The Twelve Olympians had no choice but to establish a new law: background characters could no longer choose their roles. From now on, the fate of every extra would be decided solely by the Moirai—the Three Sisters of Fate: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.
Because of this, I and the other background characters who had survived against the odds were summoned to the Arena of the Moirai to have our destinies reassigned.
The entrance to the arena was packed with tens of thousands of extras. I had never imagined so many had managed to survive. I could count on one hand the number of people I had warned about staying away from main characters—certainly fewer than fifty. And yet, here they all were: in the tens of thousands.
Before anyone could enter, we each had to be marked with a number on the back of our left hand, to avoid confusion during the selection process. I was given a rather elegant number: DCCLXXVII—777.
The place was enormous, easily large enough to hold the vast crowd. Above the arena sat the thrones of the Three Fates. Surrounding the arena were tiered steps serving as seats, and in the center was a large, circular stage. The entrance and exit were beneath the thrones.
But to me, it felt more like a courtroom than a place for role assignment. Something felt... off.
I looked up at the Three Sisters of Fate. It was the first time I'd ever seen them. Normally, they wouldn't show themselves to someone as lowly as a background character. Their duties mainly involved overseeing the fates of important protagonists.
To my left sat Clotho, the youngest of the three. She looked about eight years old, her expression unreadable. I couldn't tell if she was smiling, frowning, or completely indifferent. She held a spool of thread interwoven with white and black. The white strands represented bright, hopeful lives. The black ones, sorrow and despair. This thread was known as Clotho's Thread—the strand of fate for background characters. Oddly enough, I barely saw any white in it.
In the center was Lachesis, the middle sister. She appeared to be a teenager, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She was beautiful, but always looked perpetually burdened, as if the world were too cruel. Lachesis was the one who determined the life stories of characters, using the golden needle known as Lachesis' Needle to weave destinies. Whether a character's life was good or bad depended entirely on her.
On the far right sat Atropos, the eldest sister. Of the three, she had the most striking figure—mature, alluring, and sensual. Her clothing revealed more than that of her sisters. Beside her lay a massive black pair of scissors: Atropos' Shears, used to sever the life threads of all beings in myth.
I couldn't help but wonder why someone like Atropos was even present at a role selection ceremony. She didn't seem to belong here.
Once all the background characters were seated, Atropos rose and, with a powerful voice, declared, "Extras! The Role Selection Ceremony now begins. From this moment forward, your fates shall be decided by us—the Three Sisters of Fate."
Clotho, the youngest, pulled out a black thread and passed it to her sister. Lachesis took it with trembling hands and threaded it through the golden needle.
"Characters numbered I to C (1 to 100), step onto the stage to receive your fate," said Lachesis in a voice so quiet it barely reached the crowd. She sounded nervous and unsure.
The first hundred extras ascended the stage. Lachesis stood and held the golden needle high. From its tip, black light streaked down and pierced the hearts of each character on the platform. She hesitated, deep in thought, uncertain which fate to assign.
"Ahem... Lachesis," Atropos coughed quietly to nudge her sister forward.
Startled, Lachesis nearly dropped the needle, but managed to catch it in time.
Now I was beginning to question whether entrusting our lives to her was a good idea.
Atropos sighed, clearly exasperated by her sister. Clotho remained expressionless, as always.
Once Lachesis had composed herself, she began. Her hands moved like she was sewing, eyes fixed on character number I (1).
Finally, with visible reluctance, she said, "I... I don't know what fate to give you... I don't want to do this, but..."
She hesitated, then declared, "I assign you, background character number I, to be a sacrificial offering to the Minotaur of Crete."
Character I collapsed to the ground. Murmurs of shock echoed across the arena.
It was unusual. Normally, such death sentences were reserved for criminals, not extras.
Next, Lachesis turned to character II (2). "As for you... I assign you to be a soldier fighting Medusa... who will be turned to stone for eternity."
This time, the protests erupted. Loud, angry voices filled the arena.
"No! We won't accept this fate!" "She has no right to decide our destiny like this!" "We're not criminals!"
Lachesis looked like she was about to cry. Her hands trembled.
Seeing her distress, the crowd grew bolder—shouting, complaining, jeering.
Of course, I was among them.
"Silence!" Atropos' voice boomed.
Everyone fell silent instantly.
She had clearly had enough. Atropos strode to her sister and snatched the golden needle from her hands. Lachesis looked stunned.
With a furious gaze, Atropos looked at the most defiant among us. Her eyes held such disdain, I felt smaller than an insect.
"You dare reject what my sister has decreed?"
A young man on stage spoke up, "Yes! We won't accept it! These are death sentences! We deserve a chance to live—we're not criminals!"
Atropos stared him down, her smile dark and chilling.
"If you don't like the fate my sister has given you... fine. We won't stop you."
Cheers erupted from the extras.
But my right eye twitched.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
"If you refuse her fates..." she said, voice like poison, "Then I shall assign you your fates myself."
She smiled slyly.
Then, without warning, she took her black shears and cut the one hundred life threads.
The hundred extras on stage screamed in agony. They collapsed to the ground, their souls ripped from their bodies.
Moments later, their corpses disintegrated into dust, carried away by the wind through the arena.