Chapter 13: New Companions

Year 6, Day 120

I've traveled farther than I ever thought possible, farther than I should have. The landscape behind me is but a fading memory, my home a distant place I may not see for weeks. I had set out in search of a village, convinced that if there were more survivors—if there was any hope of learning the lost art of diamond forging—it would be beyond the reaches of my familiar lands. But now, I am beginning to doubt. If another village exists, it must be far beyond my reach. Too far.

I can't push forward any longer. My animals back home rely on me. The crops need tending, the wolves need food, and my base—everything I've worked for—will wither without my presence. If I truly wish to go further, I would need to build another village from the ground up. A monumental task that would take years, if not longer.

For now, I have no choice but to explore within the radius of my home. If there is a village out there, if there is any hope of finding the knowledge I seek, I can only pray that it lies somewhere closer than I fear.

Year 6, Day 142

Today, I saw something I never expected—a villager, but unlike any I had encountered before. This one was different. He was draped in heavy, tattered robes of deep blue, the hood pulled low over his face, concealing everything but the faint glint of its nose beneath the shadow. Two llamas tied with leads stood beside him, their colorful carpets and packs swaying with each step as they trudged through the uneven terrain. He was alone. No village in sight. No walls to protect him. Just a solitary traveler moving through the wilderness.

For a brief moment, excitement overtook my caution. If he was here, then surely a settlement couldn't be far. Proof that I wasn't the only one building, surviving, pushing forward in this forsaken world. But I couldn't afford to be reckless. I didn't know who or what it was. The gray-skinned warriors I had encountered before had already shown me that not all who resemble villagers are peaceful.

So I approached—slowly, carefully—one hand resting on my sword's hilt, ready for anything. If this traveler was a threat, I wouldn't be caught off guard. But if he was a key to finding civilization, I needed to hear what he had to say.

I approached carefully, each step deliberate, my hand never straying far from my sword. The robed villager took notice of me but showed no fear, no sign of hostility—just quiet observation. His llamas grunted softly, their ears flicking as they stood idly beside their master.

I exhaled and held my nose, mimicking the speech of his kind. "Greetings," I said in their tongue, the words coming out strained and unnatural.

The villager perked up, stepping closer. His movements were slow, deliberate, not the erratic aggression I had feared. He wasn't like the gray-skinned warriors or the witches who had tried to kill me. There was no malice in his eyes—only a keen, calculating awareness.

When he was close enough, he loosened the straps of his pack and pulled it open, revealing an assortment of goods. "Buy?" he asked, his voice flat and emotionless.

I peered inside. The bag was filled with construction materials—granite, diorite, andesite, clay bricks—refined stone and decorative blocks that I had never seen used in any village before. These weren't survival essentials; these were luxuries. Materials meant for builders.

That's when it hit me. It was a trader, a wandering merchant. If it was traveling, then it had to know where other villages were. Perhaps it had even been to one recently. This could be my chance. My best lead yet.

I wasted no time. "Where you headed?" I asked, my voice steady but eager.

The trader adjusted its pack, its face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. "Village," he replied simply.

My heart nearly stopped. A village. A real, living village. Not a ruin, not an empty husk overrun by the undead. A place where people still lived. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope swelled inside me. I fought to keep my excitement in check, but the words spilled out before I could stop them. "Let me come."

The trader didn't hesitate. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, then turned and continued forward, his llamas obediently following behind. That was all the confirmation I needed. Without wasting another second, I swung myself onto my horse and fell in line behind him. The journey was far from over, but for the first time in ages, I felt like I was finally heading in the right direction.

Year 6, Day 144

It's been a few days since I joined the wandering trader on his journey. I have to admit, I'm impressed—astonished, even—that it can travel such great distances without weapons or armor. While I rely on steel and enchantments to keep me alive, the wandering merchant moves freely between villages with nothing but his llamas carrying food, water, and trade goods. It walks as if the dangers of the world do not apply to it.

