Chapter 14: Into the Nether

Year 6, Day 195

With extra hands and minds at work, our little village has begun to evolve—no longer a simple outpost for survival, but a hub of progress and innovation.

Smith has thrown himself into his work, pouring over every scrap of diamond I can bring him. Bit by bit, he's been crafting diamond armor—strong, gleaming, nearly indestructible. The kind of gear that could turn the tide in any battle.

Henry, ever the caretaker, has taken our livestock to a whole new level. He's bred stronger animals, fed them better, and prepared them for longer journeys. Our mounts are faster, our pack animals heartier, and the farm thrives under his care.

And then there's Bowen. Quiet, clever Bowen. He's developed something incredible—a new kind of ammunition. Using gunpowder from Creepers and finely crafted materials, we've created rockets that can be launched from a crossbow. They don't just strike—they explode. Perfect for thinning out clusters of the undead. With these new weapons, one well-placed shot can change the outcome of a fight.

But power comes at a cost. We'll need more gunpowder, much more. Creeper hunting will soon become a regular task. Risky, but necessary.

Still, despite our growing strength, one problem remains: the undead continue to rise. Night after night, they crawl from the darkness with no end in sight.

If we want to stop this for good, we'll have to go deeper than the surface—beyond the Nether, beyond the ruined villages and cursed forests.

We'll have to face the End. The Endermen. And the Dragon that commands them.

It's time to prepare for war—not just for survival, but for the world itself.

Year 6, Day 210

After many long nights of planning and reflection, I've finally decided on our next step—we must explore the Nether. The decision to explore the Nether isn't just about curiosity or survival—it's strategic.

There's something in that infernal realm that we desperately need: Nether Wart. A strange, crimson fungus that only grows in the twisted soil of that place. It's the base ingredient for all potion-making—something the Illagers have mastered through their dark alliance with the Vex. With it, they brew harmful concoctions that poison, blind, and weaken. I've seen their effects firsthand. It's time we turned that power against them.

If we can gather Nether Wart and bring it back, I can begin experimenting with potion brewing. Speed, strength, resistance—even healing. We could tip the scales in our favor, especially with the battles to come. Because the more I study the undead, the more I realize that this all leads to one inevitable confrontation: the Ender Dragon.

The Endermen, elusive and terrifying, seem to serve it—or at least guard its domain. And if we are to stop the undead curse from spreading forever, I believe we'll need to strike at the heart of the End itself. But we won't stand a chance without potions, without enchantments, without Nether Wart. The Vex brought that power to the Illagers. Now we'll take it for ourselves.

The villagers, while wary of that place, still remember how to reach it. A portal must be built. Thankfully, I had already discovered a vast lava lake not far from the village—an endless reservoir of what we needed. Lava. The key ingredient to forging obsidian.

Together, we constructed a large stone well with a hollowed-out mold: a three-by-three basin designed specifically for this task. Bucket by bucket, we filled it with lava. Then, carefully, we poured water over the top. Steam hissed into the air as the molten liquid cooled and hardened into obsidian—black, heavy, and unbreakable by hand.

Transporting these dense blocks was the next hurdle. They were simply too heavy to carry in large sizes without exhausting ourselves. That's when I had an idea—a spark of inspiration that came from Alex's base deep in the desert. I began experimenting with wood, cobblestone, iron, and the redstone dust I had stockpiled. With a few trials and a lot of error, I invented pistons. It was a breakthrough.

By combining pistons with redstone signals, we created a rudimentary machine—primitive, yet effective. It could push the obsidian blocks into place with precision and force. For the first time since the fall of humanity, real technology was coming back to life. We weren't just surviving anymore—we were innovating.

With this new tool, the possibilities opened wide. If we could build a portal with precision, we could build more: defenses, traps, even automated systems. But first, the portal must be completed.

Soon, we'll ignite it. And then… we step through. Into the fire. Into the unknown. Into the Nether.

Year 6, Day 217

After a week of relentless effort and determination, our portal is finally complete. But getting here was far more complex than I had anticipated.

The villagers—wise in ways I continue to admire—warned me early on: the portal works both ways. If I could step into the Nether, then something else… something monstrous… could through as well. Suddenly, I understood why the ruined portal I once stumbled upon had been deliberately shattered. Not to keep people out—but to keep things in.

We couldn't take any chances.

