Luck
What is luck, really? Is it even real?
I never believed in it.
I've always thought everything that happens in life is just coincidence—nothing more, nothing less. Cause and effect. Actions and consequences. No invisible force tipping the scales.
But if luck does exist… then I might be the unluckiest person alive.
Somewhere on Earth — 17:39:08
A young man in his early twenties sat hunched over his desk, dark brown hair falling messily over tired eyes ringed with deep shadows. His posture was rigid, shoulders tense, gaze locked onto the monitor in front of him where a countdown timer ticked relentlessly toward zero.
That young man was me.
If you're wondering what I was doing—don't be impatient.
"Fuuuuuck," I muttered, rubbing my face. "Why does this have to be today?"
Today was the day the final chapter of my favorite game released. Three years of waiting. Three years of cryptic announcements, delayed updates, and vague promises. One single date teased again and again.
And now it was finally here.
Of course, I also had work.
So I did what any reasonable adult would do.
I faked being sick.
Well it's not like I am .
Anyway, that part didn't matter.
What mattered was the game.
It used a gacha system—a glorified gambling mechanic where you spent in-game currency, or real money if you were desperate, to pull for characters. Most games like this just had rarities: three-stars, four-stars, five-stars.
This one had something else.
Unique characters.
They weren't just rare. They were one-of-a-kind. Tied to specific events, specific dates. Once an event ended, the character was gone forever. No reruns. No pity banners. No second chances.
The developers were clear from day one: miss it, and you'd never get another shot.
And as if that wasn't bad enough…
These unique characters were broken.
Not slightly stronger. Not situationally useful.
Broken.
They trivialized endgame content. Cleared raids in seconds. Synergized with everything. Their kits made entire team compositions obsolete. The difference between a regular five-star and a unique wasn't a gap—it was a chasm.
And I had none of them.
Not a single one.
Every event, something went wrong. I didn't have enough currency. I joined too late. Or my luck—if it even existed—decided to spit directly in my face.
I watched other players show off their uniques, steamrolling content I struggled with for hours. While they experimented with builds and speedruns, I grinded endlessly with a mediocre roster, scraping by on strategy and stubbornness.
That's why today mattered.
The final chapter.
The last event.
The final unique character.
This was my last chance.
The timer hit zero.
My fingers moved before the notification even finished loading. The home screen erupted with effects—golden particles, dramatic music, a banner that swallowed the display.
FINAL CONVERGENCE EVENTAZRAEL, THE WORLDENDER
Limited time. 24 hours only.
I tapped the banner.
My gem counter sat in the corner: 47,500.
Six months of grinding. Daily logins. Weekly challenges. Skipping every banner no matter how tempting. Ninety-five pulls worth of currency.
The rate was brutal—0.5%.
But ninety-five tries meant I had a chance.
Math. Not luck.
The first ten-pull.
The animation played: a rift tearing open in space, light spilling outward.
Blue.
All blue.
Ten three-star characters I'd already maxed out. The game converted them automatically into a handful of worthless materials.
Second ten-pull.
A flash of purple.
One four-star.
Useless.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
My gem count plummeted.
42,000.
37,000.
32,000.
The same results every time. Three-stars. Obsolete four-stars. The occasional five-star that made my heart leap—only to crash when it wasn't him.
Never Azrael.
Twenty pulls left.
10,000 gems.
My hands shook—not from excitement, but from anger. From the sick certainty that I already knew how this would end.
I pulled anyway.
What else was I going to do? Save them? For what? There were no more events after this.
The final ten-pull.
The rift opened.
Blue.
Blue.
Blue.
Purple.
Blue.
Blue.
Blue.
Blue.
Then—
Gold.
My heart stopped.
Gold meant five-star.
Gold meant—
The character materialized.
Not Azrael.
A standard five-star I already had at max constellation.
The game cheerfully informed me I'd received 25 Starlight Tokens as compensation.
You needed 300 to buy anything worthwhile.
My gem count hit zero.
I stared at the screen.
The banner was still there, mocking me. Azrael's artwork dominated it—a figure with short white hair and piercing blue eyes, gold flames wreathing one arm, a sword that looked capable of splitting reality itself.
A character I'd never have.
Power I'd never touch.
Then a popup appeared.
THANK YOU FOR PARTICIPATING!
As a token of appreciation, you have received:
UNIQUE CHARACTER — ALEX, THE CURSED Villain
For one stupid second, something lifted in my chest.
A unique.
Free.
Maybe the developers weren't completely heartless. Maybe this was their consolation prize. A safety net.
A unique was a unique, right?
I tapped through to the character screen.
Alex, The Cursed One.
The name should have been my first warning.
His artwork showed a figure eerily similar to Azrael— but he had long black hair, piercing red eyes, and the same sharp features—but twisted, as if something had gone wrong. Dark, jagged markings crawled across his skin like fractures, and a black haze clung to his form, distorting the image as though the system itself struggled to render him.
I checked his stats.
Base Mana: 80.
Standard five-stars started at 100.
Azrael's base Mana was 150.
His first ability:
Cursed Probability —
For 6 seconds, the person he chose's luck is inverted: Attacks have a chance to miss. Dodges fail Buffs have a chance to apply to Alex instead.
Cooldown: 18 minutes.
Three percent.
Two seconds.
Forty-five second cooldown.
I scrolled.
Ultimate ability:
Fade Away — Alex becomes untargetable for 2 seconds. Mana Cost: 80.
I did the math automatically.
An ultimate that made you untouchable for less than two seconds.
In a game where most enemies could kill you in three.
No damage multipliers.
No buffs.
No synergy.
His constellation upgrades were all locked behind the same text:
Future Events (TBA).
Future events.
For the final event.
That would never come.
I set my phone down and laughed.
It was hollow. Bitter. The sound someone makes when the universe goes out of its way to be cruel.
Six months of preparation.
47,500 gems.
Ninety-five pulls.
And what did I get?
A unique character so worthless he was literally called The Cursed One.
A participation trophy.
The unluckiest person alive?
Yeah.
That tracked.
My phone buzzed.
A notification from my friend's Discord.
He had already sent me of video of him getting Azrael and loosing the new endgame raid in forty-seven seconds and a dark figure with glaring red eyes with slit eyes.
The comments were filled with celebration. Screenshots. Bragging. Victory.
I closed the app.
Luck.
What a joke.
I sat in the silence of my room, staring at the dark screen of my phone.
RGB lights from my setup cycled endlessly—red, blue, green—casting hollow shadows across the walls like they had something to celebrate.
An empty energy drink sat beside my keyboard, gone warm hours ago.
I should have felt something.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Anything.
Instead, there was just emptiness.
The same feeling as pulling ninety-five times and getting nothing.
My chest tightened.
Probably from sitting hunched over for hours.
I pressed a hand against my sternum.
The pressure didn't fade.
It spread.
Down my left arm.
My vision tilted.
"Oh… that's not good."
I tried to stand.
My legs didn't respond.
My hand clipped the desk, knocking over an energy drink. Liquid spilled across the surface, creeping toward my phone.
Twenty-two years old.
No sleep.
Nothing but caffeine and junk food.
The unluckiest person alive, I thought as the lights blurred together and the floor rushed up to meet me.
Even my own body had terrible gacha rates.
Then nothing.