Chapter 15: Piglin Culture

Nether Journal, Entry 3

The Pigmen—no, Piglins—are far more fascinating than I had ever imagined.

When I first encountered them, I assumed they were nothing more than brutish creatures. Mindless, aggressive beasts who happened to wield weapons and armor with a semblance of purpose. I was wrong. As I've watched them more closely, traveling among them under this golden disguise, I've begun to see a different truth—one far more complex than I anticipated. These aren't beasts. They are a people. Survivors, just like me.

They don't speak in any language I understand. Not like the villagers, who communicate in simple words and tones. Piglins speak through a symphony of guttural grunts, sharp squeals, and an intricate dance of body language. A flick of the wrist. A stomp of the foot. A snort, low and drawn out. Somehow, this chaotic pattern works—more than works, it thrives. They understand each other. They cooperate.

They're not the mindless aggressors I once believed them to be. They move in squads, like soldiers. Coordinated. Purposeful. They flank their prey, cover each other during battle, and retreat when it becomes necessary. There's a strategy to their madness. A discipline I didn't expect.

And now I ask myself: where do they come from?

Were they born in the fire and shadow of the Nether, hardened by generations of survival beneath the bedrock? Or were they once something else? Stranded here like me—left to adapt or perish? Maybe they're the descendants of a forgotten civilization, abandoned to this infernal realm. Or maybe… this is their home, and we're the trespassers.

Regardless, they don't behave like wild animals. They behave like people. People shaped by fire and pain. Which is why I've decided to stop calling them Pigmen.

From now on, in my records, they will be known as Piglins. They've earned that much.

As I journeyed through the Nether alongside this warband of Piglins, I've come to realize just how attuned they are to their environment—and how dependent they are on senses I often overlook.

The leader of the group, that towering brute draped in layered gold plates, has a peculiar habit: it flicks its ears. Subtle, twitching movements, side to side. At first, I thought it was nervous tics. But now I understand—it's listening. Always listening. Every cry, every distant sound of shifting stone or clicking bones… it notices everything.

When it hears something unfamiliar—a Ghast's wail, or even the shuffling of another Piglin troop—it immediately scans the area for signs of gold. That's their method of friend-or-foe detection. If there's no shimmer of gold to greet its gaze, it assumes hostility. It's a simple system, but effective.

One time during our scout, the telltale shriek of a Ghast echoed from above. Without hesitation, the leader hissed sharply and motioned with its hand—a closed fist that meant "hide." We all dove behind a netherrack cave, cloaking ourselves in shadow.

As the Ghast floated into view, the leader watched it intently. It raised two fingers, curling them slowly: "load". We primed our crossbows. The Ghast drifted closer, its swollen, ghostly eyes scanning for movement. Then came the final signal: a slash through the air—"fire".

We emerged in a synchronized sweep, bolts flying through the hot air. The Ghast barely had time to let out a sound before our arrows struck true. It collapsed in a blaze, its body dissolving into embers and ash before it could unleash its fire.

The entire ambush was executed with near-military precision. No shouts. No chaos. Just clear, practiced silence and deadly efficiency. It was unlike anything I expected from creatures I once thought were feral.

There's so much more to Piglins than violence. There's discipline. Communication. Strategy. They are survivors born in the crucible of the Nether—and they fight like they plan to stay that way.

Another glimpse into the Piglins' remarkable coordination—and introduced me to a creature I had never seen before. We were making our way across a wide basalt delta, the ground hot enough to burn through unprotected boots, when the earth itself began to quake. From the shadows emerged a creature unlike any other I've encountered: a towering, pulsing mass of molten rock. It moved with unnatural elasticity, bouncing forward with thunderous weight. A living block of lava. I named it a Magma Cube.

The Piglin leader didn't hesitate. No hiding. No caution. It simply pointed at the beast and gave a guttural squeal—a clear order to attack.

We let our arrows fly. The first volley struck true, and the Magma Cube split into smaller versions of itself. Again, we fired. With every successful hit, it fractured further, each new cube bouncing wildly, dripping embers with every leap. I expected panic or disorder, but the Piglins held their formation, reloading and firing in a steady rhythm.

When the cubes were small enough, the Piglins charged in without fear. I watched as they stomped them out, one by one—glowing embers snuffed beneath armored hooves and gold-gilded boots.

There was no cheering, no celebration. The moment the last flicker of magma vanished into the stone, the leader gave another motion, and the group resumed their patrol as if nothing had happened.

What amazes me isn't just their strength—it's their unity. Each Piglin understands their role in the moment. No wasted movement. No need for speech. Just purpose. They may not speak my language, but their actions have taught me something vital: survival in the Nether isn't about brute force alone. It's about trust, timing, and the will to face fire without blinking.

As much as the Piglins continue to surprise me with their intelligence and coordination, what fascinates me most… is the Nether itself.

We've been traveling through this infernal landscape for what feels like months. Not days. Not weeks. Months—though I can't be sure. Time here is slippery, unreliable. There's no sun to track, no moonrise or sunset to mark the passing of days. Just the constant, suffocating heat, the ever-glowing horizon, and the endless hum of danger.

And here's the strange part—the part that still gnaws at the edges of my sanity like an ember that won't extinguish: I haven't slept once since entering this place. Not a single blink of rest. No dreams. No drifting off. No need.