To mitigate the risk, we constructed a reinforced stone structure around the portal, a sort of Nether Gatehouse. It was placed beyond the village walls, a safe distance away from our homes, in case the worst came crawling through. Heavy iron doors, thick walls, and redstone-powered emergency locks—it was as secure as we could make it with the resources at hand.

And then, finally, it was time.

I stood before the obsidian frame, flint and steel trembling slightly in my hand. With one sharp strike, the portal ignited—rippling to life in an eerie, violet shimmer. I felt the temperature shift instantly, waves of dry heat washing over me. The portal hummed, as if calling to me.

The villagers instinctively stepped back. Their faces were a mix of awe and fear, as though a god had awakened before them. Minutes passed. No creatures emerged. The gate remained still, yet alive.

I turned to my companions—Smith, Bowen, and Henry—and told them to wait for me. This was a journey I had to take alone.

If something waits for us in that burning world, I need to see it for myself first. I drew my diamond sword, stepped forward, and walked through the veil.

The moment I stepped through the portal, the world twisted. My vision blurred, as though space itself bent around me. My body felt weightless, the air thick with heat and pressure. Then, in an instant, I was there—in the Nether.

There are no words that can perfectly capture what I saw. If the Overworld is nature's grace, then this place is its fever dream. The landscape was bathed in deep reds and eerie greens, like a realm shaped by both fantasy and nightmare. The air was heavy, choked with ash and the acrid stench of sulfur. Every breath tasted like scorched stone and brimstone.

Beneath my boots, the ground cracked and crumbled. It wasn't stone—it was something brittle, charred, and unnatural. This nether rock, netherrack I will call it for short, filled the space where stone and dirt would normally be. A fungal moss blanketed the surface like corrupted grass, pulsing faintly underfoot. It was alive.

Trees towered around me, and yet they were not trees. Their warped, sinewy stems resembled wood in strength but were clearly the stalks of massive mushrooms. Their canopies weren't leaves, but dense fungal pads, growing faintly like twisted leaves. Hanging from them were strange, radiant sacks of spores—more bioluminescent growths than fruit.

There was no sky. Above me stretched a jagged ceiling of bedrock, the unbroken crust of the world itself. The realization hit me like a thunderclap: this wasn't another world. This was a layer beneath our own earth's crust, buried deep below the surface—a subterranean hell.

The stifling heat, the smell of burnt minerals, the bubbling lava lakes in the distance… all pointed to a place shaped by intense geological forces. Volcanoes must once have ripped this place into being—now claimed by fungus, fire, and monsters I have yet to meet.

The deeper I ventured, the more the heat began to gnaw at me. Not just warmth—but oppression. The kind that clings to your skin, burrows into your lungs, and makes your bones ache. It felt like walking through the breath of a dragon.

Within minutes, I was drenched in sweat. My clothes clung to me like wet parchment, and every step became heavier, more laborious. But the strangest thing? The sweat never reached the ground. The moment a drop fell, it hissed into vapor, vanishing into the scorched air before it could ever touch the stone. My skin steamed like a hot forge.

It makes me wonder—how does anything survive down here?

There's no visible water, no rivers, no rainfall. The moisture in the air is nonexistent, sucked dry by the constant inferno around me. Yet somehow, life persists. Fungi thrive. The Vex travel through here freely.

There's a mystery in that. A dark resilience. Maybe this world didn't just evolve to survive the heat—maybe it was forged by it. Whatever the truth, I must be careful. My body may be strong, but flesh and fire are rarely on good terms.

It didn't take long before I discovered I was not alone in this infernal place. The first warning came not from sight, but from sound—the unmistakable twang of bowstrings loosing their arrows. I dropped to the ground rolling on instinct, the fletched shafts thudding into the brittle netherrack behind me with bone-rattling force. My heart pounded in my ears. I scrambled behind a fungus-covered outcropping, blade drawn.

I had assumed the undead followed me here, perhaps skeletons adapted to this environment. But when I peeked around the edge of the netherrack, I realized I was wrong. Dead wrong.

They stood upright like men—but they were not men. Their bodies were thick and bristled with coarse, mottled skin. Tusks protruded from their snouts, and their features resembled a grotesque blend of human and pig. Pigmen. A twisted evolution or perhaps the victims of some ancient curse.