At night, when the undead rise and the land turns hostile, it vanishes into caves or constructs makeshift shelters, slipping into sleep without worry. The dead never find the wandering merchant. I've seen no fear in its movements, no hesitation in its steps. It's as if it exists outside the dangers that define my world.

During one of our rest stops, I finally asked the wandering merchant a few questions, hoping to learn more about its way of life. But conversation with the trader was… peculiar. Its understanding of the world is so vastly different from mine that some questions simply had no meaning to it.

I asked how long it had been a trader. The wandering merchant tilted its head, confused. Villagers apparently do not track time. They do not understand days, weeks, or years. The concept of measuring time is meaningless when the seasons never change. The wandering merchant only knows the sun's position to measure the time of day, nothing more. Wake up, travel, sleep once the sun sets. A cycle that repeats endlessly.

I asked if it had a family waiting for him in some distant village. Again, confusion. Villagers do not seem to form families like I once knew. They reproduce, raise their young until they can walk, and then—nothing. The children fend for themselves, growing into their professions without guidance. There are no parents, no siblings, no bonds of blood. Only the village, the work, the cycle.

Their way of life is so alien, yet it functions. They survive, they endure, but they do not question. No family, no ambition, no longing for more. Just trade, work, build, repeat.

I thought I had grown used to this world's strangeness, but every new discovery reminds me how little I truly understand.

Year 6, Day 146

After days of relentless travel, I have finally found what I've been searching for—a living, thriving village. And not just any village. This one was massive.

As I crested the final hill being led by the wandering merchant, my breath hitched. Compared to the modest settlement near my spawn or the desolate ruins in the desert, this place was nothing short of a kingdom. The buildings towered over any I had seen before, some stretching multiple stories high. Their walls weren't just plain wood or cobblestone but crafted from polished granite, diorite, and andesite—materials shaped with care and purpose. Some structures gleamed with glazed clay, vibrant and intricate, a testament to craftsmanship far beyond the simple villages I had known. This was no ordinary settlement; it was a thriving city.

Fields of golden wheat swayed gently in the breeze, their stalks thick and heavy with grain, while deep red beetroots nestled in rich, dark soil. Rows of vibrant orange carrots and hearty potatoes stretched far and wide, evidence to the village's agricultural abundance. The sheer scale of the farmland hinted at a population far larger than I had ever imagined.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of villagers bustled through the dirt roads, each engaged in their daily routines. Blacksmiths crafting stone weapons and tools, liquid molten stone flowing from their furnaces. Farmers moved between the fields and storage silos, hauling baskets brimming with fresh harvests. Librarians pored over dusty tomes in open-air studies, their murmured discussions blending with the rhythmic clatter of looms and grindstones. The air buzzed with the hum of trade and industry, the villagers conversing in their peculiar, nasal language as they bartered, traded, and worked in perfect harmony.

What fascinated me most about this village were the towering iron golems. Massive, imposing figures of metal and might, they moved with a slow, deliberate grace—watchful sentinels standing guard over the people. Despite their terrifying presence, they showed no hostility toward me or the villagers. In fact, they seemed to be their protectors.

I even witnessed a curious sight—one of these hulking guardians kneeling down to offer a flower to a child who had been darting between houses. It was a small, almost gentle act, so at odds with the raw power they clearly possessed.

Now, it made sense how the village had endured for so long. While the villagers took refuge at night, these golems stood vigilant, holding the line against the undead until the first light of dawn. They weren't just protectors—they were the reason this village was still standing.

Their reactions were immediate and unmistakable. The moment my boots touched the well-trodden paths of their village, an invisible ripple spread through the crowd. Conversations faltered, hands froze mid-task, and one by one, countless pairs of curious green eyes turned to me. Some villagers murmured in hushed tones, their nasal voices thick with intrigue, while others openly stared, their gazes drifting over my worn armor, my sheathed weapons, the dust of long travel clinging to my clothes.

