How I Became the Most Wanted Villain

Smoke rose like a whisper from the treetops.

Vaun crouched at the ridge, eyes narrowed beneath tangled hair. The trail led here, a half-sunken ruin tucked into a slope, moss devouring its roof and the front door creaking gently open. Not a town. Just one building, maybe two. But it was shelter.

He didn't trust it. He didn't trust anything.

Still, his legs moved. The exhaustion in his body didn't ask for permission. It demanded a floor, a wall, any place that wasn't dirt.

Inside, it stank of woodrot and smoke. A table had collapsed under its own weight. Shelves lined the walls, some still holding shattered pottery or rusted nails. But it was the glint beneath a torn cloth in the corner that drew his eye.

A shoulderplate. Dented, iron-forged. Beside it, a handaxe with a chipped but sharp edge.

He strapped the armor to his shoulder, slow and silent. Lifted the axe. It sat heavy in his palm, like it knew its purpose.

Everything here has already died once. So what's left to lose?

A creak outside.

Voices. Three.

"I saw the smoke."

"Could be a deer fire."

"That's not a deer's print on the ridge."

They were close. Confident.

Vaun stepped back, breath held. One hand on the axe, one brushing the pulse at his throat.

Do I hide?

Another voice answered him, one that wasn't from outside.

You ran already. This is where you stop.

The door swung open.

Three men stepped in, two blades, one crossbow. Dirty armor, sharp eyes. Not soldiers. Scavengers.

"You're in the wrong place, friend," one said, grinning.

Vaun didn't move.

"You hear him?" the second asked. "Said you owe us a toll. This building belongs to us."

Still, Vaun said nothing.

The third one stepped closer. "Maybe he's dumb. Or just tired. We can fix both."

They spread out, a half-circle. Measured. Practiced.

Vaun inhaled slowly.

Do I talk? No. Talking's for men who want to be understood. I'm not one of them anymore.

He slid the axe along the edge of the table.

And then, without flinching, he cut into his own forearm.

The scavengers paused.

"What the—?"

Blood hit the ground, thick and dark.

Vaun's pupils narrowed. His spine locked. Heat surged through his limbs like molten iron. His breath turned ragged, too fast.

But he didn't feel pain.

He felt clarity.

I was always going to kill you. Now I get to enjoy it.

The first man stepped in.

Vaun struck low, axe to knee. Bone cracked. The man screamed and dropped. Vaun slammed the axe down again, once, into the skull. No hesitation. No thought.

Blood hit the floor.

His blood boiled.

The second man shouted and came from behind. Vaun spun, grabbed a rusted fire iron from the hearth, and jammed it under the man's ribs. Metal bent. Bone cracked.

This feels right.

The last man hesitated at the doorway. "What the hell are you?!"

Vaun walked forward, slow and steady, dragging the axe behind him.

"I'm earning my place."

The man ran.

Vaun didn't chase him.

He waited.

And sure enough, when the fool crept back to throw a knife from the doorframe, Vaun turned and hurled the axe like a promise.

It struck the man's chest, burying deep with a thud that shook the frame.

Silence returned.

His breath slowed. The heat faded. The cut on his arm clotted too fast, leaving dark red lines like veins crawling across the skin.

He sat back down.

Looked at the mess.

Then picked at the blood on his knuckles and whispered to no one.

"This world owes me more than scraps."

The bodies lay crumpled like discarded coats, blood soaking into the warped floorboards. Vaun stood over them, chest rising in shallow gasps, the axe loose in his grip.

His own blood still ran from his forearm, trailing down to his fingertips, mixing with the blood of the men he'd slaughtered.

He stared at it.

Not with fear.

With fascination.

I bled first, and now I'm whole. Or maybe just less broken.

The pain should've made him weak. Instead, it had sharpened everything—his hearing, his balance, even his vision. His thoughts raced but remained clean. No chaos. No regret.

He crouched beside the man with the shattered jaw. Reached out, dipped two fingers into the puddle of blood at the man's side, and drew a crude spiral onto the wooden floor.

Nothing happened.

He waited.

Still nothing.

But something inside him shifted. As if the act of making the mark had moved a stone deeper within.

He wiped his fingers on the man's coat.

Then he sat down in the corner.

Time passed. He didn't count it.

Eventually, his heart calmed, and the warmth in his blood cooled.

The room began to smell like copper and piss.

Flies gathered.

He leaned back against the wall, staring at the flicker of sunlight filtering through a shattered board in the roof. His fingers tapped the axe's wooden haft absently.

They weren't worth remembering.

And yet, part of him had changed.

He didn't enjoy the killing. But he didn't resent it either.

They had tried to take what was his. And the moment his blood hit the floor, the world had agreed with him, it was his now.

The building. The axe. The silence.

He shifted and rolled his injured arm back in cloth. The wound had mostly closed, but the skin around it was firm and hot.

No infection. Just power.

He felt it pulsing beneath the surface like a second heartbeat.

He stood and searched the bodies. Took a flask, a dry chunk of bread, a pair of better boots. One of them had a map, it was crude, charcoal on hide. No cities, just hunting paths and known ruins.

One mark stood out.

A cross, far to the northeast.

No label. No trail. Just a symbol burned into the corner.

He folded the map and tucked it into his belt.

Then he stepped out into the gray light.

The forest watched him again. But this time, it did not whisper.

It waited.

He didn't return inside.

There was nothing left for him in that house except rot and blood. The men who thought they owned it now fed the floorboards, their lives no more significant than stains on the edge of his memory.

The axe felt lighter in his grip now. Not because it had changed—but because he had.

Each swing during the fight had awakened something further inside him. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was staking claims. Piece by piece. Life by life.

He stepped into the tree line, following no path but his own rhythm. The forest parted for him more easily now, as if acknowledging the shift in him. The leaves rustled without wind. Crows cawed above, circling, but never swooping low.

About an hour into his silent march, Vaun spotted a cluster of stones off to his left.

Old stones, stacked unnaturally, with blackened symbols carved along their faces. He paused. The symbols resembled the spiral he had drawn, distorted, unfinished, fractured across the edges.

Something about it stirred recognition.

He dropped to one knee and touched the top of the stones. They were warm, despite the chill in the air.

His blood responded. His fingers tingled.

He pulled back quickly and stood.

He didn't understand what they were. But they understood him.

By nightfall, he reached another clearing, a hollow where two trees had fallen in a cross, their bark scorched. The soil had been turned recently. Maybe a camp. Maybe a grave.

Vaun didn't care.

He needed rest.

He laid the axe beside him and leaned against the thick roots of a tree, one arm still wrapped in dirty cloth. He chewed the stale bread slowly, forcing it down with a swig from the flask. Bitter water. But it was better than thirst.

Above, the stars emerged. Dim at first, then clearer. The sky pulsed with the faint shimmer of distant moons and circling satellites. This world still had its gods, even if they were metal and distant.

As sleep crept toward him, he felt it again.

The tug in his veins.

His fingers twitched. His breath slowed.

And somewhere in the branches above, a voice murmured—his own voice, but twisted.

More. You can take more.

He didn't speak back.

He just closed his eyes.

And let the blood hum him to sleep.