Chapter 12: Illagers

Year 5, Day 70

Once more, I ventured into the wilderness, searching for what had eluded me for so long—a village. My first journey had been driven by desperation, a need to find others like me, to confirm that I was not the only one left to wander this forsaken world. But now, my purpose had changed. The journals I had gathered spoke of many past survivors who had embarked on the same quest—to end the undead horde by slaying the Ender Dragon. If I was to follow in their footsteps, I needed to prepare. And for that, I required the knowledge of the villagers.

The art of forging diamond equipment was beyond my grasp, yet the villagers—despite being eternally trapped in a primitive stone age—had somehow mastered it. Their ability to shape this near-indestructible mineral into weapons and armor of unmatched durability was nothing short of remarkable. It was a craft that defied logic, turning raw, unyielding diamond into tools fit for survival in this merciless world.

If I was to stand any chance against the nightmares lurking in the Nether and, eventually, confront the End itself, I had to learn their secrets. Their knowledge was not just valuable—it was essential for my survival.

However, the search would not be easy. The journals described villages as rare, deliberately scattered across the land, hidden away from the reach of the undead. No two settlements were close together, each one a lone beacon of civilization in an otherwise empty world. There was no telling how long my search would take—months, perhaps even years. And even if I found one, there was no guarantee it would be inhabited. The last village I had discovered in the desert had been wiped out; its homes empty, and its people long gone.

Villages could exist in almost any biome—forests, plains, tundras, even the depths of swamps. I would have to search them all, following every clue, every landmark that might lead me to civilization. My journey was far from over. If anything, it had only just begun.

Year 5, Day 228

The swamp is unlike any terrain I have traversed before—an endless expanse of thick mud, towering trees draped in vines, and stagnant pools of water that seem to stretch forever. Every step my horse takes is a battle against the earth itself, the mire gripping at his hooves, threatening to pull us both under. I tread carefully, guiding him along the drier patches of land where the ground is firmer, but it's a constant struggle to avoid the deeper pits of mud that could trap us indefinitely.

The air is heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation, and the silence is only broken by the occasional splash of something unseen lurking beneath the water's surface. The most prominent sound, however, is the chorus of deep, resonating croaks. Massive frogs, far larger than any I have ever seen, thrive in this forsaken land. With no humans or natural predators to stunt their growth, they have evolved unchecked, becoming dominant creatures of the swamp. They do not appear to be hostile, but their sheer size is unnerving. I keep my distance, watching them perch on floating logs or leap astonishing distances with ease onto lilypads.

Despite the challenges, I push forward, scanning every shadow and clearing for any sign of a village. If one exists in this swamp, it is well-hidden, concealed within the labyrinth of water and trees. But I will not turn back—not yet. If there is something to be found here, I intend to find it.

Just when I thought this swamp held nothing but mud, water, and oversized frogs, I stumbled upon something remarkable—a house, standing alone in the heart of the mire. It was a crude structure, built of dark wood, barely standing above the water on stilts. The windows were fogged with age, and a dim light flickered from within. Unlike the abandoned villages I have seen before, this place was… occupied.

Dismounting my horse, I approached cautiously. From inside, I could hear voices—low and rhythmic, speaking in a language eerily similar to the villagers' tongue. But there was something different about it, as if the words were laced with an unnatural energy. The air around the house was thick with an unfamiliar scent, a mixture of burning herbs and something more acrid, almost metallic.

Peering through the cracked doorway, I saw them. Three figures, hunched over a bubbling cauldron, their faces obscured by the shadows of their wide-brimmed hats. Unlike the simple robes of the villagers, their garments were elaborate—deep purples, dark blues, and streaks of gold embroidered in intricate patterns. They looked like something out of the old stories from my past life—wizards.

I should have left then and there, but the sight of intelligent life in this cruel and empty world filled me with cautious excitement. Taking a slow step forward into the house, I cleared my throat and spoke in their native tongue. "Please, I need your help."

The figures froze. One by one, they turned their heads toward me, their eyes unreadable beneath their shadowed hoods. Then, without a word, they looked at each other and began to whisper in hushed, hurried tones.

I stood there, unmoving, my heart pounding. They weren't startled by my presence—not in the way villagers usually were when they first saw me. No, this was different. Their whispers felt… calculated, as if they were deciding something. I watched them carefully, trying to read their intentions. Were they discussing how to help me? Or were they deciding something far more sinister?

Before I could take another step, one of them moved with terrifying speed. With a flick of their wrist, something small and glass-like hurtled through the air toward me. I barely had time to brace myself before it shattered against my armor.

