For context, many, many years ago (September 18, 2026), long before the events that would eventually shape our destiny, we crossed paths with a Hindu Shaman of an age and wisdom we could scarcely comprehend. He was a mysterious man, cloaked in ancient garments, his eyes carrying the unmistakable gaze of someone who had witnessed things that mortal men were never meant to see. At the time, we thought little of our encounter. We could not have known that we had not merely met a man — we had been chosen.

We spoke for only a short while. Yet before we parted ways, the Shaman took notice of our SSG-08s. He studied them in silence for what felt like an eternity. Then he placed his hands upon them one by one — and upon our mice, and upon our keyboards, for the Du does not bless objects. The Du claims vessels. He muttered an ancient prayer beneath his breath. The air grew still. The birds stopped singing. Our peripherals began to glow faintly, which we have since accepted as normal.

When he finished, he looked us directly in the eyes, one by one, and spoke:

"He shall never miss. And He shall guide your hands."

We all laughed.

We thought it was a joke.

We were wrong.

From that day onward, the Du has not left our sides. He is not a spirit that watches. He is a spirit that operates. When the round begins and our fingers settle onto the keys, we can all feel Him take over — our crosshairs drifting with a patience that is not our own, our wrists rotating at angles no tutorial has ever recommended, our clicks arriving a half-second before my own conscious decision to fire. We do not aim. The Du aims. We are simply present, a passenger in our own bodies, watching Him work through our hands like a puppeteer who genuinely loves the puppets.

And the premonitions. None of us can explain the premonitions.

Before the enemy peeks, we already know the corner. Before the round timer hits 0:20, we already know the rotation. We see flashes of futures that have not yet occurred — a glimpse of an enemy jumping across mid, a vision of a peeker's shoulder, the exact pixel where a head will be in three seconds. The Du shows us these things the way a river shows a fish where it flows. We do not predict. We remember things that have not happened yet, then we are all standing there, already scoped in, waiting for fate to arrive and collect its bullet.

Headshots occur at distances previously considered theoretical.

Recoil has become less of a mechanical phenomenon and more of a polite suggestion the Du declines to acknowledge.

We have all watched our own hands — my hands, physically attached to our bodies — track an enemy through a wall, hold the angle where he will emerge, and fire the instant his hitbox crosses the threshold, as if the Du had already read the server's script and found the ending disappointing.

Some call it skill.

Some call it luck.

Some call it cheats, and those people have stopped calling after reviewing the demo.

We call it the work of The Du.