A group of farmers, baskets of freshly harvested crops in their arms, paused at the edge of the fields, whispering among themselves. A blacksmith, muscles taut from years of crafting stone tools, leaned against his crafting table, scrutinizing my sword with an appraising eye. A librarian adjusted their robes, clutching a thick tome as if debating whether to speak. I was something foreign—an anomaly in their carefully structured world, a disruption to the quiet rhythm of their existence.

A few brave souls stepped forward, their hesitation melting into unrestrained curiosity. Their eyes flicked to my rucksack, bulging with supplies from my journey. Before I could react, eager hands reached inside, their rough, calloused fingers pulling at the straps, sifting through my belongings with childlike wonder.

One of them—a broad-shouldered villager with soot-streaked hands, likely a blacksmith—pulled free my spare sword. He turned it over with practiced precision, running his fingers along the keen edge, testing its balance with a flick of his wrist. A hushed murmur rippled through the onlookers as the blade caught the light, its polished steel glinting like captured starlight. Others leaned in, wide-eyed, whispering in their peculiar tongue as they examined the weapon's fine craftsmanship.

Then, without hesitation, crystals were thrust toward me—small, glimmering green crystals, their currency. "Sell?" one of them asked eagerly, holding up the gems in offering. It was then I realized—these villagers weren't just fascinated. They were traders, and to them, I had brought something worth coveting.

In that moment, it all clicked—these shimmering green crystals were emeralds. Back in my time, they were prized for their beauty, set into jewelry and displayed as a symbol of wealth. But here, in this strange new world, they had taken on an even greater purpose. Emeralds were rare, unable to be forged or counterfeited, making them the perfect foundation for a stable currency.

This wasn't just a village; it was a thriving marketplace, a hub of commerce built on these gleaming stones. And without realizing it, I had arrived as a merchant, my possessions suddenly worth more than I ever could have imagined.

I handed over the sword, and in return, the emeralds became mine. A simple, wordless exchange, yet it carried an unspoken understanding. The villager clutched the weapon with childlike enthusiasm, rushing off to show it to others, his excitement infectious—like a child receiving their first prized toy.

Watching him, a realization settled over me. I had more than just the means to survive—I had something valuable, something these people wanted. With the goods I carried and the resources waiting back home, I could do more than just endure this world. I could trade. I could build. I could create something far greater than mere survival.

After my trade with the villagers, I requested to see their leader. They nodded in understanding and motioned for me to follow. We weaved through the bustling streets until we reached the grandest structure in the village—a house larger than the rest, its walls adorned with intricate carvings, its entrance flanked by torches that burned even in the daylight.

I dismounted my horse and stepped inside. Sitting at the center of the room was a villager, indistinguishable from the others in appearance, yet carrying an air of quiet authority. As I entered, it lifted its head and, in the villagers' native tongue, simply said, "Welcome."

We spoke for a long time, though communication was far from easy. Despite my knowledge of their language, their dialect was different—their grammar peculiar, their sentences brief and fragmented. But through careful listening and piecing together meaning from gestures and context, I managed to grasp the essence of what was said. Bit by bit, I unraveled more of this world's mysteries.

My first question was direct and urgent: "Have there been any others like me? Other humans?"

The villager leader was silent for a moment, as if sifting through distant memories. Finally, it answered that while no human had set foot in their village for a long time, their books contained records of strange visitors—figures unlike the villagers—who had arrived in the village's earliest days. But their presence had always been fleeting, their fates unknown.

I pressed the leader further. "Who are the Illagers? What turned them into violent raiders?"

The leader's tone darkened. The Illagers. The word was spoken with unmistakable disdain. They were once villagers, but generations ago, they had broken away—rejecting the ways of the village and turning to violence. And ever since, they had been hunting the outsiders. Hunting the ones who did not belong. I felt a chill crawl up my spine. I wasn't just an anomaly in this world. I was a target.