A sharp, acrid scent filled my nostrils as the toxic substance seeped through my skin, stung my eyes, and burned my throat. Within seconds, a searing pain ignited in my veins, spreading like wildfire through my body. My vision blurred, my limbs grew weak, and a crushing wave of nausea threatened to drop me to my knees. I had been poisoned.

I staggered back, trying to regain control, but another glass bottle smashed against my shoulder. This time, it wasn't just pain—I felt my limbs grow heavy, my movements sluggish. A slow paralysis crept over me, as if my body no longer obeyed my commands.

The three figures circled me now, their faces twisted in cruel delight. They chuckled darkly, speaking in their strange dialect—mocking me, waiting for the poison to do its work. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I dropped to one knee, gripping my sword for support.

I didn't want this. I didn't come here for a fight. But I wasn't about to die here, alone, in this cursed swamp at the hands of these fiends.

With the last of my strength, I tightened my grip on my sword and forced myself to stand. If they thought I was going to die that easily, they were dead wrong.

Every breath burned in my chest. My vision wavered. The poison was doing its work, but I refused to fall. They cackled, their voices a warped echo in my ears as they prepared to throw more of their cursed potions. I had to act—now.

I forced my legs to move, lunging forward with my enchanted sword. One of the witches raised a hand, ready to toss another vial, but I was faster. My blade cut through the air, slashing across the wooden staff she carried. The force knocked it backward, and its potion slipped from its grasp, shattering at its own feet. A toxic cloud erupted around it, and it let out a shriek as the very poison meant for me seeped into its flesh.

But there was no time to relish the small victory. Another one of them flung a potion at me—I barely turned in time. The glass clipped my armor, and a strange, cold energy spread through my arm. My body felt heavier. Weakness. They were stacking effects against me, trying to wear me down.

I gritted my teeth, summoning all my strength, and hurled my trident. The Loyalty enchantment glowed as it spun through the air, striking one of them square in the chest. It screamed and collapsed, clutching at the weapon embedded in its body. With a flick of my wrist, the trident tore itself free and soared back to my hand.

Only one remained now. It stood defiantly, its eyes burning with malice, lips moving in a hushed incantation. Slowly, it reached into its robes and pulled out a final bottle—a deep red vial, swirling with dark energy. A damage potion. A concoction designed to finish off anyone who had somehow survived the poison. The liquid inside was pure death, a concentrated acid meant to eat through flesh and bone in seconds. If it hit me, there would be no coming back. I couldn't let that happen.

Summoning the last of my strength, I lunged forward. The witch hurled the potion, but this time, I was ready. With a desperate swing, my blade struck the vial mid-air. Glass shattered, and a crimson mist erupted—only this time, it wasn't me who suffered.

The witch's twisted grin contorted into horror as its own lethal brew engulfed it. A shriek tore through the room as the corrosive mist clung to its skin, sizzling and burning through fabric and flesh alike. It stumbled backward, convulsing, before collapsing lifelessly onto the floor, its body eaten away by the very weapon it had meant for me. It was over.

I had no idea what these were, but they clearly were not villagers. Since they look like magical beings who craft wicked potions, I have decided to name them Witches.

The witches were dead, but their magic still clung to me like a curse. My limbs trembled, my vision blurred, and every beat of my heart felt like a drum pounding against my skull. The poison was still in my veins, eating away at me from the inside. I didn't have much time.

Desperation forced my hands to search through the remains of my fallen enemies. Shattered glass, dried herbs, and potions of all kinds littered the floor. Most were lethal—dark, swirling liquids that reeked of death and decay. But then, something caught my eye. A vial of pink liquid, shimmering faintly in the dim light of the hut.

I uncorked it and took a cautious sniff. It smelled… strange. A mix of watermelon and some kind of metal, sweet yet metallic. I didn't know what it was, but I had no other choice. The poison was killing me, and this might be my only hope. So I drank.

The effect was immediate. Warmth spread through my body, soothing the burning pain in my chest. My breath steadied, my strength returned, and for the first time since the battle, I felt relief. I kept drinking in measured sips, letting the potion's magic mend the damage the witches had inflicted. Slowly, the poison lost its grip on me.

Once I could stand without my legs buckling, I turned my attention to the rest of the hut. A strange crafting item was found on a table, clearly a brewing stand of some kind stood in the center, the heart of their twisted craft. Shelves lined the walls, filled with mysterious ingredients—glowing dust, strange mushrooms, and otherworldly substances I couldn't yet identify.

I had never seen anything like this before. The journals I found spoke of enchantments, of tools and weapons infused with power, but not a single one mentioned the art of potion-making. This was something new. Something powerful. I didn't know how to brew these potions, not yet. But if the witches could do it, so could I.

