The road should not have felt unfamiliar.
It was the same kind he had walked since leaving the shelter — packed earth worn smooth by years of feet and wheels, stones half-buried like bones that had decided not to surface. The air smelled faintly of dust and late summer grass. Somewhere ahead, a crow cried out, sharp and brief.
Nothing was broken.
That was what unsettled him most.
The Eighth Card rested against his chest, hidden beneath layers of cloth. It did not burn. It did not pulse urgently. It simply existed, heavy in a way that reminded him it was listening.
The boy slowed his steps as the village came into view.
Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys. A bell rang — once, then again, the second chime uneven, like the rope had slipped from someone's fingers. People moved about their evening routines, but there was something strained in their movements. Conversations ended too quickly. Laughter cut off short.
As if everyone was waiting for something to go wrong.
He entered just before sunset.
No one stopped him. No one greeted him either.
A few eyes followed him, cautious, assessing. He felt it immediately — not hostility, not fear, but calculation. Another mouth. Another variable.
The Card tightened slightly.
Near the center of the village, a group had gathered around the well.
The boy slowed, pretending to adjust his pack as he listened.
"I'm telling you," a man said, arms crossed tightly over his chest, "we can't keep pretending this is nothing."
An older woman frowned at him. "Pretending what's nothing? We've had dry spells before."
"Not like this."
"You don't know that."
"I know enough," the man snapped, then exhaled sharply, forcing his voice calmer. "Look. We ration. Just until things stabilize."
"And who decides how much?" someone asked.
The man hesitated for half a second — just long enough.
"I will," he said. "Someone has to."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"You?" another voice scoffed. "Since when?"
"Since no one else is stepping up."
The boy felt it settle over them like a thin cloak.
Not domination.
Permission.
The man believed he was right. Worse — others wanted him to be.
Pride, whispered the Card.
He moved on.
Behind a row of houses, a cart lay tipped over, one wheel cracked. Grain spilled across the dirt, mixed with dried fruit and strips of preserved meat. A woman knelt beside it, shoveling food back into sacks with frantic urgency.
"That's enough," a man nearby said gently. "You'll hurt yourself."
She didn't look up. "I'm fine."
"You've got more than anyone else already."
Her hands froze.
She turned slowly, eyes sharp. "Because I planned."
"So did we."
"Not well enough," she shot back. "And I'm not paying for that."
A younger man stepped closer. "We're all scared. Sharing won't—"
"No," she said, louder now. "I won't apologize for wanting my family to live."
Her voice wavered on the last word.
No one answered.
The boy saw the way her fingers dug into the sack like she was afraid it might vanish.
Greed, the Card murmured.
At the far end of the street, smoke curled from an unattended fire.
A man sat nearby, leaning against a wall, tools scattered at his feet. His eyes were open, but unfocused, staring at the middle distance.
"Hey," a woman called out. "That fire's getting close."
He blinked slowly. "Yeah. I'll get to it."
"When?"
He shrugged. "Soon."
She stared at him, jaw tight, then turned away muttering under her breath.
The fire crackled.
No one moved.
The boy felt an odd heaviness settle in his limbs — not exhaustion, but inertia.
Sloth, breathed the Card.
A sudden shout cut through the air.
"What's your problem?!"
Two men stood nose to nose near the well.
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to."
A shove.
A punch.
Someone screamed. Someone else laughed nervously, unsure if they were supposed to intervene.
"Stop it!" a woman yelled. "You're acting like animals!"
The second punch landed harder.
Blood hit the stone.
No one stepped in until it was already too late.
Wrath didn't roar.
It nudged.
The boy moved deeper into the village as dusk fell.
Voices leaked from open windows.
"You're always watching him."
"I'm not."
"You think I don't notice?"
A door slammed.
Elsewhere, a woman leaned too close to a grieving man, her hand lingering on his arm.
"You don't have to be alone tonight," she said softly.
The man hesitated.
The Card pulsed faintly.
Near the edge of the village, he found her.
She was young — barely older than him — and carrying two buckets of water, her arms shaking with the effort. She smiled weakly at anyone she passed.
"I've got it," she insisted when someone offered help. "Really."
"You've been at this all day," an older man said.
"It's fine."
She took another step and stumbled.
Water spilled across the dirt.
She stared at it like she'd dropped something irreplaceable.
"I just… if I keep going," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, "it'll work out."
No one answered.
They didn't know how.
Gluttony, the Card said quietly.
The boy stood there longer than he meant to.
This wasn't corruption as legends described it.
No demons. No flames.
Just people being pushed — gently, constantly — toward choices they already knew how to make.
A small hand tugged at his sleeve.
He looked down.
A girl stood there, dirt-smudged cheeks, eyes tired but curious.
"Mister," she asked, hesitating, "are you a hero?"
The word sat between them.
Heavy.
"I don't think so," he said honestly.
She thought about that. "Okay."
Then, softer: "Can you stay anyway?"
He stayed.
That night, he drew water until his arms ached. He stood between arguments before they turned violent. He told people what they needed to hear, even when it wasn't true.
"We'll manage."
"Just rest."
"Tomorrow will make more sense."
He didn't draw a blade.
Didn't use magic.
The Eighth Card remained silent — observing.
At dawn, he stood at the edge of the village.
The rot hadn't vanished.
But it had slowed.
People moved again — tired, uncertain, but alive.
Ahead, the road stretched onward.
And far beyond it, something patient waited, watching humanity learn how to ruin itself.
The boy took a breath and stepped forward.
Not as a hero.
Not yet.