The river stank of rot.
Sky-Torn stood on the bank as silver bellies floated belly-up, their scales dulled, their eyes blank as the sky. Some children poked at the carcasses with willow branches, laughing nervously, but the elders' faces had gone pale. Dead fish meant poisoned waters, and poisoned waters meant the spirits were stirring in anger.
He did not need the elders' mutters to know the truth. The Villain System whispered at the edge of his hearing, a hissing undertone in the sound of flowing water. Imbalance is power. Corruption spreads easiest through what was once pure.
Sky-Torn closed his eyes, feeling the tug. He thought of his people drinking from this river. He thought of the colonizers' wagons, groaning with salted pork and barrels of wine. He thought of choice, and how it always came with the taste of blood.
The council gathered before dusk, under the cracked roof of the great lodge. Smoke curled into the beams, carrying the sharp tang of cedar. Sky-Torn sat with his staff across his knees, half-listening as the debate raged.
"We must resist openly!" growled Wounded Bear, pounding a fist against the hide floor. "Their supply lines are long, their men hungry. Strike their wagons and their soldiers will wither in the woods."
"And bring vengeance down upon us?" spat Old Elk, one of the elder women, her hair woven with bone charms. "They are many, and their thunder-weapons bite deep. We must feed them, trade with them, and perhaps they will leave us in peace."
"Peace?" Wounded Bear snarled. "They mark the rivers, the hunting grounds. Do you not see? They come to stay."
The voices rose and fell like waves against rock. Sky-Torn sat in silence, but inside, the System stirred.
A flicker of green text rippled across his vision:
[Villain Quest Unlocked]Sabotage the invaders' lifeblood. Strike their supplies. Starve their advance.Reward: +120 Villain Points.
Another pulse followed, colder, more intimate:
[Villain Quest Unlocked]Corrupt the heart of the strong. Twist a hero to your shadow.Reward: +120 Villain Points.
Sky-Torn's breath caught. Two paths opened like antlers branching, and the System demanded he walk one soon.
He glanced across the firelight at Bright-Eye, the young warrior who had risen these past moons. His shoulders were broad, his laughter quick, and the people already sang of his deeds. He was the kind of hero stories loved.
The System's voice licked his ear. Such heroes stand tall… until they kneel.
Bright-Eye caught his gaze, suspicion flickering for a heartbeat before it was buried in a smile. He looked at Sky-Torn with admiration still—yet admiration could turn, as swiftly as a river's current.
Wounded Bear's arguments pressed harder, urging action against the colonizers. Old Elk and others muttered for restraint. The tribe balanced on a blade, and Sky-Torn could see how either strike—sabotage or corruption—would tip the scale.
That night, he walked alone into the forest, the air heavy with pine resin and the hush of night creatures. He laid offerings of cornmeal at the roots of an ancient oak, and then sank into trance.
The drums he beat were only in his mind, but the sound echoed in his blood. Shadows lengthened. The world of flesh slid away, and he entered the dreaming.
The System met him there.
Two futures stand before you, it hissed, its voice layered with the tones of ancestors who had long turned to dust. One of fire and famine. One of betrayal and binding.
Visions swirled. He saw colonizer wagons ablaze, the sky choked with smoke, their soldiers scattering like crows. He saw hunger carve their faces until even their thunder-weapons could not save them.
Then another vision: Bright-Eye, kneeling in a circle of blood, his eyes hollow, his voice breaking as he swore loyalty to Sky-Torn. Behind him, the tribe bowed as one, broken by the fall of their chosen hero.
The visions cracked apart, and Sky-Torn staggered, sweat freezing on his skin. Were these true prophecies, or the System's temptations? The ancestors were silent, drowned by the hiss of the Villain Quests.
When he returned to the village, the stakes had sharpened. Scouts brought word of colonizers venturing deeper, mapping rivers, hammering strange marks into trees. Each day's delay let their grip tighten.
And Bright-Eye's star only rose higher. In the wrestling pit he defeated warriors twice his age. The children followed him, copying his gestures, repeating his words. Some elders whispered that perhaps he should lead the tribe's warriors.
Sky-Torn felt the System nudge with every cheer that greeted Bright-Eye. Shields are meant to be broken. A people's faith is sweetest when stolen.
The lodge filled with firelight again as voices argued late into the night. Some pressed for open war. Others for patience. And in the shifting circle, Bright-Eye rose to speak, his voice firm.
"We cannot bow forever. But neither can we rush into ruin. Let us learn their ways, their weaknesses. Let us stand as shield until the time is right."
Murmurs of approval followed. Sky-Torn felt the tribe tilting toward the young man's words. Admiration was dangerous—it forged chains.
The Villain System pulsed once more, insistent.The hour approaches. Choose soon, Villain.
Sky-Torn stood at the edge of the council fire, torn between two visions.
Beyond the lodge, he knew the colonizers' wagons rolled heavy through the woods, their bellies full of grain and gunpowder. One spark would starve them.
Inside the lodge, Bright-Eye's gaze met his, bright with conviction, still tinged with unease. A single whisper could darken that light.
The air smelled of cedar smoke, and of endings.
The System's toll echoed in his skull:Two paths. One fate. Sabotage, or corruption. The knife edge will not wait forever.
The chapter closed on silence, Sky-Torn poised between fire and shadow.