I gathered everything I could carry—the brewing stand, the ingredients, and the remaining vials of the pink healing potion. This knowledge, this power, would not be left to rot in the depths of this cursed swamp.

With the last of my strength, I mounted my horse and turned away from the witches' hut, leaving their lifeless bodies behind. I had survived, but this world had just shown me another secret. And I intended to master it.

Year 5, Day 249

I have returned to my base, battered but alive. The witches' hut may have been a den of treachery, but it left me with something invaluable—the knowledge that potions exist, that they can heal, enfeeble, and possibly even grant abilities beyond what my body is capable of. But knowledge alone is not enough. I need to learn how to craft them.

I cleared out one of the abandoned homes in my village and repurposed it into a brewing station. The brewing stand from the witches' hut now sits in the center, surrounded by bottles, cauldrons of water, and every ingredient I scavenged. I spent days experimenting, combining everything I had—glowing dust, dried fruit, crushed mushrooms—hoping to create something, anything, that resembled the pink healing potion that saved my life.

Every attempt ended in failure. Some mixtures turned to sludge, others fizzled into nothingness. A few even exploded in my face, leaving me coughing in a cloud of acrid smoke. The process is more delicate than I imagined. It's not like crafting weapons or tools—alchemy is an art, one that I have yet to understand.

There's something missing. A key ingredient. Something rare. The witches had it, but I have no idea what it is. Without it, I am just throwing ingredients into the brewing stand, hoping for a miracle.

This has become another goal, another reason to continue my search for a village. Someone, somewhere, must know the secret of potion-making. If I can unlock it, I can create powerful elixirs that will ensure my survival. Healing potions to recover from wounds, strength potions to enhance my combat abilities, and perhaps even greater concoctions to aid in my ultimate mission—to defeat the Ender Dragon and the Wither, the true demons of this world.

The answers are out there. I just have to find them.

Year 5, Day 263

I returned to the witches' hut today, hoping to find something—anything—that might reveal the missing piece to my brewing efforts. If these witches knew how to craft potions, then surely, they must have left behind some clue.

The swamp was as wretched as I remembered. Thick mud threatened to pull my boots under with every step, and the croaks of the monstrous frogs echoed through the dense fog. When I arrived at the hut, the place was still and silent. The remains of the battle were exactly as I had left them.

I searched every chest and barrel, sifting through vials of poisons, melons, and strange powders that gave off an eerie glow. But there were no instructions, no lists of ingredients, no books detailing how these potions were made. I checked the corpses of the witches, hoping that one of them had carried a note, a guide, anything. But there was nothing.

I now believe that the knowledge of potion brewing is not something written down. It must be taught, passed down from one witch to another. A secret kept hidden from outsiders like me.

Frustrated but not defeated, I gathered what little I could—more vials and any unfamiliar ingredients that might be useful. If I can't find the knowledge in writing, then I will have to learn the hard way—through trial, error; or finding anyone else who does know.

As I stepped out of the hut, my pack weighed down with whatever ingredients I could salvage, an eerie stillness settled over the swamp. The thick fog swirled around me, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something I wasn't prepared for—unease. Something was watching me.

I gripped my sword and scanned the trees, the murky water, the twisted roots stretching like claws through the mud. But I saw nothing. Then, a shadow passed over me. I looked up.

Floating above me was a figure unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was small but unmistakably humanoid, with ghostly pale skin and glowing blue eyes. Wispy, almost translucent wings fluttered on its back, keeping it aloft like an angelic specter. A tiny sword gleamed in its grasp, and though it made no move to strike, its presence alone was enough to send a chill through my bones.

I had never encountered such a being before, but I had read about them. A single word surfaced in my mind from the journals I had studied: Vex.

The logs barely described them—only that they appeared under the command of unknown beings, summoned to do their bidding. But why was it here? Why was it watching me?

I took a cautious step back, and in an instant, the Vex darted upward, vanishing into the mist like a wraith.

I don't know if it was a warning, a message, or simply a coincidence. But I do know this—I have drawn the attention of something beyond my understanding. And that thought unsettles me more than any monster I have faced so far.

Year 5, Day 305

A few days have passed since the unsettling encounter with the phantom, and today I found myself in a vast field of rolling hills. The sun shone brilliantly overhead, and I let my guard drop ever so slightly as I rode my horse along the gentle slopes. For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to feel at ease.

Then, out of nowhere, the unmistakable twang of a bowstring snapped me back to reality. Instinct took over. The countless battles against skeletons had trained my ears to recognize even the faintest whisper of danger. Without thinking, I leapt from my horse, rolling hard against the grass just as the air split with the deadly hiss of a projectile.