At first, I didn't notice. The adrenaline, the fear—it kept me sharp. Alert. But as days passed (if you can even call them that here, where time doesn't behave the way it should), I began to realize: I wasn't tired. Not even slightly. My limbs never sagged, my mind never slowed. I should be collapsing. I wanted to collapse.

But sleep… doesn't exist here. The Piglins are no different. In all my time among them, I've never seen one sit, rest, or so much as close its eyes. They're always in motion—patrolling, brawling, feeding. No fatigue. No weakness. It's as if the Nether burns away the very concept of rest, consumes it in the same breath as it consumes everything else.

Why? Is it the choking heat? The suffocating air? Is it something in the Nether itself that sustains us—something unnatural that holds back sleep like a dam restrains water? Or perhaps this place doesn't allow rest. Perhaps here, to sleep is to become vulnerable. And vulnerability is a death sentence. It makes no sense… but then again, nothing here ever truly does.

The closest thing to rest I've seen is when the Piglins feed. They travel from one warped forest to the next, harvesting the thick, rubbery mushrooms that grow in clusters under the ghost-blue glow of fungi lights. When they eat, their pace slows, their movements become more deliberate—almost meditative.

Out of curiosity—and desperation—I tried one. I wish I hadn't. The texture was hideous. Spongy, like uncooked flesh. It burst in my mouth with a sickly, metallic ooze that tasted exactly like blood. Warm, coppery, unnatural. It took all my willpower to swallow it, but when I did… I felt different. Not energized. Not full. Just… awake. As if my body accepted the offering and refused to power down. Now I understand how the Piglins stay hydrated and nourished despite the lack of water, despite the absence of edible life as I once knew it.

But what truly unsettles me—what humbles me—is the Nether itself. I used to believe it was a barren void, a volcanic wasteland carved out of nothing but fire and hate. But I was wrong. So wrong. It is alive. Not like the forests of the Overworld, no. This place breathes differently. It pulses. It groans. It shifts when you're not looking. Biomes twist into one another like fever dreams—warped forests, basalt deltas, crimson thickets that hum with violence, soul sand valleys where the dead whisper your name. Each region is a kingdom unto itself, ruled not by kings, but by the chaos of ancient forces.

The Nether is not simply another world. It is a godless ecosystem—self-contained, savage, thriving. A place where death is recycled, where sleep is a weakness, and where even mushrooms bleed.

The Warped Forest, where I first traveled with the Piglins, is alien yet vibrant. Bioluminescent vines. Fungi-trees with stems strong as oak. Glowing spores float like fireflies.

Then there are the Basalt Deltas, loud and violent, where geysers of ash burst from the cracked ground. The very air tastes of brimstone, and the stone beneath your feet sizzles as if the planet itself is trying to boil you alive.

We passed through Nether Wastelands, desolate plains of red-black rock that stretch in every direction. No life, no landmarks—just empty, oppressive silence. Yet high above, the ceiling glows with embedded stones—glimmering veins of some unknown mineral that illuminate the dark when lava does not.

But the most mysterious—and haunting—biome I've seen… was the Soul Sand Desert.

Miles upon miles of dry, dead land. A desert not of sand, but something worse. If you look closely—really closely—you can see the texture shifting, like faces buried beneath the grains. Twisted expressions, mouths open in silent screams. I tried to tell myself it was just the wind… but there is no wind here.

And then there's the fire. Here, it burns blue. It crackles with an eerie coldness, like the heat has been stolen, leaving only the echo of flame. The entire desert is bathed in a ghostly hue, and the sound—distant, hollow wailing—carries through the canyons like the cries of something long dead. Or not dead enough.

I don't know what happened here. But I can feel it in my bones: this place remembers suffering. And somehow, I think… it watches. The Nether is more than hostile. It's ancient. Sentient, maybe. And the more I walk its burning veins, the more I feel like I'm not just surviving it…

There's one more thing I feel I need to document—something that's been gnawing at the back of my mind ever since I first laid eyes on them. The "other Piglins". It was during one of our treks across the vast, lifeless Nether Wastelands. The air was still, heavy with ash, and not even the distant cry of a Ghast disturbed the silence. That's when I saw them. Lone figures, wandering aimlessly.

At first, I thought they were stragglers—perhaps injured or lost members of another Piglin patrol. They wore the same gold swords, some with scraps of armor still clinging to their bodies. But there was something… off. Their movements were slower, stiff. They didn't squeal or grunt. They didn't seem to see anything, not truly. Just shuffling forward, blank-faced and broken.

I inched closer, heart pounding in my ears. When I finally saw one up close, the chill that ran down my spine cut through even the Nether's oppressive heat. They were Piglins… but also not. They were undead. Rotting flesh fused with gold. Bones peeking through cracked skin. Their eyes, if you could call them that, were glazed over—lifeless yet strangely aware. These were not mindless zombies like the ones in the Overworld. No groaning. No aggression. No hunger. They were… haunted. Even more unsettling was the reaction of the living Piglins I traveled with: nothing. Not a word. Not a glance. The Piglins would pass by the undead as if they weren't even there. And the zombie Piglins showed the same indifference in return. No conflict. No fear. No acknowledgement at all. It was as if some ancient pact had been made—an understanding too old to be spoken aloud. Unwritten rules… but honored nonetheless.

Were these the fallen? Warriors who had died in battle, cursed to wander the Nether forever? Or had they simply been left behind too long—forgotten and transformed by the corruption of this place? I don't know. And I'm not sure I want to find out.

