Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

The world below had changed again.

Fields stretched further now—rows of organized crops instead of random clusters of wild roots.

Roads of hardened clay connected small colonies to a central hub, where larger stone buildings marked the birth of something approaching government. Primitive but progressing.

Fenrir stood atop his tower, arms folded, the mana-rich wind brushing against him like breath.

Fires burned in the night below, but not the destructive kind—these were fires of labor, of survival, of civilization. The humans had learned quickly.

And so had he.

A faint tone echoed beside him.

[Karma total: 15. Direct interference available at 10 karma. Proceed?]

Fenrir tilted his head slightly.

"So I finally made it."

[Correct. Direct contact is now authorized. By spending 10 karma, you may manifest your will in any one location, for a limited time, to communicate, bless, or demonstrate power. Doing so will strengthen belief and potentially increase your influence significantly.]

Fenrir turned his eyes back to the world.

"And if I do nothing?"

[Your followers will grow slowly, perhaps steadily—but faith is strongest during moments of divine revelation. Passive belief may sustain you, but active revelation builds legacy.]

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. His temples, though modest, were spreading.

There were now three stone structures in his name, each one crude and uneven but marked with his sigil—spirals of shadow, surrounded by horns or fire, depending on the local interpretation.

But his name? Still spoken only in hushed circles.

Then came the change.

One afternoon, a messenger ran breathless across one of the central colonies, face pale and voice trembling.

He shouted that the southern warbands had breached the border. Another followed—claiming the same.

Then another, screaming of burned villages, broken walls, and stolen grain.

Tensions, long simmering between the northern highlands and the fertile central valley, erupted.

War had come.

It started with skirmishes, but the fires spread like disease. Steel clashed with bronze.

Spears were sharpened from farming tools. Horses stolen. Livestock burned. The largest nation—Althira—called for mobilization, gathering its scattered territories under one banner for the first time in decades.

And from its capital, the prince himself rode to the Temple of the Whispering One.

Fenrir observed with sudden, sharp interest.

The prince knelt at the altar.

He was young, armored in polished bone and hardened leather, face dirtied with road dust. Behind him stood nobles, commanders, priests, and dozens of citizens watching from the courtyard.

He bowed his head and whispered.

"If you truly are real… grant me victory. I offer no gold. Only belief."

His voice trembled.

Fenrir narrowed his eyes.

Here it was—the moment.

He opened his palm.

[Do you wish to initiate direct contact?]

"Yes. Spend the 10 karma."

Fenrir said.

A faint hum rippled through the world. The wind in the temple shifted unnaturally, carrying no scent but thick with pressure.

Candles snuffed out in unison. Shadows lengthened.

Then, above the altar, a voice.

Deep. Calm. Inevitable.

"I hear you."

The prince flinched backward, his hands on the floor.

"Wh–who speaks?!"

"I am the one you built this temple for. The Whispering One. Your people have called me many names. I answer now with one offer."

Gasps echoed. Some screamed. One priest fainted.

The prince stared up, wide-eyed.

"W–what do you want?"

Fenrir's voice was steady, measured.

"Spread my word. Let the world know your victory came not from strength, but through faith. Do this, and I will grant you more than victory—I will make you emperor."

The silence was absolute.

Then the prince slowly rose to his feet, shaking. He pressed his forehead to the stone altar.

"Deal. I'll make the world remember your name."

He whispered.

A breath of wind passed through the temple. The torches relit, not by hand but by a spark of blue flame that circled them once before vanishing.

A mark burned onto the altar—his sigil, now etched in scorched stone.

The crowd erupted into cries of shock, confusion, and wonder.

Fenrir returned to his tower, the connection fading.

Another chime echoed.

[Karma Gained: +10]

[Your influence has deepened. Faith now extends beyond tribal belief. A kingdom is aligning itself with your image. This will accelerate world development and increase karma flow.]

The system reported.

Fenrir smirked.

"So I spent 10 to gain 10."

[However, the quality of this faith is elevated. Royalty, war, and destiny will soon bind to your legend.]

Fenrir looked out again over the growing world.

The armies had begun to move. The prince rode under banners woven with a horned figure of shadow, raised proudly where once only whispers clung to stone.

Every soldier who fought under him now heard his name. And soon, every kingdom that bent the knee to Althira would know it too.