They were well-organized, five of them, and worse—armed. Gold gleamed from their armor, catching the hellish light of the lava seas nearby. They had crossbows, which is evidence to some level of technological advancements. Their leader stepped forward, taller than the rest, with a golden sword clutched tightly in hand. His eyes locked with mine—small, beady, burning with fury. Without speaking a word, he pointed that gleaming blade at me and unleashed a guttural squeal. A command to attack. And so, they reloaded their crossbows and charged.

I wasn't just an intruder here—I was their prey! I couldn't back down. Not here. Not now.

As they advanced, so did I—sword in hand, shield raised, adrenaline pounding through my veins like a war drum. Arrows clanged harmlessly off my shield, and before the first wave could reload, I was upon them. I brought my sword down with precision, shattering two crossbows and sending their wielders sprawling into the crimson dust.

Then came the leader. He stepped forward with a roar, golden sword gleaming in the Nether's unnatural light. Our blades met with a furious clash—his weapon shattered like brittle glass against the diamond edge of mine. For a fleeting moment, I thought I had the upper hand. I was wrong.

I swung, aiming to end it then and there—but the leader caught my sword. With his bare hand. No protection, no gloves. Just thick, cracked dry skin that didn't even bleed. His grip tightened, muscles bulging, and in the next instant, his free hand struck like a hammer. The punch landed square in my gut.

My iron armor, enchanted for protection, buckled with a metallic groan. The breath was knocked from my lungs, my body lifted off the ground and hurled through the air like a ragdoll. I hit the rocky floor hard, my vision blurring for a moment.

When I looked up, the leader stood over me, face unreadable, holding my diamond sword. Then, with an almost casual disdain, he tossed it aside—like it was nothing more than garbage.

And in that moment, I realized: I wasn't the overpowered warrior here. I was outmatched. Outclassed. And very nearly out of time.

Before I could recover, the leader of the pigmen reared back and let out a deafening warcry—so loud, so full of rage, it felt like it rattled my bones. I winced, clutching my ears, the force of the sound driving me to my knees. My vision blurred, my body trembling. It wasn't just a cry—it was a weapon.

The screech bought them time. While I crawled backward, dazed and disoriented, the others quickly regrouped. They grabbed their spare crossbows and loaded them with practiced precision, arrows sliding into place with an ominous click.

I had no time. I staggered to my feet, pain flaring with every step, and ran—ran like my life depended on it, because it did. I limped, ducked, dodged, bobbed, and weaved, narrowly evading the storm of arrows whistling through the air around me. One grazed my arm, another shattered against the shield strapped to my back. Their aim was deadly, but I didn't stop.

I burst from the warped forest—and froze. A sheer cliff greeted me. Below, an endless ocean of molten lava churned and bubbled like the mouth of some great, slumbering beast. The heat blasted my face, sweat pouring down in sheets. There was nowhere left to run.

I turned, heart pounding. The pigmen were closing in, their eyes burning with fury. The leader stepped forward and raised a single hand. Instantly, the others obeyed—taking aim with their crossbows, ready to rain arrows and force me over the edge.

I stared death in the face, then gritted my teeth. I couldn't let it end like this.

With one hand I raised my shield, and with the other, I drew my trident—the weapon I had brought not just for survival, but for moments exactly like this. If I was going to fall, I'd fall fighting. Not as prey. Not as a victim. But as a warrior.

I was prepared to die fighting. My grip on the trident was tight, my shield raised, heart steady with grim acceptance. The pigmen aimed. I braced myself. But then—something unexpected.

The pigmen hesitated. Their grunts turned into high-pitched squeals of panic. One dropped its weapon. Another turned to run. Within moments, they were retreating—no, fleeing in terror, like prey sensing a predator far greater than me.

Confused, I turned to see what had driven these hulking beasts to such fear. And then I saw it.

Floating silently above the lava ocean was a thing—a massive ghostly creature, larger than any building I'd ever seen. Its pale, cube-like body hovered eerily, tendrils dangling beneath it like the legs of a jellyfish. Its face… if you could call it that… was warped in a mask of pain and fury. Two bloodshot eyes glared at me, glowing like embers in a furnace. This was no animal. This was no pigman. This was a ghost, a Ghast which I decided to call it.

Before I could fully process what I was seeing, it opened its small, gaping mouth—and screamed. The sound was unnatural, mournful and enraged all at once. Then came the fire.