What I do know is this: without the protection of the living Piglins, I would've been dead a hundred times over by now. I don't belong here. Every step I take is on borrowed ground.

But for now, I walk among them… living and undead alike.

And I can only hope I don't end up like them.

Nether Journal, Entry 4

I've seen many things in my time—ruined temples swallowed by jungles, ancient strongholds buried beneath oceans, forgotten cities lost to the sands of time. But nothing could have prepared me for this. The Piglin Bastion.

We had been traveling for what felt like forever through the cracked heart of the Nether—past lava seas, fire-blasted cliffs, and ash-choked valleys. Then the terrain began to shift. The air grew heavier, filled with the scent of smelted stone and something older… like dust baked in flame for a thousand years. That's when I saw it.

Rising out of the red earth was a fortress the size of a village—no, a town. Massive, angular, and proud. Built entirely from bricks forged from smelted netherrack, dark basalt, and minerals I couldn't even name. It loomed like a monument to survival, or maybe to conquest. A fortress not built to keep something out, but to hold dominance over the landscape around it.

The entrance alone was enough to stop me in my tracks. A massive Piglin's head, sculpted in haunting detail, loomed from the outer wall. Its gaping mouth served as the entryway—an open maw of sharp stone teeth, as if daring any outsider to walk in. It wasn't just decoration. It was a warning.

The spires flanking the walls were manned by Piglins with heavy crossbows clutched in their hands. They stood silently, eyes scanning the skies. They weren't watching for people like me. They were on constant alert for Ghasts and worse. You could see it in their posture—tense, but not afraid. These were seasoned warriors, ready for war at a moment's notice.

And then there were the gatekeepers. Two towering Piglins stood guard at the mouth of the fortress. They were different—larger than any I'd seen before, their hides darker and scarred from battle. Each held a golden axe so massive it looked like it could cleave a Ghast in two. Their presence alone could stop your heart.

They didn't move when we approached. They just stared. The leader of my patrol grunted something low and steady, a series of ritual-like squeals. The guards responded with slow nods before stepping aside. Just like that, the gates of the Bastion were open to me.

If the Nether is a world of chaos, then the Bastion is its beating heart—an island of brutal order in a sea of fire and madness.

Inside, everything changed.

Gone was the emptiness of the warped forests and the oppressive silence of the crimson wastes. In the Bastion, there was movement, sound, life. Hundreds of Piglins moved with purpose through its dark, echoing halls. Some sat at crude workbenches, crafting weapons from gold or warped wood scavenged from the forests. Others crouched in tight clusters, admiring small piles of glinting gold ingots or sharpening their jagged swords with stones blackened from use.

At the center of it all was a massive lava pool—a seething, glowing lake sunk into the heart of the fortress. Piglins gathered it in buckets, feeding it into furnaces carved from blackstone. I realized then: this lake was their forge, their hearth, and perhaps even a sacred space. Fire isn't just a danger here—it's life.

I wandered deeper into the maze-like structure, noting something curious. There were no doors. No partitions. Every room was open, every action visible. And yet… there was no tension. No brawling or stealing. Each Piglin seemed to respect an invisible boundary around one another's space. In every open chamber, there were chests—each one personalized with carvings or marks, like silent claims to territory. I passed by them all, unnoticed.

Eventually, I found an empty room. No chest. No markings. Just dark stone and a single warped fungus growing in the corner. I assumed—correctly, I hoped—that it was unclaimed. With care, I placed a chest at the back of the space and began filling it with my belongings. Still, no one stopped me. No one challenged me.

I wasn't one of them, not truly. But in this moment, I wasn't an outsider either.

Until I find the Nether Wart—and uncover the final truths hidden in this place—I suppose this is home. For now, I live among the Piglins.

Nether Journal, Entry 5

If I'm going to survive here, I need to understand the Piglins—not just how they fight, but how they live. Today, I got my first glimpse into their unusual lifestyle.

It began with a single squeal—sharp and guttural, echoing off the walls of the Bastion like a horn blast. Immediately, every Piglin froze, then emerged from their chambers, converging in the open courtyard near the lava forge. I followed, uncertain but curious.

At the center of the gathering stood a larger Piglin, slightly older, judging by the gray in its bristles. It stood atop a stone platform, holding a sack. Without ceremony, it reached in and began tossing out cuts of meat—thick, greasy slabs that steamed in the Nether heat. The other Piglins caught them mid-air, snorting in excitement and immediately devouring them with feral hunger. It wasn't barbaric, just… primal. A feeding ritual. A shared moment that reminded me, oddly enough, of village feasts back home.

I managed to catch one of the flying cuts. It landed hot and slick in my hands. My stomach growled. But when I looked down, a cold wave of confusion settled over me. It was pork. No mistake—these were cooked pork chops. Rich, fatty, unmistakable. But… how?

There are no pigs here. None that I've seen. And the Piglins? As brutal as they are in battle, they don't turn on their own. There's no sign of cannibalism among them. In fact, when a Piglin falls, it doesn't die in the traditional sense—it changes. It rises again, aimless and silent, transformed into a Zombie Piglin. A shell of its former self, forever wandering the wastelands. The living don't mourn, but they don't attack them either. It's like some unspoken understanding exists between them. A boundary that death cannot erase.

