For context, many, many years ago (September 18, 2026), long before the events that would eventually shape my destiny, I crossed paths with a Hindu Shaman of an age and wisdom I 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, I thought little of our encounter. I could not have known that I had not merely met a man — I had been chosen.

We spoke for only a short while. Yet before we parted ways, the Shaman took notice of my SSG-08. He studied it in silence for what felt like an eternity. Then he placed his hands upon it — and upon my mouse, and upon my keyboard, 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. My peripherals began to glow faintly, which I have since accepted as normal.

When he finished, he looked me directly in the eyes and spoke:

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

I laughed.

I thought it was a joke.

I was wrong.

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

And the premonitions. I cannot explain the premonitions.

Before the enemy peeks, I already know the corner. Before the round timer hits 0:20, I already know the rotation. I 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 me these things the way a river shows a fish where it flows. I do not predict. I remember things that have not happened yet, and then I am 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.

I have watched my own hands — my hands, physically attached to my body — 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 since stopped calling after reviewing the demo.

I call it the work of The Du.

And the Shaman, wherever he may be now, knows exactly what he created that day. He did not simply bless my SSG-08. He installed a god into my setup — a deity of unholy aim who takes the wheel when needed, whispers the future into my ears, and asks for nothing in return except that I never, under any circumstances, unplug my mouse while He is holding an angle.