A glowing ball of molten death erupted from its mouth, soaring toward me with blistering speed. I dove, landing hard against the brittle netherrack. The explosion struck just behind me, and the ground shook violently. Fire erupted in a ring, and debris rained down like shrapnel. The heat was unbearable, searing the tips of my hair.

I didn't have time to think—only to run. With the pigmen gone, the path behind me was finally clear, but the Ghast wasn't finished. It screamed again—an ear-splitting, otherworldly wail that echoed through the warped forest like a funeral bell. Another fireball erupted from its grotesque mouth, spiraling down from above like a meteor. It was hunting me.

I ran. My boots pounded against the brittle, fungus-ridden earth. The air was thick, suffocating, every breath searing my lungs. I zigzagged, hoping to throw off its aim, but it was relentless. The ghost floated above the forest canopy, drifting with eerie grace, trailing smoke and vengeance. Each turn I made was matched. Each desperate sprint, mirrored.

There was nowhere to hide. No caves. No shadows deep enough. The warped trees—those towering, fibrous sentinels—offered no shelter, their thick trunks too sparse to shield me. Their rubbery leaves sizzled under the Ghast's fire, igniting and crackling in the oppressive heat.

Then—just for a moment—something glinted in the dust. My sword, my diamond sword. It lay in the scorched dirt where the pigman leader had tossed it aside like refuse, its gem-studded hilt half-buried in ash. The sight sparked something in me—something wild and defiant. I dove. My hands closed around the hilt, the grip still warm from battle. I rolled, the hard ground scraping my armor.

And then I looked up, another fireball was coming, too late to dodge. It tore through the air toward me, spinning and hissing with molten rage. My heart leapt to my throat. With no time to think, I raised the sword in pure instinct—and swung. Steel met fire. The blade rang out as it struck the blazing projectile, and in that instant, time seemed to freeze. The fireball veered—spinning backward through the air—and slammed into the Ghast's pale, bloated body.

The creature shrieked. The sound shook the very bones of the Nether. And then—it was gone. A final wail, a flash of light, and the skies fell silent. Ash drifted gently to the netherrack like snow. But I knew better than to think it was over. The Ghast was gone… for now.

I didn't wait to see what other horrors the Nether held. The moment the Ghast vanished into ash and smoke, I sprinted—no, stumbled—back through the portal. The familiar pull of the overworld wrapped around me like a blanket as I emerged, breathing hard, armor scorched and dented. My shield was cracked, my mind dulled, and my body screamed in pain with every step.

The villagers were waiting. They stared at me in stunned silence. I must have looked like death itself—my Unbreaking-enchanted armor barely holding together, grime and sweat painting my face, exhaustion clinging to me like smoke.

I didn't say anything at first. Just dropped to my knees, letting the grass press against my hands like it was the softest thing I'd ever touched. For a brief moment, I thought, Never again. That place… that inferno… was nothing but death. No water. No sky. No hope.

I leaned against the walls surrounding my village, catching my breath, heart pounding in my ears like war drums. My armor was scorched, my limbs ached, and the air still stung like smoke on raw skin. I wanted to turned back. I wanted to destroy the portal and sealed the Nether behind me for good.

And that's exactly what the other survivors thought too.

They must've stood in this same place. Felt the same heat, the same terror. They were right—the Nether is hell. A twisted underworld where even the air wants you dead. But that's when it hit me. They didn't make it in the end. They gave up.

Somewhere along the way, they turned back from the nether—whether from fear or fatigue, it didn't matter. They abandoned the fires of the Nether and marched toward the End unprepared. No potions brewed with Nether Wart. No alchemical enchanted resistance. No answers—only hope and steel. And they failed.

Their gear, their courage, even their enchantments—none of it was enough to stop the Ender Dragon. Because they skipped the trial of fire. Because they feared this place. If I give up now, I'll be no different. Just another nameless soul repeating the same mistake. Another ghost story for whatever survivor spawns next.

No… my journey doesn't end here. Not in fire, not in fear. There is no defeating the Ender Dragon without surviving the Nether. And I will survive.

They lacked what I had now—knowledge, experience, a team that depended on me. And I realized something even heavier than my battered gear: I don't have the right to give up.

I made it out alive. That means I've been given a chance they weren't. A chance to finish what they couldn't. I need to go back—not in recklessness, but in strength. I need to find the Nether Wart. I need to uncover the weakness of those golden-armored pigmen. I need to be ready.

This time… I'll survive the Nether.

Next time… I'll conquer it.