A sharp thud followed—several arrow buried itself into the ground where I had been just moments before. My horse reared in panic, letting out a terrified cry before bolting into the distance, disappearing over the rolling hills. I was alone now, exposed in the open field.

But something was wrong. The sun hung high in the sky, its golden light casting long shadows across the land. Skeletons shouldn't be active in daylight. And yet, someone—or something—had just tried to end me. I pushed myself to my feet, heart pounding, scanning the horizon for the source of the attack. And then, I saw them.

Figures standing atop a nearby hill, silhouetted against the sun. At first glance, they looked like villagers—but something was off. Their skin was an ashen gray, their faces twisted with something unnatural. Clad in padded leather, they gripped crossbows tightly in their hands.

Then, one among them stepped forward. A banner was strapped to its back, tattered and worn, bearing an insignia I didn't recognize. It raised a hand and pointed straight at me. In the guttural tongue of the villagers, it gave a single, chilling command. "Attack!"

My heart pounded as I realized I was outnumbered. The serene field had transformed into a battlefield in an instant, and these gray-clad figures meant war. I've faced many dangers in this new world, but this ambush—by those who look like the villagers, yet are so distinctly different—has left me with more questions than answers.

I clutched my sword tightly, ready for what may come, and wondered: Who are these people? And why do they brandish arms against me? The journey ahead is becoming more treacherous than ever, and I fear that the mystery of the past may be entwined with the fate of this strange new enemy.

I knew I couldn't take them head-on—not out in the open. My instincts screamed for me to move, to escape their line of fire. I turned and sprinted, diving behind a nearby hill as bolts whizzed past me, some striking the grass where I had just been standing. My breath was heavy, but I forced myself to steady it. I needed to think.

Peering over the hill, I watched as the gray-skinned warriors spread out, scanning the area for any sign of movement. That was interesting—they were searching. That meant they couldn't sense me the way the undead could. Unlike zombies and skeletons, these enemies relied on sight and sound, not some unnatural ability to detect the living. That was an advantage I could use.

I reached over my shoulder, fingers wrapping around the familiar grip of my bow as I pulled it free. In one fluid motion, I nocked an arrow, the enchantment igniting as the flames danced along the shaft. The heat brushed against my cheek as I drew the bowstring back, steadying my breath. My eyes locked onto the leader—the one who had given the order. I wasn't aiming for a kill. Not yet. A quick, precise shot to their weapon could disarm them, break their composure, and throw their ranks into disarray. I exhaled slowly, steadied my aim, and released.

The moment I had an opening, I loosed the arrow. It streaked through the air like a comet, striking true—the leader's crossbow was torn from his hands, clattering to the ground in flames. He let out a sharp grunt of surprise, shaking his hand from the heat before glaring in my direction.

Then, he shouted something that made my blood run cold. "Enchantment! Attack!"

As one, every single warrior tossed their crossbows aside and unsheathed iron axes. I blinked in shock—iron weapons. Villagers only ever used stone tools, never metal. These enemies weren't just hostile, they were advanced. They must have moved into the iron age while the other villagers remained in the stone age. They knew how to forge and wield metal weapons, something I found no evidence of villagers ever doing.

Once again, this has changed everything of what I know this world is capable of.

I had expected simple raiders, maybe some rogue villagers who had turned violent. But this? This was something more. Whoever these people were, they had knowledge beyond what the villagers possessed. And now, they were charging at me with deadly intent.

I gritted my teeth and readied my next move. This battle was far from over.

The moment their leader shouted the command, the four warriors charged with terrifying precision. Their iron axes gleamed in the sunlight, their movements disciplined and coordinated. They weren't mere brutes; they were trained fighters, far more skilled than the undead I had faced before.

The first blow came faster than I could anticipate. I barely had time to raise my shield before the axe crashed against it with bone-rattling force. The impact sent a shockwave through my arm, nearly knocking me off balance. These warriors were stronger, far stronger than I expected. If it weren't for my shield's enchantments, I doubted it would have held against such a strike.

I gritted my teeth and shoved forward, throwing the attacker off balance. Before he could recover, I swung my enchanted sword. The blade moved with unnatural speed, whistling through the air. It met his axe in a blinding flash of light and the weapon didn't just chip or crack. It shattered. The iron exploded into shards, scattering like broken glass. The warrior staggered back, his eyes wide with disbelief.

But there was no time to revel in the advantage. The second warrior was already upon me, his axe coming down in a deadly arc aimed straight at my ribs. I twisted my shield just in time, deflecting the blow, but the sheer force of it sent me skidding backward. I barely steadied myself before the third and fourth warriors flanked me, their axes raised high.

