Chapter 16: Time Moves Along

Nether Journal: Entry 9

It's been a long time since my last entry. Time continues to feel different here—unmeasurable, like it's been swallowed by the Nether's endless, burning breath. Months? Years? I've lost track. But I've adapted. I've worked alongside the Piglins for what feels like an age now.

We mine deep beneath the Bastion, chasing veins of gold and ancient debris through tunnels pulsing with heat. Every strike of my pickaxe risks breaching into a chamber of molten death. Behind every slab of Netherrack could lie a flood of lava, waiting to drown us. Yet the Piglins work with uncanny instinct. They knock on the stone, listen to its echo, sniff the sulfur-rich air—somehow they always seem to know where danger lies, and how to skirt around it. I watch and follow their rhythm. And I learn.

I've traded for debris when I can, but most of it I've mined with my own hands. My instincts has grown stronger. My body, tougher. My movements, sharper. I'm no longer just a stranger in the Nether—I'm a survivor in it.

When called to hunt or patrol, I don't hesitate. I grab my crossbow and follow. We sweep through forests of crimson and warped wood, across basalt plains and under the open ceiling of lava-lit wastelands. Still, I search. Always, I search—for the one thing that brought me here: Nether Wart.

I've traveled so far, laid stone markers at every crossroads like a trail of breadcrumbs. If I ever have to make this journey alone, I want to know I can find my way. The Nether is a labyrinth, a world without end, its terrain as varied and alive as the Overworld. Just as it once took ages to find a village, I now wander these hellish lands in pursuit of the Wart.

The Bastion has become my base. The Piglins, strange as it sounds, have become my companions. They don't speak my language—but I understand them better now. We fight together. Bleed together. Eat together.

Finally. After what feels like a lifetime of ash and fire, I've found the Nether Wart. The journey was brutal—but it paid off.

It began just after I completed forging my new weapon. The forge beneath the Bastion burns hotter than anything in the Overworld. Using the ancient techniques I'd learned from the Piglins, I was able to melt the precious debris we'd mined into small pools of molten Netherite. It wasn't enough to create a full weapon on its own—Netherite is rare, and slow to yield—but I had something else: my diamond sword. A trusted relic from a different world, reforged with Netherite to become something far greater.

The result was a blade unlike anything I'd wielded before. It shimmered darkly, a deep, smoldering metal that pulsed with residual heat. It was weighty but balanced—durable beyond belief, and immune to lava's touch. I turned the blade over in my hands, watching the glow of the Bastion flicker across its surface. A perfect union of Overworld craftsmanship and Nether resilience.

As I sheathed the weapon, a Piglin leader grunted in my direction. I could tell by the tone and gesture—he wanted me to join a scouting party of juveniles. No words were exchanged. None were needed. I put my sword away, slung my crossbow over my shoulder, and fell into formation.

We marched through the warped forests first—shimmering blue light casting ghostly shadows over the fungi-covered terrain. Then the terrain turned red and wild. The air thickened with spores as we entered the Crimson Forest. The juveniles were focused, disciplined, and silent. These weren't children anymore. They were fighters.

Then—I found it. It's hard to describe the feeling that came over me as we crossed the wastelands, weaving through the silent parade of wandering Zombie Piglins. Their presence has become almost expected in these lifeless plains, like the drifting ash or the glow of lava. But today, something unfamiliar stirred the horizon.

In the distance, past the haze of heat and smoke, a silhouette began to form. I stopped in my tracks, raised my spyglass, and focused through the distortion of the Nether's sweltering air.

Ruins. Towering walls of dark, worn brick—clearly crafted, unmistakably intentional. The material was familiar: Netherrack, but smelted and hardened, shaped into precise bricks. Not like the crude, stacked architecture of the Piglin Bastions with their jagged spires and golden banners. This structure was different. Geometric. Symmetrical. Designed for defense, not for intimidation or hoarding wealth.