Year 6, Day 318

For the past few months, every waking hour has gone into preparation. I've been rebuilding not just my strength, but the gateway to what nearly killed me. The Nether.

I knew I couldn't afford another blind dive into that furnace of death. So I started with the basics—security. The very moment I stepped through again, I needed to know I wouldn't be ambushed by pigmen or blindsided by a fireball.

I constructed a full-scale fortress around the Nether-side of the portal. Thick walls made of reinforced stone bricks, laid by hand and sealed with redstone locks. The ground was unstable and brittle, so I dug deep to lay a solid foundation. It wasn't pretty work, but it was necessary.

To give myself an edge, I added a watchtower. From its height, I can observe the warped forest and surrounding terrain without risking a foot outside. I even rigged a redstone warning system—tripwires that would trigger an alert back to me if anything breached the perimeter. It's crude, but it works.

Each stone placed was a promise to myself: I will not be caught off guard again.

The portal hums quietly at the heart of the fortress now, its purple glow casting strange shadows on the walls. It still feels like a doorway to the end of the world… but this time, I'm the one standing guard.

The next obstacle wasn't just the heat, the monsters, or the terrain—it was orientation. In the Nether, time has no meaning. There's no sun to rise or set, no stars to guide me, and worst of all, the tools I once trusted—the compass and the clock—fail completely there.

The magnetic field must be unstable, because my compass spins erratically, like it's panicking. And the clock? Useless. The concept of time itself doesn't apply here. I had to improvise.

I turned to Bowen for help. Villagers don't track time in the same way we do—no calendars, no clocks—but they understand rhythm and cycles. I gave Bowen a simple task: every time the sun sets while I'm in the Nether, he places a single flint into a chest in my house. That way, when I return, I can open the chest and count the pieces. Each one, a day lost to hell. It's a crude system, but it works—and more importantly, they understand it.

As for navigation, I've decided to go back to the oldest trick in the book: breadcrumbs. I will place markers as I go—stone pillars with torches, colored flags, carved signs when I have the materials. The warped terrain makes it easy to get turned around, especially when fleeing for your life. These primitive trail markers might one day be the only reason I ever find my way back.

No tech. No tools. Just instincts, firelight, and grit. In the Nether, the only thing I can trust… is what I build myself.

Year 6, Day 365

The time has come. After months of preparation, I'm ready to brave the Nether once again.

The fortress is fully stocked—chests filled with food, arrows, tools, furnaces, and spare gear. I didn't forget the crafting table and the enchanting table. I even brought materials such as iron, gold, and redstone, in case I need it. I've crafted a new set of armor, this time reinforced with flame resistance. The heat won't drain me like it did before. This time, I won't be caught off guard.

Before I departed, I walked through the village. Smith was at his forge, hammering away with a quiet intensity. Bowen stood near the animal pens, stringing a new bow. Henry was feeding the livestock, murmuring in that strange villager tongue. When I told them I was leaving, they stopped. The look in their eyes was hard to describe—concern, hope, maybe even fear.

They don't usually speak much, but today they said something I won't forget. "We pray for your return."

It hit harder than I expected. These villagers, once strangers, now believed in me. Not just as a leader, but as a protector. A symbol of something more than survival—of hope.

And so, tonight at midnight, I will walk through the portal once more. The Nether Wort awaits. Somewhere in that fiery abyss is the key to potions, to strength, to victory. And perhaps, the secret to defeating the undead for good.

I don't know if I'll return. But I must go. Not just for me—but for all of us.

Nether Journal, Entry 1

Time… it has no meaning here. In the Nether, the sun never rises, the moon never sets. Days blur into each other like smoke through broken glass. I've lost count of how long I've been here—how many sunrises Bowen has marked for me with a flint stone back in the Overworld.

Most of my time is spent in the watchtower we built above the Nether portal fortress. From this perch, I observe. I study. I survive. With my spyglass in hand, I monitor the Pigmen, trying to learn their patterns, hoping for some sign of weakness. They're relentless—always patrolling, always armed, and always watching. The moment I spot a Ghast in the distance, I crouch low and stay still, waiting for its eerie song to fade before daring to move again.

It's been uneventful, at least until now. What I saw disturbed me more than any fireball or sword ever could.

From my tower, I noticed a Pigman struggling to stand. It limped, clearly wounded. Then a patrol of its own kind arrived. At first, I thought they were going to help the injured one, maybe carry it off to safety. That illusion shattered quickly.