So then… where does the pork come from? That question haunts me. I've seen the Piglins feast quite a few times now—those same greasy cuts of meat passed out with ritualistic regularity. And it's always pork. Always. There's a theory forming in my mind, and I don't like where it leads. Either there's a species out there I haven't seen—something wild and well-hidden—or the Nether itself is capable of generating its own twisted version of Overworld life. Life shaped by heat, ash, and something far older and darker than natural evolution.

For now, all I can do is eat. Hunger wins over curiosity, and I need my strength. The pork here isn't like anything back home. It's tougher—dense, sinewy, and coated in thick, clinging fat. It takes real effort to chew, but once it's down, it sticks with you. I can go for what feels like an entire week without needing another bite. It's almost… unnatural.

This isn't traditional pork. This meat comes from something else. Something built to survive in this world. And that alone should terrify me.

The more time I spend among the Piglins, the more their world unfolds around me—not just as a place of survival, but of structure. Of order. It may not be the kind we know in the Overworld, but it's unmistakably there. A system built not on laws or titles, but on raw strength and enduring age.

There is no king. No chief. No single figure barking commands. Instead, the Piglins operate on a kind of unspoken hierarchy—one where power is earned through combat, not granted by birthright. The older a Piglin is, the more respect it commands. And yet age alone isn't enough. That respect must be maintained—constantly—through displays of power, resilience, and cunning.

It all begins in childhood. Yes, Piglin children—smaller, rounder versions of their elders, squealing and scampering between the massive blackstone walls of the Bastion. But these aren't the carefree younglings of a peaceful village. Their play is sparring. Their toys are dulled blades and wooden clubs. From the moment they can stand, they are trained to fight.

And when they're ready—or at least, when the elders decide they must be ready—they're thrown into brutal matches with each other. Organized brawls in the central plaza, watched by the older generations with grunts of approval or disappointment. The children don't hold back. They bite, punch, claw, and slam each other against the ground with ferocity that would shock anyone back home.

But here's the strange thing—they rarely get hurt. Their young hides are incredibly tough, like thick, leathery armor. The brawls are savage, but mostly bloodless. It's more about proving dominance than doing damage. Winners are cheered. Losers are mocked, and they're marked. Watched more closely. Trained harder.

This is how they rise. Through fire. Through hardship. Through combat. There are no shortcuts. Every Piglin must earn their place, and the higher you rise, the more fiercely you must defend it. It's a brutal system—but it works. There's no chaos here. No confusion. Every Piglin knows their place. And if they don't like it, they're free to fight for a new one. In a strange, harsh way… it's almost fair.

As Piglins grow from children into their juvenile stage, the brutality of their training shifts into something more dangerous—something real. They begin to leave the Bastion.

It starts with a gesture. A grunt from an older Piglin, often scarred and silent. Without a word, it points to a group of juveniles. There's no ceremony. No celebration. Just a nod, and the chosen ones understand: it's time to patrol.

I watched it happen. The selected juveniles didn't cheer or protest. There was no hesitation, no visible fear. They simply grabbed their crossbows—each one crafted by their own hands, crude but functional—and followed their leader beyond the gates of the Bastion. Into the warped woods. Into the basalt plains. Into the wastelands.

These aren't patrols for training. They're trials by fire. Their purpose is as much about testing survival as it is about protecting territory. The Piglins don't baby their young. Once you're old enough to hold a weapon, you're old enough to fight.

Not all five return. Sometimes four come back. Sometimes two. Occasionally, the leader returns alone. The Bastion doesn't mourn them. There are no vigils or moments of silence. Those who return are not greeted with hugs, but with quiet, approving nods. And those who don't… well, I've come to believe the Piglins have a simple philosophy about that: if you're not strong enough to survive the Nether, you were never going to make it anyway.

The strongest endure. The rest become something else. I've passed wandering figures in the wastelands—those undead, golden-clad husks. Former Piglins. Now silent, cursed echoes. Still wandering the Nether, still wearing the symbols of their former life, but hollow. Forgotten by the living. Tolerated, but never spoken of.

It's evolution at its most ruthless. No safety nets. No second chances. But the result is undeniable: a society of hardened warriors, forged by fire and sharpened by constant 's terrifying, and yet... It's effective. And I'm starting to understand why you must endure the Nether if you want to face the Ender Dragon.

I also witnessed something extraordinary—something I never imagined these creatures were capable of. A ceremony. Not a raid. Not a battle. Not even a sparring match. A ceremony—solemn, reverent, and ancient. The Bastion was unusually quiet. The younger Piglins gathered on the upper walkways, watching in silence as a single Piglin, broad-shouldered and scarred, stepped forward from the lower levels. It had survived countless patrols, often returning bloodied, but never defeated. He was no longer just a juvenile. He was ready.

The Piglins formed a circle around the lava lake at the heart of the Bastion. The chosen one stepped into the center and, with both hands, held out his crossbow—his first weapon, the one he built as a youth. An elder approached, one I hadn't seen fight in all my time here. This Piglin was ancient, his tusks cracked and blackened, his golden armor faded but respected.

Without a word, the elder took the crossbow. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—crack—the elder snapped it in half like it was kindling. The sound echoed off the blackstone walls. Then, with a single, deliberate motion, he tossed the broken weapon into the lava. The molten surface hissed and sizzled as it swallowed the remains.

Another Piglin stepped forward with something wrapped in crimson cloth. The cloth was pulled back to reveal a gleaming golden sword—pure, polished, flawless. It was unlike the others. The blade shimmered even in the dim light of the Bastion. The chosen Piglin took it with both hands, eyes fixed on the weapon like it was a gift from the Nether itself.

