However, thanks to the rare luck that ordinary people seldom have, John and his wife, Jane, survived the first wave of the siege. They managed to evade the threat that was destroying them.
But this was not the end of the story. Lance, along with the Hand, had disrupted the old company where John worked. Their plan for elimination might be delayed, but in the end, the Smith family would remain trapped in panic and chaos, disappearing in a hail of bullets.
This world was not their origin—neither home, just a wrong turn of a stopover. This was supposed to be the end of Schrödinger's paradox—the moment when possibilities cease to hang in the air, and reality finally chooses its form.
Yet the future of humanity... remains fluid, continuously changing shape according to the choices they make. Even the Sorcerer Supreme, the guardian of time's balance, could not fully penetrate the fog of fate.
And Lance—with all his power—could only glimpse a fraction of the possibilities. Fragments of the future that offered him no certainty, only shadows.
What truly caught Lance's attention was when he began to ponder, observing the possibilities that existed. Something very intriguing suddenly emerged in Lance's mind, making him even more curious.
After a moment of silence, John finally spoke up. "So, how can I get through this crisis?" John's voice sounded full of disbelief, yet there was something in that tone that indicated deep doubt.
John did not quite believe in prophecies like this, but every time he heard Lance's words, he felt an inexplicable threat, like a dark shadow always lurking behind Lance's words.
Did this mean John had to pay with his life? That question swirled in John's mind, making him anxious even as he tried to hide it.
Lance looked at John with a sharp gaze, then slightly raised his chin, a small movement that indicated confidence. "Do you have something valuable?" Lance asked, his voice low and meaningful.
John paused for a moment, considering whether the answer was worth giving. Finally, John nodded and reached for something from his lower back. With a slow motion, John placed a short sword on the table. "This is an antique I found in an antique shop while I was traveling in Asia. It is said to be a relic from a Somali pirate from the 17th century. I've used it as a talisman for years. What do you think it's worth?"
Lance stared at the sword intently. The strange patterns adorning the blade seemed like hidden artwork. After a few seconds, Lance nodded, a thin smile on his face that conveyed satisfaction. "This kid can be taught," Lance said in a low voice, with a tone that was hard to decipher, but seemed full of acknowledgment.
...
...
...
This is a Malay dagger. Its official name: Keris. A personal weapon of ancient Malay warriors. In modern times, the Keris is more often displayed in living rooms than on battlefields—as a collection, decoration, or ceremonial object among Southeast Asian ethnic groups. It is regarded as a talisman, heirloom, and symbol. The Keris was first known in the land of Java in Indonesia, then spread throughout Southeast Asia, like an old tale that never truly ends.
Its hilt is curved without a guard. The blade twists like a snake ready to strike. At a glance, its shape resembles The Golden Snake Sword, only shorter—about thirty centimeters—just slightly longer than an ordinary dagger. But the blade? Extremely sharp. Designed not for show, but for quick, lethal thrusts at very close range.
If it were just an ancient dagger, Lance wouldn't be interested. A museum collection? An auction table? Not Lance's concern.
But this is not an ordinary dagger.
Lance can feel it. The breath of life.
Unlike the aura of ordinary magic. More elusive, more dense. Like warm white light, but not light. Something alive. Something that burns slowly within the metal.
Lance caresses the blade slowly. The tips of his fingers seem to touch a faint pulse of heat throbbing within the metal.
Vitality… roasted in fire?
Phoenix fire?
"This Malay dagger was originally made in pairs," John says while sipping his red wine. John's tone sounds calm, but his gaze holds something. "One straight, one curved. The straight one symbolizes silence. Suitable for defense. The curved one symbolizes movement—for attack."
John stares at the curved blade in his hand as if wanting to ensure he won't regret that choice. "I prefer to attack. So, I chose this one."
Lance lifts his head. His gaze seems piercing. "Where is the other dagger?"
John looks down for a moment. "What do I get if I tell you?"
"Safety." Lance places the dagger on the table, sharp and certain. "Write down my phone number. When your life is threatened, I will come. No matter who your enemy is."
Some party guests begin to turn, hearing the conversation. Some want to laugh—Lance sounds like a theater actor who forgot to take off his costume. But as their mouths open, their throats feel itchy. They can only sip their wine again, washing down something strange in the air.
"What are you talking about, dear?"
The atmosphere shifts. Jane Smith approaches, graceful and too pale. A glass of sparkling white wine in Jane's hand, and a social smile decorates her face like a porcelain mask.
John glances at his wife, momentarily panicked. Then he quickly says, "Mr. White is predicting my fate."
"Oh?" Jane turns to Lance, her eyelashes fluttering gently as she squints. A sly glint ignites behind Jane's gaze. "I heard from Nancy that Mr. White is a very powerful sorcerer. What does Mr. White see in my husband's fate?"
Lance gives a small smile. His movements are calm as he lifts the dagger. "You share the same destiny. One sword for one life. Trust me, you will be grateful for this sacrifice one day."
The price of a treasure may be higher than a human life. But very few are willing to trade their lives for a relic. Very few are foolish enough—or desperate enough.
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