Without hesitation, they raised their crossbows and fired.

I watched, horrified, as the wounded Pigman collapsed under the barrage of arrows. But they didn't stop. The patrol descended on it like wolves, stomping and beating it while it lay defenseless. It squealed—a sound that I now understand is not unlike a cry for mercy.

Then, the leader stepped forward. It unsheathed its golden sword, and with one final, merciless blow, he ended the Pigman's life. The sword broke in its victim's chest, but the leader didn't seem to care. It just tossed the broken hilt and drew another golden blade.

No ceremony. No burial. They simply walked away, leaving the body behind like discarded meat.

This… this changes things. I thought they were a united tribe, a hive of warriors protecting their realm. But now, I see something darker.

Curiosity got the better of me. I had to see the body up close—the Pigman they turned on. I needed to understand why. What crime had it committed that justified such a savage execution? What rule had it broken in their twisted society?

When I reached the site, I found the corpse slumped over a patch of scorched Nether rock, the ground still blackened from fire. Up close, the truth began to reveal itself.

First, the obvious—no armor. Unlike the others, this Pigman wore no gold. Its body was badly burned, likely from a run-in with a Ghast. The searing heat must've melted away its armor and weapon, leaving it defenseless.

But that raised an even more puzzling question. Why gold? Gold is soft—fragile compared to iron, let alone diamond. And these creatures have thick, leather-like skin which makes their hides into natural armor. They don't need gold armor for protection, so why bother with it at all?

Then I saw its eyes. Beady. Cloudy. Almost… dull. That's when the pieces started to fall into place.

What if Pigmen are partially blind? What if their vision relies on contrasts, light, shine—anything that stands out? In that case, golden armor wouldn't be for defense. It would be a signal to others of its kind. A badge. A tribal marker. A way to say "I am one of you."

Without gold, that poor Pigman must've been seen as something else—an outsider. A threat. Just like me when they first saw me. It wasn't weakness they punished. It was anonymity.

That's when the idea hit me. If gold is their marker of trust… then maybe, just maybe, I can wear it too. Not as armor, but as camouflage. A disguise.

It's a dangerous gamble, and if I'm wrong, I'll be torn apart before I can blink. But if I'm right? I could walk among them. Watch them up close. Find their leaders, their weak points, their secrets. This might be the breakthrough I've been waiting for. Soon, I will test the theory.

Nether Journal, Entry 2

After what seems like forever to prepare, countless hours of forging, enchanting, and adjusting each plate to fit just right, now was the time I put my theory to the test.

The gold armor gleamed faintly in the dim Nether light—far more ceremonial than functional. Every piece was secured tightly, designed not just for disguise but for survival. I couldn't afford it slipping off, not when the stakes were this high. I even added minor enchantments—nothing too flashy, just enough to enhance mobility, defence, and resist fire. I needed to look the part, but still survive in this hellish underworld, not weighed down by weight and heat.

Before stepping out, I packed my bag with my usual gear—my true armor, my diamond sword, and supplies such as food and ammunition. Just in case. I slung a crossbow across my back, one of Bowen's newer models, both to complete the look and to act as a deterrent should things go wrong.

I waited patiently in the warped forest, keeping low in the fungus-covered underbrush, until I spotted a patrol. Four Pigmen. One clearly the leader—taller, broader, with more ornate gold plating and a larger sword strapped to his back.

Heart pounding, I stepped into their path. They stopped. All four turned to face me.

My instincts screamed at me to draw my blade, to dive for cover, to run—but I resisted. I let them see me. I let them inspect me. They made no moves for their weapons, no screeches or raised crossbows. Just… silence.

It was agonizing waiting for the results of my labor. Then the leader stepped forward, stared into my eyes, and gave a slow, deliberate flick of the head—an unspoken command. "Follow," I assumed it said.

And so I did. Each step felt surreal. Was I actually being accepted? Was I just a moment away from being ambushed and torn apart? I couldn't tell. Fear and curiosity wrestled inside me with every breath.

But the longer I stayed with them, the more I realized—at least for now—they believed I was one of them. Maybe not completely, but enough.

I still don't know where this path will lead. I don't know if they trust me, or if I've simply bought myself some time. But I do know this: I'm in deeper now than I've ever been. And for the foreseeable future… I am one of them.