No words were spoken. None were needed. Every Piglin in the Bastion stomped their feet once, in unison. A sound of approval. A welcome. A recognition. This Piglin was no longer a trainee. No longer a follower. He was now a leader. With that sword, he had earned the right to choose his own juveniles. To patrol the wastelands. To face the ghasts. To brave the firestorms. And maybe, someday, to return and perform the same rite for another.

It struck me then—this is their culture. Not built on architecture or philosophy, but on survival, strength, and tradition. Brutal, yes. But meaningful. The sword is more than a weapon. It's a legacy.

There is one final stage in the life of a Piglin. After surviving countless patrols, claiming victories in the lava-scarred wilds of the Nether, and leading their own in battle, a Piglin eventually grows old. But unlike in the Overworld, age here is not a burden. It is a crown.

These elders no longer leave the Bastion. Their bodies are thicker, scarred from decades—maybe centuries—of warfare. Their once-polished golden swords are replaced with something far more imposing: massive golden axes, nearly as tall as I am. They don't use them often—but when they do, it's decisive and final. These weapons aren't for battle in the wilds. They are for defense—of the Bastion, of their people, of everything they've spent their lives protecting.

The younger Piglins step aside when an elder walks by. Even the most hardened warriors lower their heads slightly. It's not fear. It's reverence. These elders don't shout commands or wave their arms like the patrol leaders. Their authority comes from presence alone. A single glance is enough to bring silence. A nod, and an entire hall shifts into action. Their wisdom, earned through blood and fire, is the foundation on which this brutal but strangely noble society is built.

It's fascinating—this culture forged in flame and ash, with no written language, no books, and yet so many unwritten rules, carved into the behavior of every Piglin I meet. From childhood brawls to ceremonial rites, from patrol traditions to the stoic guardianship of the elders—there is a structure here as real and as solid as any fortress.

And I'm only scratching the surface. Every moment I live among them, I learn more. I watch. I listen. I document what I can. These Piglins are more than beasts. More than survivors. They are a people—and I can't wait to uncover more of what makes them who they are. This world is brutal, yes. But beneath the fire and fury, there is a heartbeat.

Nether Journal, Entry 6

Today I discovered two things that shook my understanding of the Nether: where the Piglins get their meat—and possibly, where they themselves come from.

It began like any other patrol. Or so I thought. One of the leaders—a grizzled Piglin whose golden sword looked older than most of the warriors around him—flicked his head toward me and let out a low grunt. It was the same signal they used when choosing juveniles for patrol. I grabbed my crossbow and followed without question. I was one of them now, at least in appearance, and I didn't want to break the illusion.

We left the Bastion in silence, crossing the wastelands with practiced ease. But then, in the distance, I saw something… wrong. A house. Not a structure carved from blackstone or brimmed with lava—this was a stone house. Old, weathered, abandoned—but unmistakably human. My heart skipped. It was a relic of the Overworld. Walls of stone bricks that resisted the heat, a broken stone chimney, and what looked like a shattered workbench lying in the dust.

Who built it? How long ago? Had someone else made it this far into the Nether? I didn't have time to investigate. The Piglins didn't even glance at it. I forced myself to memorize the terrain—twisted basalt spires to the west, a lavafall nearby. I'll return. I have to.

But our path didn't end there. We pressed forward into a part of the Nether I hadn't seen before. At first, it looked like another forest, but something was… different. The air was heavier. The ground pulsed with a deep red hue, and towering fungal trees reached upward like veins stretched across a wound. Red vines hung low. The mushrooms, the grass, even the air seemed angrier. Where the Warped Forest was eerie, this place was hostile. I named it the Crimson Forest.

And that's when I saw them. Not pigs. Not even boars. These were monsters—hulking beasts with jagged tusks and hair like matted armor. Their hooves cracked the ground with every step. Their eyes gleamed with feral hatred, and they charged at the sight of the Piglins.

The Piglins didn't hesitate. With a flurry of guttural commands, they fanned out across the blood-red carpet of the Crimson Forest, their golden armor flashing beneath the bioluminescent glow of the fungal canopy. This wasn't a patrol. This was a hunt—and I was in the middle of it. They followed one of these creatures. Hoglins I decided to call them.

The quarry? The Hoglin. A beast of muscle and rage, nearly twice the size of the creatures I thought I knew from the Overworld. Its tusks gleamed like curved blades, and its hide was thick as leathered iron. It stomped through the forest like it owned it—because it did.

The leader grunted once. That was the signal. In perfect unison, the Piglins unleashed a storm of arrows. But the Hoglin didn't flinch. It didn't run. It roared, a horrible, guttural sound that shook the crimson leaves. It charged.

In a blur of motion, it barreled into one of the Piglins and launched him into the air like a ragdoll. I saw the gold armor spiral through the haze before crashing into the base of a fungal tree.

The others didn't retreat. They shifted formation, grunting warnings and flanking from both sides, firing volley after volley to wear the beast down. But it wasn't enough. Blood sprayed from shallow wounds in the Hoglin's flank, but the beast kept moving like a runaway freight train. It wouldn't fall. Not yet.

These creatures had evolved not just to survive in the Nether—but to rule it. Tougher than Piglins. Meaner. Smarter, even. Every blow they took only seemed to enrage them more. Then—it saw me. To the Hoglin, I wasn't an outsider. I wore gold. I held a weapon. I was a Piglin in its eyes—and I was in its way.

