Lich for Hire

Chapter 150: Prophecies Cannot Be Changed

Harvey's wry smile confirmed Ambrose's fears.

Divination was a power that bordered on the divine.

Though you might not always be able to see the future, whatever future you did see was guaranteed to pass.

Fate could not be overcome. That was the basis for the power of divination.

The biggest hurdle, then, came when a diviner prophesied his own death. Nothing could change that fate.

Death would descend in precisely the manner and at precisely the time perceived.

Even a deity couldn't save Harvey now.

"How long away is it?" Ambrose asked Harvey.

"About... less than two months. I can't get a precise read on it, but the fact that I encountered you here, Master, likely means I don't have much time left."

"Have you been waiting here for me all along?" Ambrose asked.

Harvey nodded. "I had the faint sense that I would be able to find you here if I waited long enough, Master, though I didn't expect I'd have to wait for the better part of a month. Still, now that I've returned your phylactery to you, Master, I have no regrets."

Ambrose didn't speak.

This was how he felt whenever an old friend was about to leave him.

"Don't mind me, Master. Didn't you ask me in the past how I'd react if I knew I were going to die tomorrow? I told you that I'd leave a log of my life behind. Fate hasn't treated me too badly. At the very least, I won't die tomorrow. I still have plenty of time."

Ambrose considered Harvey again. He wasn't just putting on a brave front. He had truly accepted his fate.

Harvey was far more impressive than he was.

Those who could look death in the eye would shine brilliantly, no matter their circumstances.

But that was also why Ambrose felt all the more pity for Harvey.

"Have you considered turning into an undead after your death?" Ambrose probed. "I've had a few breakthroughs in necromancy recently. You don't have to be an ugly skeleton or zombie, and your body might function better in life than in death."

Harvey considered the option for a moment, then shook his head. "I'd be avoiding my fate. The Goddess of Fate told me when I would die not so that I would escape. And even if I did become an undead, I suspect I would forever lose the blessing of fate."

Ambrose fell silent again.

Harvey was more clear-eyed than even he was.

The Goddess of Fate was a benevolent deity.

She asked for no prayer nor sacrifice. All those who believed in predestined fate would be granted her power.

But she, too, was the cruelest of deities.

The Lord of Dawn cared not what his devotees believed. As long as they acted justly and righteously, he would not forsake them, no matter how much they cursed him in their hearts.

The vast majority of deities across the continent treated their devotees in the same fashion. They knew how malleable the human heart was, and so they judged their devotees on their deeds rather than their thoughts. Otherwise, they might have no devotees left at all.

But the Goddess of Fate bucked this trend. Even the slightest wavering in a diviner's belief in fate might cause her blessing to be rescinded for good. Ambrose was a prime example: he had wavered on the cusp of his legendary ascension and had been a half-baked legend since.

And, unlike Ambrose, not all diviners were hounded by the Goddess of Fate to such an extent that they were all but forced to pick up divination again. Harvey was well aware of that. He would rather die than betray what he had worked toward for so many long years.

From that alone, he was more deserving of the Goddess of Fate's attention than Ambrose.

But fate was fickle. Even Harvey's single-minded devotion to fate earned him nothing more than impending death.

What you wanted, fate would deny you; what you didn't want, fate would forcibly give you.

Ambrose could hardly transform Harvey into a lich against his will. That would only hurt his soul and turn him into a mindless puppet. He might retain some slight spellcasting ability, but that would be a fate worse than death for Harvey.

"Go on, then. If you're going to die anyway, why not tell me in detail what you foresaw?"

Harvey frowned. "Would that be meaningful? Master, you know that prophecies can't be changed."

"That's not the point. You've done me the courtesy of addressing me as Master. The least I could do is avenge your death."

"Ah, well... That might not be realistic." Harvey stiffened in embarrassment. "I only saw the details of my death, not the culprit."

"Tell me everything," Ambrose said seriously.

Harvey shrugged. He began to relate, in detail, what he had seen.

Ambrose listened attentively, asking numerous questions along the way, while carefully recording everything Harvey described.

After the better part of an hour, Harvey begged his leave.

"Master, I have little time left. Don't worry about me, but please safeguard this on my behalf."

Harvey handed Ambrose a bulging notebook. Ambrose glanced at it: it was full of Harvey's philosophy of magic, of the notes he had taken, the theories and models he had dreamed up.

It was a genius's notebook. Even Ambrose marveled at it. Harvey's model of fate was completely different from Ambrose's, and even Ambrose felt inspired by Harvey's notes.

Harvey smiled. "Before my death, I promised myself I would keep a log of everything I'd worked on throughout my life. Master, I know these notes might be of little value to you, but if you ever accept a new disciple, I'd be thrilled if you let them have a look at it. I guarantee it'll be more approachable and easier to understand than the materials you've written."