I was outnumbered. Their sheer strength was overwhelming, their strikes relentless. Every block rattled my bones, every swing of their weapons pushing me closer to exhaustion. My armor dulled the worst of their blows, but I could feel the weight of battle pressing down on me. I had never fought opponents like this; coordinated, brutal, unrelenting.

Then I struck back.

I caught the third warrior's axe mid-swing with my sword. The moment my enchanted blade made contact, his weapon crumbled to dust in his hands. His eyes widened in horror as he stumbled back, unarmed.

The fourth warrior hesitated, his grip tightening on his axe. But hesitation was his mistake. I lunged, bringing my sword down with all my strength. His axe met the same fate as the others, shattered in an instant, leaving only the handle in his trembling grasp.

Panic spread through them like wildfire. Their leader, who had once commanded them with such confidence, now took a step back. He looked at me, then at my enchanted armor, my glowing sword, the shield that had withstood their best efforts and realization dawned in his eyes.

"Not ordinary human!" he shouted in their strange dialect. Then, his voice rose in a frantic command: "Retreat!"

The remaining warriors turned and ran, scrambling over the hills, disappearing into the distance. Their fearless charge had turned into a desperate retreat.

I stood there, catching my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. They had been skilled, disciplined fighters. But my enchanted equipment had been too much for them to handle. If they feared enchantments this much, then that meant something. Maybe they had never encountered magic of this caliber before. Either that, or maybe they had known about enchantments, and they knew exactly what it was capable of.

As the dust settled and the last of the warriors disappeared over the hills, I lowered my sword and took a deep breath. My grip tightened on the hilt for a moment before I sheathed the blade, turning my attention to the battlefield.

Among the scattered remnants of the fight, my eyes landed on one of their discarded crossbows. I crouched down, picking it up carefully. The weight was solid, the craftsmanship unlike anything I had seen before. It was heavier than a regular bow, built with precision and reinforced with iron fittings. The mechanism was complex, yet efficient—a weapon designed for war.

I turned it over in my hands, studying how the string locked into place and how the bolt would fire with a simple pull of the trigger. These warriors, whoever they were, had knowledge beyond that of common villagers. They were more advanced, more structured. And they feared enchantments. That alone made them dangerous. This battle is not over, and now that they know I can enchant gear, they might come after me someday.

Tucking the crossbow away in my rucksack, I gathered what few supplies I could from the battlefield before turning back toward my horse's tracks. But before I could take another step, that same cold sensation prickled at the back of my neck. I was being watched. Again.

Slowly, I lifted my gaze. Hovering high above me, just at the edge of my vision, was the Vex. Its ghostly wings fluttered, its glowing eyes locked onto me with unmistakable fury. It didn't move, didn't make a sound—just stared.

I clenched my jaw, gripping my sword's hilt. "What do you want?" I muttered under my breath.

The Vex's expression twisted into something unreadable before, with a sharp flick of its wings, it turned and vanished into the sky.

I stood there, unmoving, thoughts racing. This wasn't a coincidence. This creature—whatever it was—was following me. Watching me. Judging me. And now, it looked…angry.

With the battle behind me, I followed the trail of hoofprints in the dirt, moving swiftly to find my horse. It hadn't gone far, spooked but unharmed. As I approached, I reached out slowly, letting it recognize me before I grabbed the reins and gave it a reassuring pat.

Even as I mounted my horse, my mind remained fixed on the warriors I had just encountered. They resembled villagers, but they were something else entirely—twisted reflections of the peaceful folk I had come to know. Their skin was an ashen gray, their expressions hard and unforgiving, etched with malice. Unlike the villagers, who cowered behind walls and placed their hopes in the promise of a savior, these warriors fought. They bore iron weapons, clad themselves in sturdy armor, and, for reasons I couldn't yet fathom, hunted survivors like me.

A rogue faction. A splintered tribe. Fuled by savagery and hatred.

The villagers refused to take up arms against the undead, clinging to their belief that salvation would come from a prophesied hero. But these warriors had abandoned that faith. They must have grown tired of waiting—tired of watching their people fall to the undead. Instead of hiding, they took matters into their own hands. And somewhere along the way, they lost their humanity.

I needed a name for them. A distinction from the passive villagers who still clung to hope. Illagers. A fitting name for a people filled with ill will. A people who had turned their backs on the ways of the village and embraced savagery.

I took one last glance at the battlefield, then turned my horse toward the horizon. The world was growing more complicated. I was no longer just fighting against the undead. There were other forces at play, other factions with their own agendas.

And I needed to be ready for whatever came next.