Fenrir grinned.

He hadn't just returned to the world.

He was becoming the reason it would remember anything at all.

The war ended faster than anyone predicted.

Under the banners of the Whispering One, the prince's army moved like a tide of divine certainty. Their morale never wavered.

Their formations never cracked.

Storms broke in their favor, enemies stumbled into ambushes they hadn't planned, and the prince's own blade seemed to find every opening without fail.

Fenrir stood atop his tower, hand resting beneath his chin, observing calmly as the final battlefield turned to silence.

It hadn't taken much—a subtle adjustment in wind here, a surge of stamina there. A whisper of dread into the enemy commander's dreams.

The 10 karma he'd spent worked like clockwork.

And when the enemy surrendered without another drawn arrow, when not a single soldier in the prince's ranks had fallen in the final battle, the people didn't question why.

They knew why.

The Whispering One had chosen their side.

[Karma Acquired: +112]

[Karma Acquired: +154]

[Karma Acquired: +78]

[Your direct intervention has escalated divine belief. Your religion is now the official faith of the Althiran Empire. Temples are being constructed in your name across every province.]

The system said beside him, glowing brighter than ever.

Fenrir smirked as he watched craftsmen laying the first stones of a cathedral, the central altar modeled after his sigil—twisting shadows around a central spiral, adorned with obsidian and silver.

Worship now came with song. With doctrine. With names and titles.

"Shadowborn One."

"Keeper of Silence."

"Lord Who Watches."

[Karma total: 837. Accumulation steady.]

Fenrir folded his arms.

"Let me guess. The higher my influence climbs, the more karma rolls in without me doing anything."

[Correct. The foundation of a divine hierarchy is built on the structure of belief. Now that your image is systemic, karma accrues passively through ritual, prayer, and doctrine.]

He nodded, though his gaze drifted lazily across the landscape. His people were thriving.

The prince—now emperor—had carved an era of peace, backed by divine endorsement. Farmers offered harvests in Fenrir's name. Children whispered his tales like bedtime stories.

And it was all starting to feel… hollow.

"System, can I go down there myself?"

Fenrir said finally.

The glowing orb pulsed once before responding.

[Entering your realm in person requires 1,000 karma points. You currently possess 837.]

"Of course I do. Always just short."

Fenrir muttered.

He turned back to the world, scanning it.

He needed another event—something disruptive, something massive—to tilt the scales again. But as he searched, he felt it before he saw it.

A ripple.

A disturbance.

A voice not his own echoing faintly from one of the southern colonies.

He focused in.

A crowd had gathered in a canyon town, not around one of his temples, but before a tall wooden statue carved in the likeness of a man in armor.

A war hero—broad-shouldered, fire-eyed, with a sword planted into the ground before him.

The people were chanting a name he didn't recognize.

"Elden the Undefeated."

Fenrir's gaze narrowed.

One of the village elders spoke loudly.

"He led the broken legions to safety! He defeated the raiders without divine help! Why should we kneel to a silent god when this man stood beside us in the flesh?"

The crowd roared in agreement.

They were calling him divine. Not in jest, not in reverence to Fenrir—in replacement of him.

"System…What is this?"

Fenrir said tightly.

[A rival faith is emerging. Rooted in personal reverence, not divine power. Hero-worship of Elden has escalated into belief in his ascension.]

Fenrir turned away from the image, irritation flaring in his chest.

"And the people believe he's a god now?"

[They believe he has been chosen. That his victories mark him as divinely touched. If this belief spreads, it could fracture your influence and divert karma generation.]

"Wonderful."

Fenrir muttered.

He turned back to the statue.

Already, people were kneeling. Offerings were being placed. A makeshift altar had formed, and one child was reciting a tale of Elden's last battle like scripture.

In moments, a myth was being born.

And Fenrir wasn't the author.

He clenched his jaw, then breathed in slowly.

"Fine. If they want spectacle, I'll give them something real to believe in."

[Reminder: you still require 163 additional karma points to descend in physical form.]

"Then I'll take it from this. If Elden wants to play god, let's see if he can handle a god's shadow."

Fenrir said darkly.

He turned back toward the canyon, eyes glinting with cold purpose.

One false idol had emerged.

Time to remind the world who had built their skies.