It turned. Charged. The ground shook. I barely had time to breathe, let alone think. I dove aside, a tusk slashing the air where my ribs had been. The force of its charge cracked a tree behind me. I rolled, grabbed my crossbow, and tried to calm my trembling hands.

The Piglins were still battling around me, shouting in their guttural tongue, but this Hoglin wanted me. It turned again. This time, it came in faster. I had one shot. One chance. The beast lunged—tusks gleaming, jaw wide, eyes locked onto mine. It leapt, aiming to crush me beneath its weight and tear me limb from limb.

I pulled the trigger. The bolt flew—clean and fast—and struck dead center between its eyes. For a second, the Hoglin seemed to hover in the air. Then gravity took hold. It crashed down on top of me, a mountain of meat and death. I blacked out for a heartbeat under its weight. But when I opened my eyes… it wasn't moving. I was alive. Bruised. Nearly broken. But alive.

The Piglins grunted as they hauled the massive Hoglin carcass off of me, its weight replaced by a sudden rush of exhaustion and relief. The leader stood over me for a moment, its gold-plated snout gleaming in the dim crimson light. Then, with a short nod—silent, but clear—it acknowledged me. Not as an outsider, not as prey, but as a hunter. One of them.

The others wasted no time. With a practiced rhythm, they hoisted the Hoglin onto their shoulders and began the trek back to the Bastion. I followed, limping slightly, crossbow still warm in my hands.

When we reached the fortress, the scent of molten metal and scorched stone filled the air. Piglins emerged from the shadowed halls, their eyes lighting up at the sight of the kill. A ritual began, one I had neverseen before—until now.

The carcass was suspended over the central lava pool, thick ropes of twisted netherfiber looped around its hooves. The heat was intense. When they lowered the Hoglin into the lava, steam hissed and rose in thick clouds as the meat seared instantly. The Piglins roared in approval, a chorus of hunger and triumph echoing through the stone halls.

And that's when it clicked. The answer to the mystery that had haunted me for days. The meat I had eaten, the dense, fatty pork that lingered on my tongue with a taste like no other… it came from them. These beasts. These violent, powerful cousins of the Overworld's docile pigs. Twisted by the Nether. Hardened by fire and war.

But the Piglins wasted nothing. As the meat cooked, others worked quickly to process the Hoglin's coarse, armor-thick hair. It would be used to craft bowstrings—tough, durable, and flexible—or woven into satchels and sling bags. The bones, I imagined, would become tools, stakes, or perhaps ceremonial artifacts. This wasn't just survival. It was culture. A brutal, efficient way of life forged in the fires of a hellish world.

The scent of roasting Hoglin still clung to my armor as I slipped out of the Bastion, careful not to draw attention. The Piglins were preoccupied with preparing their feast, the Bastion alive with grunts, laughter, and the rhythmic clang of gold against stone. I didn't know if I'd get another chance like this.

I followed the path I had memorized, winding through the basalt crags and crimson haze, back toward the structure I'd seen before—the house. When I finally reached it, I froze. It was undeniably human in design: squared architecture, cut stone, symmetrical doorways, support beams reinforced with concrete. Not built for Piglins. Built by people… my people. But the place was ancient—so ancient that time itself seemed to have worn it down grain by grain. This wasn't a ruin from a few decades ago. Not even centuries. This house had the weight of millennia behind it, possibly hundreds of thousands of years.

Vines made of crimson fungus had crept up its walls, slowly reclaiming it. The roof had long since collapsed, and what remained was barely standing. I stepped inside, careful not to disturb the balance of decay. But then I saw something that stopped me in my tracks: a fence. Old, half-rotted, but unmistakably a pen—for pigs.

Dozens of them. Lined up in rows that had long since collapsed into fungal overgrowth and ash. Whatever people had built this place had brought pigs with them—probably as livestock. Maybe as companions. But when the humans abandoned this place, whether by accident or desperation, they hadn't taken the pigs with them.

And those pigs… they adapted, they changed. The ones that stayed close to the forests, maybe drawn by the shelter and strange mushrooms of the Warped biome—they became the Piglins. Their minds sharpened. They stood upright. They wore gold, built fortresses, hunted in packs.

The others… the ones that wandered deeper into the Crimson Forest? They became Hoglins. Their bodies grew larger, tusks thicker, muscles harder. Survivors not of society, but of raw savagery. They didn't evolve intellect. They evolved fury.

It all made sense now. The mushrooms too—probably brought here from the Overworld, carried in bags or carts or growing in food supplies. Over countless generations, just like the pigs, the fungus had adapted to this place. Warped and Crimson, growing into towering treelike fungi, mycellium carpeting the nether rack, each tied to the creatures that lived among them.

This wasn't just a random ecosystem. It was history—twisted, buried, and evolved beyond recognition. The Nether didn't birth the Piglins or the Hoglins. We brought them here. And now, after all this time, I'm walking among their descendants.

Nether Journal, Entry 7

The more time I spend with the Piglins, the more I realize how complex—how civilized—they truly are. These aren't mindless beasts or savage brutes. They have a culture. A structure. A work ethic.

They don't just patrol or hunt. They work.

Unlike the villagers above, who assign themselves neat little roles—blacksmiths, farmers, clerics—each Piglin seems to do everything. There's no specialization. No division of labor. If you're strong enough to wield a weapon, you're also expected to mine, build, hunt, defend, and craft. There are no idle hands here. In the Bastion, every Piglin contributes. Survival demands it.