Ambrose huffed. "Why make it more approachable? Do you want more people to fall into the trap of divination?" Even so, Ambrose carefully stowed the notebook away.

Harvey smiled, dipped his head, and turned to leave.

Ambrose saw Harvey walk toward the nearest gambling table. He tossed out dozens of gold coins in a bet as his dice of fate were absorbed by the thrown dice.

He was cheating with the power of divination.

Before long, he had multiplied his gold. Two drow beauties suddenly appeared beside him.

"Is this the extent of your dreams now...?"

Ambrose turned toward Catherine, who was by now somewhat drunk.

Her face was flushed red. Ambrose warned her, "You'd better stop now, or these two drow might really die."

Catherine was stomping on the backs of two drow lying on the floor of the tavern. She had managed to dent the floor through their bodies. Just how many of their bones had she broken? At any rate, she had certainly vented enough of her anger.

The two drow really had been foolish to try to drug Catherine.

After all, she was an elven queen, the beloved of the elven deities.

Even the lowliest elf was blessed with mental fortitude against all manner of charms and drugs, let alone the elven queen Catherine herself.

Ambrose hadn't worried even a little when he noticed the drow spiking her drinks.

And indeed, Catherine had noticed the problem immediately. She instantly began beating up the two drow, her blows reinforced by the centuries-old feud between the high elves and the drow. In short, those two dark elves had truly picked the worst possible target. If they were to survive at all, it'd be out of sheer luck.

When Ambrose appeared, Catherine planted her hands on her hips, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. "Adventuring is really fun."

"Fun or not, that's enough for today. Time to go back."

Ambrose's mind was still consumed by Harvey's prophecy. He had no interest in continuing this adventurer playdate with Catherine.

Fortunately, Catherine didn't show any signs of drunken misbehavior. At Ambrose's words, she set down her cup, kicked the two half-dead drow aside, and obediently followed behind him.

In that instant, every eye that had been fixed on Catherine turned toward Ambrose with naked envy.

The orcs in particular could not tolerate the goddess of their hearts walking behind a human. One by one, heavily muscled brutes closed in, meaning to crush the scrawny human between them.

But Ambrose had no interest in competing for affection with a pack of orcs. He released a legendary lich's aura of fear. The arrogant orcs immediately went pale, their legs turning to jelly as if they had just come face-to-face with a dragon.

This had nothing to do with willpower. A lich's aura, like a dragon's draconic might, was a form of biological suppression, an instinctive reaction hardwired into all living beings. No amount of resolve could overcome it. Only power of a comparable level could resist such pressure.

Against the paladins of the Lyon Empire, his aura would have been ineffective; their various holy auras could neutralize it. But against the tavern's rabble-tier adventurers, it was a true weapon of mass destruction. One by one, the orcs collapsed to the floor, unable even to crawl.

Ambrose led Catherine out of the tavern. No one dared stop them.

Only after the pair had left did the orcs' strength return. Faces burning with embarrassment, they prepared to flee the scene of their humiliation.

Before they could, though, the orcish bartender spoke up. "Running already? All of you had better pay up for these smashed tables and chairs first?"

An orc roared, "We weren't the ones who broke them!"

The bartender let out a cold laugh. "Next time that young lady comes by, I'll be sure to tell her who paid for the repairs."

Instantly, several heavy coin purses were thrown onto the bar. The orcs crowded around, loudly announcing their names and nicknames: Steel Bull, Blazing Hunk, and the like.

"Hah. Men."

The bartender might sneer inwardly, but she still pulled out a little ledger and pretended to take careful notes. Seeing this, even more people started paying up, non-orcs included.

Meanwhile, Ambrose took Catherine and found a random inn in which to stay the night.

The flush on Catherine's face hadn't faded, but the alcohol hadn't dulled her mind at all. She quickly sensed that something was off with Ambrose's mood.

Carefully, she asked, "What's wrong? Was I too reckless back there?"

Ambrose sighed and told her about his encounter with Harvey.

After listening, Catherine frowned in confusion. "The power of fate... Aren't you able to weave fate? You even said you wove a future for me, that I wouldn't die and all that. Can't you weave a future for him too?"

Ambrose shook his head. "If I want to save him, I can't interfere with his fate at all. At least, not right now."

"So that means the future can be changed, right?" Catherine pressed.

Ambrose shook his head again. "No. Fate is fixed. If what he saw was a true fate, then it cannot be changed. Even the best a god could do would be to allow him to ascend to a divine realm after death. His death itself would still be unavoidable."

Catherine knitted her brows, completely lost. Did diviners always talk in circles like this?

"Can you explain it in simpler terms? I don't understand any of this."

Ambrose tapped his finger against the table, muttering to himself. "The only way to save him... is to prove that the future he saw was fake. That it was artificially fabricated."