It looked… human. Or at least, it looked like something built by hands that once remembered the overworld. Perhaps this was once a stronghold for explorers like me, or a failed sanctuary for those who tried to tame the Nether long before my time. Whatever it was, it had been long abandoned, crubling ruins. The scars of time and battle were etched into every crumbling wall, every broken corridor that jutted from its remains.

The Piglins didn't react with surprise. They didn't even acknowledge it's existence—or perhaps they simply accepted its presence, like one more grave in a land built on death. But I couldn't shake the feeling that this place was important. That it held something I needed.

Something ancient. Something lost. And I was going to explore it.

I slipped away from the scouting party. The Piglins didn't notice—or if they did, they didn't care. As long as I understand the dangers of wandering the Nether alone, they seem content to let me make my own mistakes. Or maybe they just assume I won't live long enough for those mistakes to matter.

I moved carefully through the ash-blown terrain, the distant ruins growing larger with every step. That structure—what I now think might have once been a fortress—called to me in a way I can't explain. Something in my gut tells me that the answers I've been chasing lie buried in its bones.

But then I stopped. A deep, furious sound roared just ahead. The ground trembled with heat. When I stepped over the final ridge, my heart sank.

A river. Not of water—but of fire. Lava, flowing wide and fast like blood from the heart of the Nether itself. The sheer heat nearly knocked me back, but my fire-resistant armor held. I could feel it already straining against the waves of heat, its enchantments glowing faintly, trying to repel the worst of the furnace wind. But this wasn't a place for missteps. If I fell in, no magic or enchantment would save me. The lava wouldn't just burn—it would consume, melting my gear, my skin, and my story into the flow.

I scanned the horizon. To the left and right, nothing but endless cliffs and broken stone. No bridges, no passageways, no natural crossings. If I wanted to reach that fortress, I'd need to go miles out of the way. Days, maybe.

And I didn't have days. There had to be a way across.

I stepped back from the edge, mind racing. The heat clawed at my face, sweat instantly turning to steam. I couldn't let this stop me. Whatever secrets that ruin held—it had survived for eons. I wasn't going to let a river of fire keep them buried.

My prayers were answered—though not by gods or fate, but by the oddities of this forsaken realm. I was beginning to think the journey would end there, defeated by molten stone. And then… I saw movement.

From the haze, strange creatures revealed themselves, waddling leisurely across the surface of the lava like it was solid ground. At first, I braced myself, expecting a charge or shriek—anything aggressive. But they didn't attack. In fact, they looked almost… content. Their skin was bright red and raw-looking, like exposed muscle, with patches of stringy hair along their backs. They looked like walking embers—flesh and flame combined.

I approached one slowly, crossbow lowered, my every step cautious. But it didn't flinch. It simply stared with its wide, vacant eyes and let out a low, melancholic hum. I reached out and laid a hand on its head. Its skin was warm—not scorching—like a living stove, pulsing softly with internal heat.

These creatures could walk on lava. Not sink, not burn, not even hesitate. No armor, no enchantments—just nature adapted to hell. Their feat was coated with netherite, not like shoes, but hooves of an animal. And that's when the idea struck me. If they could carry themselves across fire… maybe they could carry me.

It was the key to crossing the lava river. To reaching the other side. To discovering what lies beyond. I needed some way to guide them. The fortress is still out there, and I will not let lava be the thing that stops me.

After observing the lava-walkers—these strange, flesh-colored creatures calmly striding across molten rivers—I decided to test how they responded to different foods. I pulled out everything I had: dried pork, vegetables, even bread. Nothing.

Then I remembered the warped fungi I'd collected in the Warped Forests. The moment I pulled one out, something changed. The creatures' nostrils flared. They turned toward me, slowly at first, then with an eager shuffle. Their gait still sluggish and dopey, but unmistakably deliberate.

They wanted the fungus. That gave me an idea.

I lashed one of the warped mushrooms I had to the end of a fishing rod—crude, but it worked—and carefully climbed onto one of the broad, leathery back of the nearest creature. It made no protest, no sign of discomfort. Just another long, deep breath, as though carrying a passenger was no different than drifting across the fire.

