Eyes of the Wendigo
The Wendigo's eyes lurked throughout the forest, here and there. Any eye-shaped pattern etched into the trees was the Wendigo's eye. Any beast eyeing them suspiciously was also the Wendigo's eye.
Amid the dozens of images unfolding in the spirit world, the Wendigo spotted familiar faces. People trudging through the forest, their expressions brimming with dissatisfaction. The exiled shamans had wandered into an owl's gaze.
If possible, I'd like them to just leave on their own...
Of course, that wasn't going to happen. Without a shred of expectation, the Wendigo possessed the owl's body.
The shamans who had failed the Wendigo's cryptic test seethed with twisted guts and rising irritation. If they'd at least known the reason, they might not have been so furious—but they'd been chased off by a single word from the Wendigo without even hearing why. What the hell could that question possibly reveal to warrant kicking them out?
"This is why you can't deal with spirits."
"Shh, keep it down. What if a spirit overhears us?"
"You think that's realistic? Think about how long we've been walking. No matter how paranoid that spirit is, it's not surveilling us out here."
At one shaman's retort, the others relaxed. Logically, once they'd left the village behind, there was no reason for any spirit to be watching. Sure, in times of war or vast conspiracies, spirits might swallow their tears and pay a heavy price to plant eyes and ears everywhere—but this wasn't that kind of situation.
Before the Wendigo, they'd flashed their spirit eyes and put on pitiful acts, but now the masks were off, revealing their true colors. Their once-slick faces creased with anger and curses, their postures as arrogant as any famed northern jarl.
"Damn it. No clue what grounds he had for kicking us out."
"Gunrod, you planning to head back empty-handed just like this?"
The one-eyed shaman Gunrod grumbled as he pulled a red sandalwood pipe from his pouch. A sly-looking fellow piped up. Gunrod shot him a pathetic glance and lit the pipe. Savoring the smoke, he flashed a cunning smile.
"What a stupid question. You think a shaman would just walk away from a place this ripe for the picking?"
"But didn't you feel it too? That thing's no novice spirit—definitely at least three hundred years old. You really thinking of pulling a stunt on a spirit like that?"
An elderly shaman shot Gunrod a wary look—not out of loyalty to the Wendigo, but fear of the backlash splashing onto him. Gunrod cackled at the old man's feeble demeanor.
"Ha. Three hundred years, four hundred—it doesn't matter. The key is, it's a spirit. Smarter than dumb serfs or tribesmen, sure, but that's exactly why they get rattled so easily."
As Gunrod spoke with utter confidence, a few shamans perked up, listening intently. If it had been some no-name shaman talking big, they'd have dismissed it as bravado. But Gunrod had a reputation among shamans—albeit one closer to infamy.
Gunrod was infamous for blackmailing spirits into coughing up mysticism. He was genuinely skilled at it. Tricking spirits with lies and traps until they spat out their power in rage? That took nerves of steel.
Not everyone was swayed by his fame, though. The more seasoned shamans eyed him with distaste.
"A spirit contractor mocking spirits? Unbelievable."
"Forgot how you lost that eye? And you still haven't learned your lesson."
"You old fools only know how to bow to spirits—you wouldn't know smart from your ass. Spirits are bastards anyway. Why bother being honest with scum like that?"
Some sided with Gunrod; others eyed his schemes warily. The shamans glared at each other, killing intent crackling in the air. They looked ready to draw blood right then—but...
"No point arguing. We're not joining your plan, so get that through your head. We'll do things our way."
"Fine. Split here then. Don't come crying later, you senile idiots."
The shamans had no desire to waste spells on pointless squabbles. Those not joining Gunrod shot them venomous looks and peeled off from the group. Watching them go, Gunrod clicked his tongue in regret.
If those guys had stuck with us, it'd have been easier to screw over that spirit.
Gunrod's methods strayed far from the orthodox. Acting so aggressively practically invited spirit retaliation. That's why he always roped in plenty of allies. More bodies meant the spirit's wrath got spread thin, right? He'd planned to bulk up his meat shields—er, comrades—this time too, but sadly, there weren't that many idiots among the shamans.
Roughly six, huh?
Their greedy glints were just Gunrod's type. Poke at their greed, and they'd throw themselves into danger willingly.
Gunrod unrolled a parchment on the ground. It depicted the villages he'd passed through.
"A map?"
