The river ran silver in the moonlight, its surface shivering beneath the wind. On the far bank, a dark wall of forest loomed, unbroken save for the occasional flicker of foxfire or the lonely call of an owl. The night smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, for the council fire still smoldered behind Sky-Torn's lodge, though the voices around it had long since died.
He did not sleep.
Sleep had become dangerous. Dreams no longer obeyed him. Since the System's awakening, each night was a descent into visions—some his own, some stolen from others, and some whispered directly into his marrow by the unseen thing that called itself the Villain System. He had begun to fear shutting his eyes.
Yet exhaustion had its own way of hunting a man. His body sagged as if ropes bound his limbs, and his thoughts blurred like reeds under floodwater.
You should not resist me, the System's voice said, curling in his ear though no mouth spoke it. Each night you resist, you weaken. Each night you obey, you grow stronger.
Sky-Torn's hand clenched around his bone talisman, the carved effigy of a crow that dangled against his chest. He whispered into the night, "Strength without purpose is nothing."
The System's laughter slid along the river, a low hiss like reeds in the current. Purpose is the mask of destiny. Destiny itself is mine to bend. Do you wish to save your people? Then take the mask, twist it, wear it. Become what they need, even if they curse the name.
Sky-Torn shut his eyes, but the words lodged inside him like barbs. For weeks the council had argued endlessly, split between those who wanted to fortify the villages and those who pressed for open migration westward, away from the strange sails glimpsed far downstream. Already, traders whispered of pale-skinned newcomers with weapons of thunder and cloth that did not rot in rain.
The council debated. Sky-Torn listened. But the System watched.
That night, the vision came as soon as his head bowed.
He stood on a field of black soil, endless, empty, save for a single lodge burning in the distance. From within came the sound of weeping children. Above the flames hung a skein of threads—some bright as gold, others knotted and black. They spread outward like a spider's web across the sky.
These are destinies, the System murmured. The threads of chiefs, hunters, mothers, children. Some lead to glory, some to ruin. I grant you a hand with shears sharp enough to cut.
Sky-Torn reached upward. A pair of obsidian shears appeared in his grasp, edges gleaming like a raven's wing. The moment he touched them, whispers filled the air. Voices of those he knew—the proud warrior Ash-Bound, the gentle midwife Dawn-Singer, his own sister with her laughter like chimes. Each thread pulsed with life.
Cut one, and you gain Villain Points. The more entwined the destiny, the richer the harvest.
Sky-Torn's stomach twisted. He had no wish to kill. Yet the System's suggestion was subtler. Not the end of a life, but the alteration of its path. To sever a golden strand meant that fate itself would warp, as though a canoe's course were shifted by removing one guiding paddle.
His hand shook. He raised the shears, hesitating over the bright line that belonged to Ash-Bound. The warrior's destiny shone with the brilliance of a sunrise—leadership, victories, songs that would outlive him. And yet… in the fire's reflection Sky-Torn saw another image: Ash-Bound standing years later, bowing before men with pale skin, offering alliance at a cost of betrayal.
The System whispered: Cut him, and that betrayal will never come to pass. His line will falter, and another path will open—yours.
The shears closed with a sound like a crow's caw.
The thread snapped.
Instantly the world convulsed. The lodge flames roared higher, and the voices of children broke into screams. A burning wind struck Sky-Torn, flaying him with ash. In his chest, a brand seared into place:
[Villain Points +50]Skill Unlocked: Fate Severance (Minor)—You may bend the destiny of another, nudging them from triumph toward obscurity.
Sky-Torn woke with a gasp, heart pounding. The crow effigy was hot against his chest, as if it too had felt the fire. He staggered to his feet and looked out over the moonlit river. All was quiet. Yet he knew in his marrow that something had shifted.
Somewhere in the camp, Ash-Bound stirred in his sleep, his breath ragged, his dreams stolen. By dawn, he would awaken weaker, uncertain, haunted by doubts no warrior should carry. His bright path was dimmed, not erased, but veiled.
Sky-Torn whispered, "Forgive me."
But the river carried only silence.
The following morning, the council gathered again. Chiefs and elders sat in a circle, their cloaks heavy with beads and feathers, faces painted with lines of ash. Smoke from the sacred fire rose in a thin column, drifting through the roof-hole toward the pale sky.
Ash-Bound entered last, his shoulders sagging. He looked older, diminished, his eyes shadowed. Murmurs stirred the council; Sky-Torn felt them like sparks leaping from a fire. Already, the System's touch was reshaping the tribe's balance.
The debate began anew—migration versus resistance. Voices clashed, thunderous as storms. But this time, Ash-Bound faltered when he spoke. His words tangled, his conviction lost. Where once he commanded the room, now his uncertainty spread like rot.
Sky-Torn did not speak much. He did not need to. He saw how eyes turned toward him more readily, how his calm silence drew respect. The System hummed in satisfaction.
You see? One thread cut, and the pattern shifts. Imagine what a weave you could command if you dared.
Yet guilt gnawed him. He had not slain Ash-Bound, but he had stolen his strength. Was this protection? Or betrayal dressed in sacred garb?
The council adjourned with no decision, but the balance had tilted. Those who once followed Ash-Bound now wavered. The lodge filled with a different current, one flowing subtly toward Sky-Torn.
That night, as the moon rose red and swollen, the river brought new sound. Distant, rhythmic—like wood striking wood. Canoes.
Sky-Torn's blood chilled. He slipped from his lodge and crept to the riverbank. There, against the far horizon, he saw them: unfamiliar canoes gliding with unnatural smoothness, their prows carved with sharp angles, their occupants pale beneath the moonlight.
The whispers of rumor had solidified into truth. The newcomers were here.
Behind him, the village stirred with uneasy murmurs. Children pointed. Elders frowned. Dogs growled low, their hackles raised.
The System's voice slid into his mind, delighted. The first threads of a wider web have arrived. Cut, twist, weave. Decide now whether your people will kneel, flee, or rise. But know this: every path leaves blood in its wake. The only question is whose blood spills first.
Sky-Torn stood motionless, the crow effigy heavy against his chest. He thought of the threads above the burning lodge, of Ash-Bound's dimmed fate, of the council's fragile balance. The choice before him was no longer distant rumor. It had crossed the river.
And history, as the System promised, would remember only the mask he chose to wear.