Maya looked at me, her sharp eyes searching the darkness of my cowl. She understood the pact more deeply than the others. She knew it wasn't just about loyalty; it was about surrendering her narrative, her perspective, to mine.
"A historian who becomes part of the story loses their objectivity," she said softly.
"But maybe… maybe some stories are worth losing it for." She took a deep breath.
"The world needs to see this. They need to feel it. If this is what it takes to get a front-row seat, to make sure the story is told right… then I accept the terms."
I initiated the fourth pact. The bond with her felt different—not of awe or adrenaline, but of shared purpose, a cool, intellectual understanding.
For her, I had a special skill in mind, one I had noticed before, one that would make her art a weapon of mass influence.
[Skill: Empathic Ink (Passive, Grade E)]
Description: The user subconsciously imbues their artistic creations with a subtle psychic resonance. Viewers of the art will experience the core emotions the artist intended to convey, bypassing conscious critique and creating a powerful empathic connection to the work.
Cost: 200 VP
I purchased it and granted it to her. She blinked, a slight frown touching her lips as she looked down at her own hands, then at her sketchbook.
She didn't feel a surge of power like the others. Her gift was quieter, more insidious. But she understood. Her manhwa was no longer just a story. It was now a delivery system for belief.
The popularity of "The Villainess Archives" was about to skyrocket, its readers unknowingly bound to our cause by the emotions she would feed them.
My team was complete. Empowered. Bound to me. My VP was a mere 50, but I had never been richer.
Later that night, alone in my room, the triumphant energy of the evening faded, leaving only a quiet hum. I had a super-powered team. I had a powerful new tool.
And I had a hunter on my trail. I felt ready for anything.
That's when the System gave me my next mission. There was no fanfare, no 'Acquisition' or 'Sabotage' tag. The mission type was one I hadn't seen before.
It was stark and cold.
[Mission Type: Punishment]
[Objective: Eliminate the D-Rank Hero, 'Ricochet.']
[Target Profile: Hero License #D-774.
Real Name: Marcus Thorne.
Power: Minor kinetic redirection.
Publicly known for apprehending petty thieves. Privately, he uses his status and power to intimidate and assault women. Attached is a sealed police report, buried by the Guild, detailing his most recent crime: the rape of a university student who has since disappeared.]
[Note: This is a solo operation. The System has determined that this act must be performed by the Host alone. This is a test of your resolve.]
[Reward: 500 VP, 200 EXP, 1x [Raiment Upgrade Module].]
[Failure Penalty: Severe psychological feedback.]
I stared at the screen, the words blurring. Eliminate. Not expose. Not humiliate. Eliminate. Kill.
The System wasn't asking me to be a saboteur anymore. It was asking me to be an executioner. The man was a monster, a rapist hiding behind a hero's cape. He deserved to be punished. He deserved to die.
But the thought of it… of being the one to do it, to take a life, even one so worthless… a cold, terrifying dread washed over me, a dread far deeper than any fear of being caught. This was a line I never intended to cross.
The System had given me power. It had given me a team. And now, it was demanding its price.
The mission prompt burned in my vision long after I had dismissed the System's interface. The words echoed in the silent abyss of my mind, a death sentence for a man I'd never met and a moral death sentence for me.
Eliminate.
Not expose. Not humiliate. Eliminate.
A wave of nausea so profound it left me dizzy washed over me. I stumbled to the small bathroom connected to my room and retched, my body convulsing, though nothing came up.
The cold tile floor against my forehead was the only real thing in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis.
This wasn't a game anymore. It wasn't about clever pranks or embarrassing the powerful. This was murder. The System, my silent benefactor and master, was demanding a blood sacrifice.
My mind reeled back to the convenience store, to the feeling of my own blood matting my hair, the cold finality of the floor rushing up to meet me.
I remembered the absolute despair, the certainty that my life was about to be extinguished without meaning.
Was I about to inflict that on someone else? Even a monster?
The man, Marcus Thorne, was a rapist.
A predator who used his Guild-sanctioned authority as a shield. The attached police report was a sickening litany of violence, intimidation, and buried justice.
The world was better off without him.
My intellect, the part of me that had orchestrated every mission with cold logic, knew this to be true. He was a cancer. And you don't reason with cancer. You cut it out.
But the thought of being the one holding the scalpel…
The failure penalty was the System's final, cruel twist of the knife: Severe psychological feedback.
I didn't know what that meant, but I could guess. It wouldn't be a simple loss of points or a temporary lockout. It would be a punishment delivered directly to my mind.
It would probably feel like dying, over and over again. The System was testing my resolve, holding a gun to my head and ordering me to shoot.
I lay on the cold floor for what felt like hours, trapped between my own revulsion and the System's unyielding command. To refuse was to face an unknown mental torture.
To accept was to become a killer.
Slowly, a new thought began to form, cold and sharp as a shard of ice.
What was a villain?
A true villain wasn't just a saboteur. They were a force of nature, an agent of consequence in a world that had none. The heroes wouldn't punish their own.
The system was broken. So, my System was creating a new one. A system where monsters like Ricochet didn't get to hide behind a cape.
I was the judge. The jury. And now, the executioner.