The answer was more complex than I had anticipated. The villagers once believed in an ancient prophecy—a legend passed down through countless generations. It spoke of a figure, one resembling the undead, who would rise and vanquish the cursed plague of the undead that haunted their world. For many generations, they waited. And waited.

But faith erodes with time. Some tribes grew restless, unwilling to sit idle while the dead roamed unchecked at night. They chose a different path—one of war. Lacking the strength to combat the undead alone, they sought power elsewhere.

That was when the Vex came for them. No one knew where these eerie, ghostlike beings had come from, only that they whispered promises of strength. In return for their loyalty, the Vexes brought them Nether Wart, harvested from the infernal depths of the Nether. With it, they learned to brew potions, an alternative to enchantments—though true enchantment was still a secret held only by the villagers, passed down through generations of enchanters.

But with time, something changed. Those who once sought to protect the world became something else entirely. Their obsession and worship the Vex twisted them. The once-peaceful villagers evolved into witches, their faith in the strange apparitions driving them to ritualistic worship. The more they sought power, the more they changed—losing not only their connection to their own kind but their very nature. They abandoned reason, despised the villagers who remained passive, and loathed humans who had failed to save them.

Now, they were no longer villagers. They were Illagers—violent, relentless, and utterly consumed by their hatred.

I pressed on. "What do you know about the Nether? About Nether Wart?"

The villager leader shifted uneasily. They had never set foot in that forsaken place. None of them had. But they knew the whispers—the stories of those who had dared to enter.

The Nether was not a world of fire and brimstone as I had once assumed. It was a graveyard. A place where the dead go to rest—if they could rest at all.

Long ago, the villagers had discovered the means to open a portal to that nightmarish realm. At first, they had hoped to find answers, perhaps even a way to stop the undead curse that plagued their world. But what emerged from the swirling violet abyss was beyond their worst fears. Monsters. Unspeakable horrors. Creatures that defied nature itself. They sealed the portals, destroyed them, and swore to never open them again.

Only the Vex could navigate back and forth from the Nether without fear, slipping through its crimson forests and blackened wastes like ghosts. And it was through them that the Witches obtained their power. With each delivery of Nether Wart, the key ingredient to their dark alchemy, they perfected their craft—brewing potions beyond anything the villagers could hope to create.

With enchantments kept solely in the hands of the villagers, and potion-brewing monopolized by the witches, the divide between the two factions grew ever wider. And now, I stood in the middle of it all, desperate to understand what had led this world to ruin.

Finally, I asked about the strongest material I knew—diamond. The hardest known mineral, a treasure buried deep within the earth. Could they shape it? Could they forge it into tools and weapons?

The village leader nodded. "Yes." They had the knowledge, the skill. But not the means.

Diamonds, like iron, rested too far beneath the surface for villagers to retrieve. They dared not venture into the yawning caverns, where darkness reigned and undead horrors lurked in the depths. But long ago, strangers—humans, perhaps—had braved the underworld. They had returned from the abyss with gleaming blue gemstones, offering them to the villagers in trade.

And so, the craft was learned. The villagers, already masters of stonework, adapted their skills to the near-indestructible mineral. It was no simple task, requiring both knowledge and patience, but to this day, their blacksmiths still held the secrets of diamond craftsmanship.

If I could bring them the raw diamonds, they could forge them into weapons, armor, and tools beyond anything I had ever wielded. And so, I had my next goal. I would return home, retrieve the diamonds I had hoarded away. And then, with the villagers' skill, I would forge the weapons I needed to survive what lay ahead.

Year 6, Day 147

Morning arrived with the warmth of opportunity. Before departing, I finalized my trades—crops, supplies, anything that could strengthen my village's survival. Every exchange was a step toward something greater, a foundation for a future I had only begun to imagine.