It all became clear when I followed a group into the deeper tunnels beneath the Bastion—into the mines.

The heat there was unbearable, even by Nether standards. Lava pulsed behind thin walls of Netherrack, glowing like veins of molten blood. The Piglins didn't flinch. They marched in with purpose, grunting signals and splitting off into groups. Their target: gold nuggets buried deep in the Nether's crust.

I expected golden tools, knowing their obsession with the metal. But what I saw was different—far different.

Their picks were dark, weathered, with a reddish tint. At first, I thought they were iron, corrupted by rust. But iron melts in lava. These did not.

One Piglin lost his grip as he struck a vein and the tool slipped—straight into a bubbling pocket of lava. I winced, expecting the hiss of disintegration. But instead, the pick floated—not only intact, but glowing slightly from the heat, as though it welcomed the fire.

The Piglin grunted, reached in, and grabbed it barehanded—his thick hide resisting the heat—and plugged the lava hole with a chunk of Netherrack like it was second nature. Then he moved on, pick in hand, striking at the walls again.

These picks… they weren't made of gold. And they weren't iron. They must be forged from some Nether-native alloy—something resistant to both corrosion and flame. A lost metallurgy known only to the Piglins. I need to get my hands on one, study it. Whatever this metal is, it could change how we survive here.

But it's not just the tools or the work that fascinates me—it's the ethic. Every Piglin mines. Every Piglin hauls ore. They don't take shifts or argue over roles. No one complains. It's as if the idea of not working, of not contributing, is as foreign to them as peace is to a Ghast.

After a long shift in the mines. The Piglins gathered in one of the great chambers carved into the side of the Bastion. They stood in loose circles, tossing gold ingots back and forth. No shouting. No bartering. Just grunts, nods, gestures. And yet… trades were happening.

Gold is their currency—this much is clear. But what baffles me is how they know what to trade for. There's no spoken language, not like the Villagers above with their hums and nods. The Piglins grunt and gesture, but there's no clear bartering process, no discussion of value or intent. It's as if the trade isn't about what you want… it's about what you're offered.

Curious, I decided to test the system myself. I took a single gold ingot from my stash and approached a Piglin standing alone near one of the trading circles. I tossed the ingot gently at its feet.

It froze. For a moment, it just stared at me, unblinking, clutching its crossbow like it wasn't sure if this was a gift… or an insult. I stood completely still. I didn't know if I was supposed to grunt, point, or mimic their gestures. I didn't even know if they understood what I wanted.

Then slowly, the Piglin knelt, picked up the ingot, and studied it.

Seconds passed like hours. Then, without a word, it reached into the tattered leather sack strapped to its waist and pulled out a strange object. It clanked as it hit the ground right in front of my feet. He gave one last glance in my direction, then walked away, as if the exchange had never happened.

I picked up the object and turned it over in my hands. It was heavy—heavier than gold or iron. A solid shard of dark, unrefined metal streaked with Netherrack impurities. It looked like it had been pulled straight from the molten veins of the Nether itself.

This wasn't iron.

This wasn't gold.

This was some kind of "ancient debris".

I've seen the tools the Piglins use—tools that resist lava and fire. This must be the raw material they use to forge them. This is the secret to their survival beneath the flames.

I held it up to the light of a lavafall, watching it glint darkly, like it absorbed the heat instead of reflecting it. I've decided to name it Netherite.

It's not enough to survive here anymore. If I want to conquer the Nether—and live long enough to face the End—I'll need more of this metal. I'll need to learn how to refine it, how to shape it. And to do that, I'll need to trade for more, like a Piglin.

Nether Journal, Entry 8

Life among the Piglins has always felt balanced—brutal, yet strangely fair. They are warriors, hunters, miners, craftsmen… and survivors. But recently, I witnessed something that reminded me just how harsh their way of life truly is.

It began with a sudden uproar—grunts, squeals, the thunder of stomping hooves. Piglins spilled out of their rooms, flooding into the central chamber near the lava lake. I followed, sensing something was wrong.

At the center of the gathering, a young Piglin was being restrained by two others. It thrashed and squealed in panic, but it wasn't fighting to escape—it was begging.

I couldn't understand the words. If there were any. But the message was clear. It had stolen something. A chest, tucked in one of the open living spaces, had been pried apart. Its contents were scattered. Another Piglin, older and stronger, stood beside it, pointing accusingly with a trembling hand. The air around them seemed to vibrate with fury.

I had seen battles, hunts, even juvenile training duels—but never had I seen the Bastion this silent. Every Piglin, from the juveniles to the armored warriors in the spires, stood still, watching.

Then, one of the elder appeared. Towering, scarred, wrapped in golden armor so dull and battered it looked like it had survived centuries. In one hand, it carried its golden axe—not the ceremonial kind, but a weapon forged with purpose and history.

The crowd parted as the elder approached the trembling thief. And that's when I understood: Theft isn't just a crime here. It's the ultimate betrayal. The Piglins may not speak in our language, but their actions speak louder than words. Every piece of gold, every shard of Netherite, every chest—these are sacred. Earned. Respected.

To take from another… it meant disrespect. Weakness. Shame. There was no trial. No appeal. Only the will of the elder.

