Shen Zhao repaired a broken mirror and made contact with his self from twelve years in the future.
That version hadn't gotten rich or become an immortal, and still had a scar on his right wrist that had ruined his prospects.
"This is what I turn into?"
"Hold off on judging me. That busted furnace we bought for sixty-three coins tomorrow morning will be enough to turn things around for both of us."
Hunting for bargains, drawing in spiritual energy, learning the sword. Just as Shen Zhao started tasting success, his self from thirty-five years in the future joined the group too, and opened by berating his lousy footwork.
After that, more and more versions of himself crowded in: stewards, swordsmen, demon lords, city lords...
One reported opportunities, another broke down his moves, and the rest argued so much he wanted to slam the mirror face-down on the table.
They also brought their regrets: people they'd never trusted, manuscripts they'd burned with their own hands, and an old city they'd failed to save.
So Shen Zhao seized every opportunity he could while trying to change their fates.
But the moment he changed an old event, his opponent altered their plans. The paths the future said were open were now blocked.
The versions of himself in his arms were still arguing over whose advice to follow.
Shen Zhao wiped the blood from his face and cursed:
"You sons of bitches, figure something out! I'm the one getting beaten here!"