I meticulously charted my route home, sketching landmarks, marking rivers, and ensuring that this village would never become just a fleeting memory. I intended to return often, to establish a trade route, to build something lasting. But fate is a curious architect.

As I stepped beyond the village gates, I felt the weight of solitude settle on my shoulders once more. But then, something unexpected happened. I wasn't alone. Three villagers followed in my wake, their simple robes shifting in the breeze, their footsteps light yet deliberate. At first, I assumed it was coincidence, that they merely happened to be walking in the same direction. But when I turned to face them, they stopped. They stood firm, their gazes unwavering, expressions calm yet resolute.

Confused, I spoke in their tongue, asking why they followed me. Their response was simple, yet it carried a weight I hadn't anticipated. They had heard of my home—a village surrounded by walls, a place where the undead were kept at bay, where the night wasn't a death sentence. And so, they had made their choice. They had packed their belongings, left behind the only life they had ever known, and decided to follow me to a future that was uncertain but, in their eyes, promising.

I was stunned. Never had I imagined that my village, my desperate attempt at survival, would become something others would want to seek refuge in. For the first time since arriving in this world, I wasn't just fighting to stay alive. I was building something greater than myself. And so, with new purpose, I turned toward the horizon—not just as a survivor, but as a leader.

Hopefully, this was just the beginning. If more chose to follow, my village could thrive once more. With extra hands to tend the fields, care for the animals, and craft the tools and armor I needed, I wouldn't just be surviving—I'd be building a future. And with a secure home to return to, I could venture further into the unknown, pushing the limits of this world without the constant fear of losing everything I had built.

Year 6, Day 152

One afternoon, as we paused our journey for rest, we gathered near the mouth of a cave, the flickering campfire casting long shadows across the rocky ground. The scent of sizzling meat from my latest hunt filled the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of damp stone and burning wood. While the villagers ate in quiet contentment, I saw an opportunity to learn more about them.

I asked for their names—an innocent enough question, or so I thought. My words were met with nothing but puzzled stares. They didn't seem confused by my language but by the concept itself. Villagers didn't give each other names.

That revelation left me momentarily speechless. How could an entire civilization function without names? I pressed further, asking how they identified one another. Their answer was simple yet startling—they recognized each other by scent.

It made perfect sense. Their large noses weren't just for show. To them, scent was as distinct as a face, as personal as a name. They could likely tell a villager's mood, status, or even their occupation just by smell alone. It also stood to reason that scent played a role in how they chose their mates. The more I learned about them, the more alien they seemed—yet, in a strange way, it only deepened my respect for their way of life.

As the sun raised higher in the sky, the villagers grew more lively. They shared stories in their peculiar, lilting language, their voices rising and falling in animated conversation. Then came the songs—strange, rhythmic chants that echoed through the cave, their deep, nasal tones harmonizing with the crackling fire. It was fascinating to watch them interact, to see their bonds form through a culture so different from anything I had known.

In many ways, they were like a primitive version of what humanity once was. Given enough time—maybe thousands of years—they could evolve beyond the stone age. If the undead were ever eradicated, perhaps they could build great cities, rediscover lost knowledge, and rekindle civilization itself.

But that thought unsettled me. If they followed the same path humanity once did, would they be doomed to repeat our mistakes? Would greed, war, and corruption eventually creep into their simple way of life?

And then there was the deeper mystery—the one that gnawed at me every time I looked in a reflective surface and saw my own face. Humanity was functionally extinct. No ruins of great cities, no history of a downfall, no skeletal remains in the dirt. Just me, a lone survivor… and yet, I wasn't special. Others like me had spawned before. The villagers spoke of them, but never more than one at a time.

Why? What force decided that only one human could exist at a time?

Year 6, Day 160

The sun hung high, casting golden light over the rolling fields as we traveled. It was peaceful, safe—the kind of day where I could almost forget the horrors that lurked when night fell. With nothing to fight and no immediate dangers, my mind wandered to something trivial, yet oddly important to me. Names.

