KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess

Xavier studied the massive footprints again. The wind picked up, sending fresh snow swirling around their boots and making the distant smoke columns dance against the gray sky.

"There's another possibility," he said slowly.

Both women turned to him, Ashley's crossbow still held at the ready while Naomi shifted closer to his side.

"We don't know what made these tracks. Could be hostile, could be..." Xavier paused, searching for the right words. "Look, we've been assuming the worst. But what if whatever this is isn't necessarily our enemy?"

Ashley scoffed. "You want to bet our lives on maybe?"

"I want to make an informed decision instead of running blind." Xavier gestured toward the smoke. "That village might have survivors. People who need help."

Naomi's purple hair caught snowflakes as she shook her head. "Or it might be a trap. Big scary monster leaves obvious tracks, drives prey toward a killing ground."

Xavier sighed. "Whatever's in that village, it's between us and Hearthome. Even if we take the long route, we might run into it again. Better to know what we're dealing with."

Ashley lowered her crossbow slightly. "So what are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting this isn't my decision alone. We go back and present the intel. We let everyone choose the flavor of danger they're willing to swallow."

They made their way back through the snow, the argument continuing in hushed tones. By the time they reached the small caravan, Xavier had counted at least six different plans, none of them particularly appealing.

Dalen called the group together beside the lead wagon. The remaining survivors gathered in a loose circle—eleven people, including the three of them. Xavier recognized most of the faces by now: Gareth the scout, his weathered features creased with worry; Marta, who'd been flirting with him since the Thornbeast attack; old Henrik, who'd lost his wagon but kept his sense of humor; and the others who'd become familiar over their days of shared danger.

"Right then," Dalen said, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. "Thornslayer's found what's been making those tracks. Efler?"

Ashley outlined their findings—the fresh tracks, the burning village, the unknown creature that had passed them on the road. As she spoke, Xavier scanned the circle. He saw fear in the whites of their eyes, exhaustion in their slumped shoulders, a weariness so profound it seemed to leach the color from the air around them.

"So what are our options?" asked Jorik, a trader who'd lost his partner in the Thornbeast attack.

"Three choices," Dalen said. "We turn around, find the southern route through Millhaven Pass. Adds three, maybe four days, but it's known territory."

"Four days we don't have supplies for," Henrik pointed out.

"Second option," Ashley continued, "we try to circle around through the forest. Risky with the wagons, probably impossible in this snow."

"Third option?" Marta asked, though her expression suggested she already knew the answer.

"We go through," Xavier said. "Straight down the road, past whatever's in that village."

The silence stretched long enough for the wind to shift, bringing the faint scent of smoke from the distant village.

"That's a stroll into a monster's den," Gareth said finally.

"Maybe. Or maybe whatever made those tracks isn't interested in us."

"And if it is?"

Xavier met the scout's eyes. "Then we deal with it. Same as we've dealt with everything else."

"The Thornbeasts were one thing," Jorik said. "This... thing that made those prints? That's something else entirely."

"Could be," Naomi agreed. "But Henrik's right about supplies. We're already stretching what we have. Four extra days means half rations, assuming we don't hit any other delays."

"A full belly's no use to a corpse," muttered one of the other survivors.

"Is that so?" Ashley asked. "Starving to death in the middle of nowhere isn't exactly an improvement."

The argument spiraled, a vortex of fear and pragmatism. Xavier let their words wash over him, cataloging each point like an enemy's weakness. Jorik's fear was a liability. Henrik's gallows humor, a shield. Ashley's logic was sound but cold.

They had survived Thornbeasts and Vorthak hunts. Bitter cold and dwindling supplies. And now, he was asking them to trust him with their lives again.

"I say we vote," Dalen announced when the discussion started repeating itself. "All in favor of the southern route?"

Three hands went up—Henrik, Jorik, and one of the women whose name Xavier hadn't learned.

"Forest route?"

No hands.

"Straight through?"

Xavier raised his hand, followed immediately by Naomi and Ashley. Marta's hand went up next, then two more.

"The vote's split," Dalen said, his gaze sweeping the divided group. "I won't force a path on a vote this close."

All eyes turned to Xavier. Thornslayer. The man who'd saved them when the monsters came. They'd follow his decision, even if they disagreed with it.

"What do you think, Thornslayer?" Dalen asked formally. "Your call."

Xavier looked around the circle again. Marta watching him with obvious trust. Henrik shaking his head but not arguing. Gareth's skeptical expression. Ashley's controlled tension. Naomi standing close enough that he could feel her warmth through their heavy coats.

The southern route. The assassin in him screamed it was the only logical move. Keep the assets alive. Minimize risk. Complete the objective—Hearthome.

But another voice, newer and far more irritating, whispered about the smoke on the horizon. About the faces that looked to him not for cold calculation, but for something more.

He thought about Calypso, somewhere ahead in Hearthome, probably worrying about him just as much as he worried about her. About the prophecy and the choice they'd have to make at the Heart of Winter.

Most of all, he thought about the man he'd been before—the one who would have taken the safe route without hesitation, who would have justified abandoning the village as pragmatic necessity.

That man had died with a bullet in his head in a penthouse in another world.

The wind picked up again, carrying more snow and the distant scent of smoke. Somewhere ahead, that village waited. Whatever had made those massive tracks might still be there, might already be gone, might be something they could handle or something that would kill them all.

Xavier closed his eyes and felt the familiar pull of his headache, the constant tug toward Hearthome and Calypso. When he opened them again, eleven faces waited for his answer.

Three days or seven. A full belly or an empty one. A monster's maw or a slow, freezing death. Save them or abandon them.

His choice. His responsibility. And, whether he'd wanted it or not, his people.

Xavier Valentine, a man who had mastered a hundred ways to end a life and a thousand ways to fake a feeling, looked at the faces depending on him. He had to decide. Not as the assassin who would take the safe path, but as the man they called Thornslayer.

And he was beginning to realize that those two men could never coexist.

"We go through."