The night after the council's judgment, the fire at the center of the village burned low, its light stretching long shadows across the lodges. Sky-Torn stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands tight on the staff that hummed with a pulse only he could hear. The judgment still rang in his ears: exile if he failed the trial, respect if he succeeded. It was no trial of skill or strength—it was a trial of vision.
The elders called it "Walking the Mask of Destiny." The supplicant would enter the sacred cave of Painted Skulls, inhale the breath of the herbs, and return with prophecy. Yet Sky-Torn knew what none of them did: the Villain System stirred like a hidden serpent, eager to strike.
System Alert: Trial of Prophecy detected.Failure Condition: Exile and dishonor.Success Condition: Villain Points opportunity (variable).Bonus Condition: Corrupt a Hero's Destiny.
The words flared across his mind, bright as lightning. He clenched his jaw. Destiny itself was a river, and he could poison it.
He did not tell the others this. Not even Red-Ant, his cousin who still clung to him despite the whispering tongues. He walked alone toward the cave, the stars above glittering like the eyes of watching ancestors.
Inside, the cave walls gleamed with pigments of ochre and ash, painted centuries ago by shamans whose names had been lost. Skulls, some animal, some human, leered from niches. He sat cross-legged before them, fed the embers with resin, and let the smoke coil into his lungs.
The cave wavered.
Shapes peeled away from the stone: a man with skin pale as the moon, carrying thunder in his hands. A woman of his people, lifting a newborn toward the dawn. A tree struck by lightning, burning but never falling.
And then, the mask.
It was not painted. It was alive. Bone-white, rimmed with blood, its empty sockets fixed upon him.
"Walk," it whispered.
Sky-Torn staggered. The cave dissolved into an endless plain. He stood on one side of a river that ran black as obsidian. Across the water, figures gathered: warriors of his tribe, their faces marked by paint of triumph. But as he stepped closer, their forms warped—bones cracking, paint dripping like blood. They fell one by one into the river.
A voice hissed in his mind.
Villain System Update: Choose corruption pathway.Option A: Twist the Prophecy (5 Villain Points).Option B: Forge False Vision (10 Villain Points).Option C: Redirect Destiny—Sacrifice a Hero (20 Villain Points).
His breath caught. A choice. His tribe would demand a vision, one that could guide them against the pale-skinned invaders. But truth was fragile. If he bent it, they would follow him instead of their chosen heroes.
The mask leaned closer, its teeth clicking. "Speak, and the world bends."
He opened his eyes. The council fire burned again before him, though he still knelt in the cave. Time had twisted—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. The elders leaned forward. Wounded Bear, his fiercest rival, sneered as though already awaiting failure.
Sky-Torn raised his staff. "I have walked the Mask of Destiny," he declared. His voice came out hoarse, but strong. "I have seen the pale warriors cross the river of blood. I have seen our tribe stand—yet only if we do not follow false heroes."
Murmurs broke out. His eyes flicked to Wounded Bear, who stiffened. The Villain System pulsed in triumph.
Choice Confirmed: Redirect Destiny.Hero Corrupted: Wounded Bear.Villain Points earned: 20.
Wounded Bear's hand went to his chest as though struck. Sky-Torn felt it—an invisible thread snapping. The man's destiny, once bright with promise, dimmed like an ember.
The council erupted. Some shouted in awe at the warning. Others muttered that Sky-Torn twisted too darkly. The old matriarch raised her hand for silence.
"You have spoken," she said. Her eyes glittered, ancient and sharp. "But know this: the river of blood runs both ways. By striking down one path, you may open another."
Sky-Torn bowed his head, but inside his chest, the System thrummed like a war drum. He had turned prophecy into weapon.
That night, he could not sleep. The stars above felt heavy, as though judging. Red-Ant approached, hesitant.
"You spoke true?"
Sky-Torn turned his gaze on the boy, younger and still unscarred by suspicion. "I spoke what was necessary."
"But you… you struck Wounded Bear. The people will see. His strength has faltered already."
Sky-Torn tightened his grip on the staff. "Better the people fear me than die blind."
Yet he heard the whisper of the mask still, echoing. Villain. Villain. Villain.
He lifted his eyes to the dark horizon where the colonizers' fires glowed faintly. He knew this was only the first step. Prophecy was a seed. Soon, it would bloom into chains and daggers both.
And history would remember him not as savior, but as the one who poisoned the river of destiny.