The warm rays of a small, yellow sun were the first light Ebon Dirge saw as his consciousness emerged from the darkness of the void he had been consigned to. The laws binding reality were weak here, but they were nevertheless complete, unlike those in the Crevice. Taken together with the faint aura of magical essence, it was easy enough to ascertain what kind of place he had arrived at: a Mortal Realm.

Exactly as he had hoped.

The outcome had all but been preordained when he entered the turbulent chaos between realms from the Crevice. The calculations had all greatly favored it. Nevertheless, there had been a chance that he would fall into the Immortal Realms instead, something that would have required more sacrifice and time to fix.

As a Paragon, death was a momentary interruption rather than cessation. The gamble had come not in Dirge's survival but in where he would emerge afterward. The imprisonment in the Lighteater Abyssal Crevice, the momentary shattering of space that had unleashed a void that devoured him, each of these were planned steps rather than happenstance.

That did not erase the undeniable truth, though. He had fled across the boundaries of space to a weak backwater in pursuit of what any who knew would call an insane gamble. Of course, being called a madman would be far from the worst of the titles he had accrued across the millennia.

The seed of a plan had been planted when Dirge discovered a single loose jade slip among the vast library he had collected across eons. Yellowed and not very well kept, it was easy enough to overlook, but delving into the esoteric was one of the few pursuits that still brought him some measure of satisfaction, and so he had scanned it and discovered something monumental.

The contents might not have impressed many, for all the slip contained was a forgotten technique grandiosely titled the Eye of Heaven's Fortune. Its purpose was to scry the souls of others and see there how strongly their destiny burned.

Experts from the mortal to the divine all acknowledged the role of fate and destiny in their advancement, but few bothered to dwell on the matter. Those who reached the higher layers of power would learn methods that touched on the most simple manipulations of time and causality, petty tricks that amounted to little in the cataclysmic struggles between immortals and divines. Choosing a path linked to such abilities was never fruitful, for grand laws such as those of time and space were simply too large and complex for a single expert to shoulder.

Had Dirge encountered the technique a couple eons earlier, he too might have discarded it as a parlor trick of little value. It was only after his initial clash with the artifice of the true masters of the cosmos that his mind had been set on finding something more unconventional and useful to continue his fight.

What kind of power existed above the level of those who had mastered a cosmic law? Such a question was pointless so long as one believed that the Paragons and God Emperors stood at the absolute pinnacle of cultivation. Still, to one who had pulled back the curtain it became an all too salient quandary.

The gathering of scattered old thoughts gave way to new observations as Dirge's mind cleared and his situation became all the more apparent. As he expected, the trip through chaos had thoroughly annihilated his body. He was naught but a shade, an invisible projection of will. He reached forth, seeking to draw in enough essence to coalesce into a corporeal shell, but accomplished nothing but the calling of a breeze that tried and failed to outline the form of a man.

Discarding external stimuli for the moment, the Paragon of Sin looked inward and confirmed that the black book that represented his ultimate achievement in mastering a law remained inside his sea of consciousness. The leather cover was stiff, and it resisted opening at his mental touch, but his connection to it was as strong as ever.

It was to be a difficult start, then, but not an impossible one.

With a thought, Dirge's incorporeal form rose above the ground where he had awoken. Wild grasslands extended miles in all directions, the tall overgrowth swaying in gentle breezes. Extending his senses, he could detect settlements and changes in the terrain, but not in extensive detail. A sharp stabbing of pain informed him that this was already the limit of his current capabilities.

Invoking the Eye of Heaven's Fortune, the world around him dimmed, the light of the young sun overhead eclipsed by an invisible lid. The gold and green bled away from the grasses, leaving drab grays and stark shadows. In this new sea of monochrome, a point of light flared and flickered a distance to the north.

Had he the lungs, Dirge might have sighed in relief then. It would have been a fine farce to have gone to all this trouble for the technique to not a result. While he had used it before, the entire environment of the Divine Realms was a hindrance to its effect, blessed as it was there. There, despite his superior vision, he had only been barely able to make out the faintest signals.

A burst of intent propelled the incorporeal devil to the north, following the flare as a beacon. What manner of destiny was this that was full of energy in one instant and all but extinguished in the next?

The answer to that question became all too apparent as Dirge approached the target and relaxed the Eye, wanting to see the circumstances for himself. A skinny youth clad in hempen clothing lay sprawled in the grass near a pond, rivulets of blood trickling from his nose. A mop of unruly mud-colored hair mostly obscured the boy's eyes, but it was clear he had been weeping for some time.

Dirge momentarily activated the Eye to again confirm the target. Superimposed over the boy in that shadowy realm was a flame. Each time the youth moved so as to drag himself to the pond, it would rise higher, but when he gave up, it would then dim.

This change in the flame spurred a line of speculation that had lain dormant in the devil's mind. What was the difference between fate and destiny? For many, it was considered one and the same. Still, the manual for the Eye of Heaven's Fortune had been very particular in referring to the flames of destiny and the threads of fate as separate entities.

Given his nature as the overlord of sin, Dirge was hardly a stranger to philosophical musings, but dredging up memories of texts read and debate had in the distant past offered nothing authoritative. Only one explanation sprung to mind, a flippant quip from an erstwhile companion long since left behind along the road of the eons: destiny was one part opportunity and two parts guts.

It was a pithy bit of drivel from an earthy soul, but a theory could be distilled from it, now that there was confirmation in some form found in this boy. Said another way, destiny was a force that came from the confluence of presented opportunities and the willingness to exploit them. In contrast, fate covered those things that were always meant to be.

The exact details of the mechanism still eluded Dirge, but this wasn't a problem. He had accepted from the beginning that this was a mad scheme, one predicated on having to pave a new path. The Eye only provided the information; it was left to him to devise a way to make use of it.

Looking down at the miserable boy, who had made no progress in the course of all the mental gymnastics going on overhead, the immediate concern was to make a decision on what to do for this current situation. More observation may or may not yield further insight, but sooner or later, hands would need to get dirty and risks would need to be taken.

Setting aside all of the philosophy, Dirge gave his prey a more thorough examination. Looking more closely, he could see that the youth was physically weak, almost frail. The skinny frame, ill-fitting clothes, and unkempt hair produced the impression that he was just entering his teens, but sight piercing through flesh and sinew to the bones revealed he was very likely already an adult by the standards of most mortal cultures.

What kind of destiny could come from a battered wimp like this? And how could it possibly be exploited? These were the questions Dirge pondered even as another minor detail about the boy caught his attention: jammed over a skinny thumb was a bronze ring of simple make, a cheap trinket of little value, scuffed and marred by age and wear as it was.

It was then that a tale came to mind, a story told and retold in a thousand different variations but always fixed in a few specific details.

Dirge exercised his will, and his spectral form obeyed, contorting from the indeterminate shadow of a man into a more specific shape: a man of late middle age, grey-bearded and ostensibly wise and kind. In this form, he reached out and touched the youth's mind, projecting his chosen image and words.

"What's the crying about, boy? Can't you see I'm taking a nap here!?"