no longer matched.

Something had changed.

And for the first time, they were no longer in control of the script.

They had walked straight into a carefully laid trap.

The Scarlet Troupe had been waiting for them.

Metatron's instincts screamed danger. He quickly tapped his forehead, activating God's Perspective, but the moment he did, a deep sense of horror set in.

His vision went black.

No glimpses of the future. No warnings. Nothing but an endless void.

At the same time, the melody from the shadows grew richer, more intoxicating, wrapping around them like an invisible cage.

Then—

A voice cut through the air, clear and theatrical.

The "Announcer" stepped forward, arms wide in a grand gesture.

"Next, dear audience, please enjoy tonight's special performance, Short-lived Destruction!"

The "Sound Engineer" played the music, and the "Singer" joined in.

The entire Scarlet Troupe was singing in unison.

It wasn't just a performance, it was a spell.

The melodies coiled through the air like a magical net, tightening around their very souls.

They were caught.

No escape.

Metatron lowered his hand from his forehead, his face darkening.

He turned to the Playwright, voice cold.

"How did you know?"

The Playwright's lips curled into a sneer.

"Beginner."

"You still don't understand, do you? Your future was already overwritten by one from a higher dimension."

Her eyes gleamed with amusement.

"You helped me more than you realize. I've been watching you, observing every future you tried to deduce. And now, I know every single one of your weaknesses."