The Piglin was forced to its knees beside the lava lake. Its screams were deafening. I could do nothing—only watch. I'm not one of them. Not really. My word would mean nothing here.

The elder raised the axe. And with a single blow, It was over.

The cheers erupted like a furnace roar behind me. The Piglins howled and stomped, not in anger, but in grim celebration—as if justice had been served.

But for me, there was no closure. Only revulsion. I ran, through the stone halls of the Bastion, past the lava forges and the rows of chests, I ran until I could run no more. I collapsed in a dark corner and vomited, the image of the execution burned into my mind like fire on flesh. I had seen death before—battles, monsters, accidents. But this? This was cold, deliberate… ritual.

I thought it was over. I was wrong. The body was not cremated. It was not honored. It was carried out of the Bastion on the ultimate display of shame.

A procession of silent Piglins bore the limp corpse through the warped fields and basalt valleys until we reached it—the Soulsand Desert. A cursed expanse of twisted blue flame and dry wind that whispered like the voices of the damned.

There, they began to dig. They lowered the body into the soul sand and buried it without a word. I watched from a distance, heart pounding, uncertain why the ritual wasn't finished. Then… the sand began to shift.

It rose. Not as the Piglin it once was—but something else. Hollow eyes. Tattered skin. Blank expression. A Zombie Piglin.

But there was no fear from the others. No weapons drawn. Instead, they approached it calmly, almost reverently. They placed golden armor over its shriveled form and pressed a dull golden sword into its decayed hand. Then, they turned and left it to wander.

That's when I realized the horror. These weren't the fallen warriors I once pitied. They weren't the honored dead, lost in battle. They were the condemned.

Every Zombie Piglin I've seen—those quiet, wandering shadows—were not casualties of war. They were criminals. Thieves. Cowards. Traitors. This was their final punishment: a cursed half-life of endless wandering. No rest. No redemption. Just the eternal shame of undeath. Here in the Nether, death is not the end. It's just the beginning of something far worse.

If those who defy Piglin law are condemned to eternal servitude as undead… what becomes of the others? The warriors who fall in battle, those who die with honor? I've watched, I've asked in every silent way I can, and the answer has never come directly. But I've seen the aftermath of skirmishes. I've followed the trails of blood through the undergrowth. I've found broken weapons lying beside Piglin corpses, motionless and unburied. No rites. No ceremony. No farewell.

Their bodies are left where they fall—splayed across the ash-choked ground or slumped over the edges of basalt cliffs. The Nether does not mourn its dead. So here is my theory, one as grotesque as it is logical: the forests claim them. Not in reverence, but in consumption.

I believe the spores—those ever-present glowing buds in the warped and crimson forests—settle into the open wounds of the fallen. They burrow into flesh and muscle. The body becomes a host, a feeding ground. Over time, the corpse is digested. Slowly. Efficiently. Mushrooms sprout from exposed ribs. Fungus wraps around bones like ivy and eventually starts a new forest. Warped roots push through skulls, feeding off what was once a warrior.

It is a sickening cycle, but one that makes terrifying sense. The mushrooms grow rich from the remains. And the Piglins—unknowingly or not—feed on the mushrooms. A closed loop. A perfect, nightmarish circle. The dead nourish the forest, and the forest feeds the living. Here in the Nether, death isn't the end. It's a crop. A resource. A return to the soil—but the soil is alive, and it's always hungry.

It's horrifying. But it's natural here. This is how the Nether breathes—through rot, through fungus, through endless decay. This land doesn't just accept death. It requires it.

As the Piglins turned their backs on the newly risen Zombie Piglin—leaving it to stagger off into the desolate blue dunes—I lingered behind, heart still heavy with dread. The silence of the soul sand desert was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of blue fire and the distant, sorrowful wind that always seems to whisper your name.

That's when I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye—tall, impossibly thin, and draped in shadows deeper than the void—an Enderman.

It didn't acknowledge me. It never does. Instead, it moved slowly, deliberately, its long arms reaching down to gather the soul sand where the body had been buried. It cradled the grains like sacred ash, then vanished… only to reappear nearby, assembling something foul from the stolen soul-soil and bone.

A spawner. A pulsing, writhing heart of unnatural light emerged as the Enderman pieced it together—its glow sickly and malevolent. I watched in horror as the machine's energy pulsed in rhythm with the dead that wandered the desert. It wasn't just a device… it was a gateway. A birth chamber for the undead.

And suddenly, the pieces fell into place. The Nether isn't just some alternate dimension of fire and chaos. It's not just a battlefield. It's a graveyard. A cursed underworld where the souls of the dead are imprisoned—trapped within the soul sand for eternity. Every whisper in the dunes, every flicker in the flame, every groan from beneath the earth… they're all remnants of the forgotten dead.

But the Endermen… they're not content to let the dead stay buried. They harvest the soul sand and turn it into spawners. Then they carry it to the Overworld. They build with it—spawners, dungeons, traps. And from these, the dead rise—zombies, skeletons, abominations meant to consume the living.

Now, more than ever, I understand the weight of my mission. The Ender Dragon isn't just a guardian of its realm. It's a general. A commander of this endless cycle of death, decay, and invasion. If I don't stop it, the tide of the undead will never end. The Overworld will fall. The living will be buried beneath waves of the damned.

I need to find the Nether Wart, I need to craft the potions, then I have to reach the End. And when I do—I must end the Dragon. If I don't… the world I once knew will be swallowed whole by the endless undeath.