The smoke of battle still clung to Sky-Torn's hair. He had not washed it out; let the others smell it on him, let them remember that he had led them through fire and blood while the elders quarreled. Yet the price weighed on him like a second skin. The wailing of mothers for sons lost on the edge of the forest echoed in his dreams, and the Villain System whispered in counterpoint, tallying each cry as though grief itself were a currency.
Ding!
System Notice: Quest Updated.
Choose your Path:
— Sabotage: Undermine the iron-clad invaders. Raid their supplies. Poison their trust.
— Corruption: Break the wills of your rivals. Twist oaths, bend honor, enslave dreams.
Reward: +200 Villain Points per major act. Path-exclusive skills unlocked upon commitment.
Sky-Torn's lips curled. It was not enough that the System counted lives; now it demanded directions for destiny itself. Sabotage would mean war in the open, against muskets and steel. Corruption would rot his people from within, staining his name forever. Either road led to ruin. But ruin was power, and power was survival.
He did not choose. Not yet. To stand at the fork was to hold both knives.
⸻
The council lodge smelled of damp cedar and mistrust. Torches sputtered against the stone-lined pit, shadows painting the elders as tall and wavering giants. Wounded Bear spoke first, his voice roughened by grief.
"You led us to strike the pale-faces, and blood spilled, but for what? They grow stronger while our sons grow fewer. Your visions drive us into graves, Sky-Torn."
Murmurs rose, some nodding, some glaring. Sky-Torn felt the words coil around him like nooses. The System shimmered before his inner sight, translating each mutter into faint threads of Suspicion and Fear, markers that could be tugged and twisted if he dared.
He rose slowly, staff in hand. "You think my visions are my own?" His voice cracked like a fire catching. "The ancestors showed me rivers choked with iron ships. Forests felled to nothing. If we do not strike, we are ash before winter ends. Would you rather bow? Trade your honor for trinkets of glass?"
A young warrior, Night-Runner, bared his teeth. "Better glass than graves!"
The council roared in division. Sky-Torn let them rage, his hand sliding to the pouch of ash and blood at his side. He could end this squabble with a ritual—twist the omen, make the fire show them what he wished. But too many eyes watched. Instead, he sowed subtler seeds.
He leaned toward Swift-Deer, an elder wavering in loyalty, and murmured, "Did you not see how Wounded Bear hesitated, when the white envoy offered gifts? He weighs beads heavier than blood."
The words were sparks; he felt them catch in Swift-Deer's mind. The System chimed faintly.
+5 Villain Points: Whispered Corruption.
⸻
That night, alone beneath the fractured moon, Sky-Torn carried his doubts to the grove where moss grew thickest. He drew the circle, scattered the ash, and set his palm upon the earth.
"Ancestors," he whispered, "if you still walk the smoke-path, guide me."
For a moment, he heard them: the steady voices of those who had burned their enemies and sung their victories. But the System's chorus rose louder, oily and sweet. It drowned them as a flood drowns a fire.
New Skill Unlocked: Destiny Twist (Minor).
You may alter the outcome of omens, signs, or ritual prophecies. Beware: the more you bend, the more fate resists.
Sky-Torn shivered. He saw in his mind's eye a crow falling where once it flew, a deer snared where once it leapt free. To twist omens was to twist belief itself. The tribe had survived centuries on the backbone of prophecy; to corrupt it would be to corrupt their marrow. Yet how else could he steer them against iron and thunder?
A crow cawed above. He flung a bone shard into the fire. It cracked, sparking green, a sign of ill fortune. The System hummed. With a mere thought, he bent the omen. The crackle softened, the flame leapt gold, promising bounty instead of doom.
The shift was small, imperceptible to any but himself. Yet power flooded his chest. He had stolen fate's mask.
⸻
Days passed with tension tight as a bowstring. Sky-Torn walked among the young warriors, binding them with murmurs and hints. He promised glory to some, whispered of Wounded Bear's cowardice to others, and stoked the embers of distrust wherever he tread. Each conversation was another point in the System's ledger. Each smile he earned was edged with fear.
He also set eyes on the colonizers' camp. Smoke rose in disciplined lines, their tents in rigid order. They felled trees with iron axes that bit quicker than stone, shaping timbers for a fort that rose like a scar upon the land. Sabotage whispered in his veins: Slip poison into their water, set fire to their stores.
Yet corruption called no less strongly. Wounded Bear gathered followers daily, sharpening defiance. The tribe might fracture before the invaders struck. What if Sky-Torn twisted an oath, broke a rival from within? Both roads beckoned, and both promised ruin as sweet as honey.
⸻
One evening, children followed him at a distance, wide-eyed, whispering. He turned suddenly, catching them in his gaze. Their chatter stilled, but not from respect. From fear.
"Why do you shadow me, little wolves?" he asked gently.
One girl, no older than ten winters, spoke with trembling lips. "They say you make pacts with shadows. That you can curse with a glance."
Her honesty was a knife he had not expected. Sky-Torn knelt, placing a hand over her heart. "Do not fear me. Fear the storm that comes. I will be the fire that holds it back."
But she pulled away, running to the others. Their giggles were nervous, their eyes sharp. The System chimed quietly:
Reputation Shift: +10 Fear, –5 Reverence.
Even the children marked him now.
⸻
At the next council, Sky-Torn lit the fire himself. He twisted the omen as the sparks leapt: instead of a fox's scream of warning, the flame showed the head of a stag, proud and unbroken. The tribe gasped. To them it was a sign of strength, a call to unity. Only Sky-Torn knew it had been a lie.
"See?" he cried, voice thunderous. "The spirits crown our struggle! To doubt me is to doubt them."
Cheers met his declaration, but not all. Wounded Bear spat into the fire. "Then let the spirits judge us in combat. I will face you, Shaman. Before all, we will see whose path the ancestors walk."
The challenge rang through the lodge. Sky-Torn accepted with a smile that did not reach his eyes. The System purred:
New Quest Branch Unlocked: Duel of Oaths.
Success: +150 Villain Points, exclusive skill upgrade.
Failure: Death or exile.
⸻
That night, Sky-Torn stood again beneath the moon, feeling the weight of two paths pressing in: sabotage or corruption, war outward or war within. He had not chosen, but already he had walked both. The System fed on his hesitation, rewarding every seed of treachery he sowed, every omen he bent.
He whispered to the stars, "If history remembers me, will they call me savior or monster?"
The System answered with silence, broken only by the faint tally of points earned.
And in the silence, Sky-Torn understood: there was no difference.