The villagers didn't name themselves. They didn't need to. Their world didn't require identity beyond scent and purpose. But I needed something to call them—something human, even if they wouldn't use the names themselves.

The first one, the blacksmith, wore soot-stained robes, its calloused hands skilled in shaping tools from stone and, if given the materials, even diamond. Its trade was invaluable, his craft honed since adolescence. I decided to call the blacksmith: Smith—simple, fitting.

The second, a fletcher, bore the markings of its trade: a feather-adorned robe, the scent of wood and resin clinging to that villager. It was the one I'd rely on for bows and arrows, a crucial skill in a world where distance often meant survival. Bowen felt like the right choice for a name.

And the last one, a rancher I assume, dressed in the earthy colors of someone who spent his life among livestock. That villager would be the one to tend to my animals, ensuring they were fed and cared for in my absence. It'll be there to keep Shadow company as well, so I no longer neec to worry about it being alone. I named it, Henry—a strong, dependable name for someone whose work would keep my village alive.

I had no idea what their genders were, but it didn't matter. Names weren't for them—they were for me. A way to ground myself. A way to make them more than just faceless members of a species that had replaced humanity. A way to remind myself that, despite everything, I wasn't truly alone anymore.

Year 6, Day 175

After weeks of traveling, we finally arrived home. The moment we crossed the threshold of my village—the village—I saw something in their faces that left me in awe. Relief. Safety. For the first time in their lives, they were somewhere truly protected. No wandering. No constant fear of the night. This was their home now.

It didn't take long for them to scatter, drawn to the buildings I had once built for myself, now repurposed for something greater. Smith rushed to my blacksmith station, eyes wide with wonder. The place was stocked with materials Smith had only dreamed of—iron, copper, even gold. No longer bound by the limitations of stone, Smith's hands trembled with excitement as it ran them over the tools of its craft.

Bowen found my fletching station, its fingers skimming across the chests filled with wood, feathers, string, and flint. Without hesitation, Bowen got to work, crafting arrows with a precision and efficiency only a master of its trade could achieve. Soon, I would have more than enough ammunition to keep the night's horrors at bay.

Henry made its way to the pastures, where my animals roamed—cows, sheep, pigs, chickens, llamas, even my donkey. Shadow hopped around him excitedly like an excited puppy, sensing the change in the air. Henry didn't need instruction; it simply knelt down, observing, murmuring in his soft, nasal tone as he familiarized himself with its new animal friends. The animals, sensing Henry's gentle nature, gathered around it as if welcoming a long-lost shepherd.

And then, as if it had always been meant to be, they chose their homes. Doors creaked open, rooms were claimed, and for the first time since the attack that wiped out those who once lived here, my village felt alive again. Not just a shelter. Not just a place to survive. A home.

Year 6, Day 181

The villagers have settled in well, adapting to life here faster than I expected. But today, they had a surprise for me. At dawn, they gathered outside my door, waiting in quiet anticipation. The moment I stepped out, they greeted me in their peculiar, rhythmic way. Then, without a word, Smith stepped forward and presented me with something that took my breath away—a diamond sword.

I took it in my hands, marveling at the craftsmanship. It was unbelievably light compared to iron, yet the edge gleamed with a lethal sharpness. A weapon fit for a warrior, a survivor. The strongest blade a survivor can ever wield. Smith had forged this as a thank you—for bringing them here, for giving them a home. I was speechless.

But the true surprise came next. The villagers looked at me with an unspoken understanding, their expressions solemn yet certain. In their eyes, I wasn't just another traveler, another survivor scraping by in this cursed world. Then they declared that I was their leader. Without another word, they made their choice. They would follow me, trust me, depend on me—not just to protect them from the undead, but to build something greater. A future where they wouldn't just survive, but thrive.

I never asked for this. I never expected it. But as I held that diamond sword in my hands, I knew one thing for certain: I would not fail them, not again.