The massive loom of fate was operating tirelessly, with the shuttle flying rapidly between the warp and weft threads.
Sloan stood before the loom of fate, holding a high-magnification magnifying glass with a brass frame, solemnly inspecting the newly woven linen fabric.
To an outsider, this was just a piece of coarsely crafted fabric.
But in Sloan's eyes, it was the only order within the chaos of the Universe.
The warp threads represented time, the weft threads represented space, and at every node where warp and weft intersected, the binary code of life and death was hidden.
The upper stitch was 0, the lower stitch was 1.
Sloan, like a devout believer and yet like a greedy thief, carefully searched for those skipped stitches that were almost imperceptible to the naked eye.
Because those were flaws deliberately left by the loom of fate, secrets leaked in the instant the Goddess of Fate blinked.
Every time he discovered a skipped stitch, Sloan's fingers would tremble slightly.
As he observed, he quickly recorded on a piece of parchment.
The tip of the quill scratched across the paper, making a rustling sound, leaving behind a string of irregular binary numbers.
As the recording continued, Sloan's breathing became heavy.
When the last skipped stitch was recorded, he suddenly straightened his back, turned, and walked to the heavy oak desk piled with ancient books, opening a thick codebook with yellowed, slightly curled pages.
This codebook was the Bible of The Fraternity, and also its curse.
Sloan's withered fingers slid across the dense comparison table, converting those cold numbers into letters one by one, his lips moving silently as he pieced together the name that was about to be judged by fate.
When the complete name appeared on the parchment, Sloan's movements paused slightly.
After a brief moment of shock, his gaze was quickly replaced by an unfathomable gloom.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze flickering, as if weighing a decision capable of overturning the World.
A few seconds later, he made his choice.
He reached out, and instead of registering the name as usual, he slowly tore off the parchment containing the binary code.
"Fate is blind, but man is not."
Sloan muttered to himself, his voice filled with a blasphemous arrogance.
Immediately, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the burning brazier beside him.
The flames instantly swallowed the paper ball, and the 0s and 1s representing death twisted and carbonized in the firelight, finally turning to ash and drifting into the air with the heat currents.
...
"The name is confirmed."
Sloan closed the codebook, adjusted his exquisite suit, put on an expression of compassion, and turned to look at the shadows behind him.
"Wesley, the opportunity you have been waiting for has arrived."
From the shadows, Wesley Gibson slowly stepped out.
He looked much leaner and stronger than he had some time ago.
Long-term medicinal baths, hypnotic brainwashing, and high-intensity killing training had stripped away that timid little accountant.
Wesley's originally lowered eyelids snapped open.
"Is it him?"
"Yes, just as you wished."
Sloan handed a printed photo to Wesley, his aged voice carrying a sense of sacred bewitchment.
"Cross."
Wesley took the photo.
The photo showed a middle-aged man with stubble all over his face and a World-weary look in his eyes.
Looking at this face, Wesley thought he would be angry, excited, or have his blood boiling.
But strangely, deep inside he felt only a dead, silent calm, as if a program had received an instruction.
This was the only target implanted in him during countless medicinal baths and hypnosis sessions.
Kill him, and he could avenge his father.
Kill him, and he could prove his worth.
Kill him, and he could completely control his own destiny.
"Where is he?" Wesley crumpled the photo into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket.
"According to intelligence, he has recently been frequenting the area near the abandoned light rail train under the Brooklyn Bridge."
Sloan walked up to Wesley and placed his hands on his shoulders. Those palms, covered in age spots, transmitted a false warmth.
He looked into Wesley's eyes, like a kind elder sending off a child about to go on a long journey.
"Go, my child, and fulfill your destiny. The moment you pull the trigger, the moment you see the bullet pierce his skull, you will feel an unprecedented sense of freedom. In that moment, you will no longer be anyone else; you will be fate itself."
Wesley nodded and turned to walk away with large strides.
Behind him, Fox leaned against the doorframe, looking at that young back with a complex expression in her eyes.
She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but after glancing at Sloan's gloomy profile, she ultimately chose to remain silent and followed in Wesley's footsteps.
...
Meanwhile, at Alice's training ground.
Peter Parker was attempting to apply the principles of Curving Bullets to his own organic spider silk.
Because it was an organic gland created by mutation, the firing of the spider silk was entirely controlled by muscle contraction.
To make the shot object curve, he not only had to perform that iconic web-shooting gesture, but also apply a massive lateral flicking force to his wrist at the exact moment the gland sprayed the high-pressure spider silk fluid.
It was like trying to control your urine to bypass an obstacle while peeing.
Uh, although this metaphor is a bit disgusting, the principle is about the same.
At this moment, Peter was not wearing his battle suit, just casual clothes, and was wearing those homemade goggles that looked a bit ridiculous.
"The spider silk is in a liquid state the moment it leaves the body and contacts the air, and then it solidifies within 0.5 seconds. If I use the extreme speed of my wrist to give it a lateral tangential acceleration in that microsecond while it is still liquid..."
He muttered to himself while rubbing the sore gland location on his wrist.
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