"Turns out the world's edge doesn't come with one. So I mapped the villages I've hit. Add yours too."
Gunrod sketched as the shamans shared their paths—how many villages in this direction, met so-and-so over there, so that must be... The finished map showed at least ten villages.
Gunrod leered at it with a sleazy grin.
"No idea why, but that spirit seems obligated to protect the forest folk. You'd agree?"
"Mm... Yeah, the forest people showed real loyalty. Must be tied to them somehow."
The Wendigo's questions had mostly probed whether they planned harm to the forest folk or themselves. Clearly, there was some reason to guard the forest and its people.
"Our job's simple: flex some muscle. Hit the villages all at once, make that spirit's life hell."
"Wait—too risky, isn't it? That's basically charging head-on!"
A particularly young shaman balked, and the others turned suspicious eyes on Gunrod. Mess it up, and they could lose everything—maybe even their lives.
Gunrod snorted, countering the kid.
"Relax. We don't need to raze them—just make 'em hurt."
He pulled an incense burner from his robes. It belched foul smoke and glowed eerily. Crafted using the mysticism of a serpent spirit dubbed "poison-drinking snake."
"For example, this curse on the burner could cripple a village in seconds..."
"So that's what the stench was. What a petty plan."
"!"
The shamans whipped out tools at the alien voice, scanning their surroundings. Gunrod cracked a whip woven from a burned woman's hair and bellowed.
"Hiding and spying, yet calling me petty? Show yourself!"
"Look up."
The shamans reflexively craned their necks. There, an owl with glowing blue eyes...
They flinched.
"Dodge!"
Gunrod's spine chilled with inexplicable dread, and he yelled. Fitting for the vilest shamans, not even worthy of the trash label—they sensed danger and scrambled spells to shield themselves. Bear pelts toughened their skin; diamond talismans summoned rock shields.
All useless.
Crack-crunch!
"You morons! Don't block—dodge!"
"Shit! What the hell are these roots—aaargh!!!"
Roots erupted from the earth, morphing into spears and axes that battered the foes. Bear pelts shredded under spear tips, spewing blood; rock shields shattered under brutal axe blows. Stripped of defenses, the shamans had no chance to resist before roots impaled them.
"Rally behind me!"
Gunrod called the survivors, lashing his whip viciously. The burned woman's anguish manifested as raging flames, scorching roots and forest alike. He scanned wildly for the Wendigo—surely nearby to unleash such flashy spells.
Nothing.
Furious, Gunrod glared around and barked orders.
"Fire, whatever—wreck the forest!"
"Gunrod, you didn't expect the spirit to fight back this hard! We should beg forgiveness now—urk?!"
Gunrod seized the shaman's collar, snarling with ghostly eyes.
"Idiot. You still don't get it? He never planned to let us live! Shut up and attack!"
"Damn it, I never signed up for this!"
Realizing their lives hung by a thread, the shamans unleashed their arts. A massive rock bear lumbered forth; a lightning mace crackled...
"Pointless thrashing."
"!?"
The Wendigo's voice echoed from nowhere as a brutal cold snap whipped through the forest. Gunrod resisted the bone-chilling freeze, shielding with his arm. It couldn't block it all, but it bought him time to open his eyes.
"What the...?"
Gunrod gaped in horror. Frost blanketed trees and ground that had burned moments ago; the air hung heavy and cold. The shamans knew it was real only because the gale had torn their skin—the pain from wounds proved it no illusion.
The owl descended to a branch with a raucous hoot, gazing down imperiously. The shamans twisted their faces in rage and roared.
"Damn spirit! Don't expect mercy now. We'll burn this forest no matter wha—"
"Talkative lot. Shamans or con artists? Pathetic skills, greed worse than any spirit."
"You son of a—!?"
BOOM!
A flying spear pierced the shaman mid-curse, eyes bulging with insulted fury. The others traced its path.
There stood the Wendigo they'd glimpsed before.
They glared with venom, despite the distance. If they pursued in earnest, they could catch it...
"W-wait. What's that next to it?"
"What? No time to look aw—huh?"
The shamans blinked at the impossible sight. Another Wendigo appeared beside the first.
But that was just the start. One Wendigo beside it, another beside that... Roughly six Wendigos materialized.
The shamans' boiling rage turned to ice.
Silence hung briefly.
"R-run!!!"
Will broken, the shamans turned tail. The Wendigos unleashed chilling howls and gave chase.