Using the fungus-on-a-stick, I lured it forward. To my amazement, it obeyed. We glided across the lava, the creature's spindly legs gently pattering against the surface like it was no different than solid ground.

It was surreal—floating over death, carried by a beast that should not exist. I've decided to name them Striders. It fits. They don't run. They don't charge. They stride—calm, gentle, unbothered by the burning seas beneath them.

I don't think they can be tamed in the traditional sense. They're too aloof, too detached from the world around them. But they can be guided… and that's all I need. In this land of fire and stone, they are more valuable than any mount in the Overworld. With the Striders, the Nether opens wider. No river of lava can block me now.

Crossing the lava river on the back of a Strider had felt like a victory in itself—but the true challenge still loomed ahead.

Towering before me were the colossal support columns of the ruined fortress, each one carved from blackened brick and scorched by centuries of heat and ash. They rose out of the lava like the spines of some buried giant, their tops vanishing into the smoky gloom above.

I stared up at them, heart pounding. This was no Piglin structure. The architecture was too familiar—angular, imposing, too precise to be Piglin work. It felt ancient… human. Older than anything I'd seen in the Overworld. Older than memory.

With no visible entrance, I had no choice but to climb. I gripped my pick and began carving a crude, narrow staircase into the side of one of the stone pillars. The heat radiating from the bricks made the metal scalding to the touch, but I kept going. Every strike of the pick sent a shiver through my arms, but slowly—slowly—I carved my way upward.

Lava bubbled far below, eager to claim me should I misstep. One loose stone, one moment of exhaustion, and I'd vanish beneath the fire. But I focused, one handhold at a time.

After what felt like an eternity, my head crested the edge of the platform. I hauled myself up and rolled onto the flat, cracked stone floor. Gasping for breath, I looked up at the fortress around me.

I took a moment to catch my breath and observe my surroundings. The air up here was thicker, hotter—like the whole structure had been smoldering from the inside forever. The stone beneath my feet was cracked and brittle, flaking with every step. But what caught my attention first… was the sound.

Clatter. Rattle. Drag.

Bones. But not just any bones—the unmistakable rhythm of skeletal movement. I froze and ducked behind a jagged outcropping of stone, expecting the shrill twang of arrows and the deadly hiss of bowstrings. But it never came.

Instead, when I peeked around the corner, I saw them.

Not the pale, fragile skeletons of the Overworld. These were taller. Leaner. Their bones blackened by fire and soot, as if charred by endless centuries of ash and fury. And instead of bows, they wielded long, jagged swords that shimmered faintly with an eerie heat.

Withering Skeletons. That's what they were. Now they stood mere meters from me—slowly patrolling the dark halls of this ruined fortress like cursed sentries.

I knew I couldn't fight them in my gilded Piglin gear—it was made of gold. They were meant for diplomacy, not war.

Quietly, I slipped behind a wall of scorched brick, set down my golden armor, and strapped on my iron chestplate, leggings, helmet, and greaves. I drew my Netherite sword—its dark edge still gleaming from the forge—and lifted my shield into place. My hands were steady. My mind was clear.

This wasn't survival anymore. It was war. I didn't wait. I charged.

The first Wither Skeleton saw me just in time to raise its sword—but I slammed into it with my shield, sending it stumbling back. The second swung, and I deflected with a burst of sparks. My sword cut through the air with a deep hum, cleaving through brittle ribs and thick smoke.

They didn't shriek. They didn't bleed. They simply crumbled, piece by burning piece. They came at me one after another—tireless, relentless, like a tide of death made fleshless. But they were no match for the weapon I now carried.

Their rusted blades clashed against my shield, but the blows glanced off like dry leaves in a storm. My Netherite sword, forged in the fire of the Bastion and quenched in battle, cut through them like a hot knife through brittle charcoal. Every strike sent pieces of charred bone clattering across the stone floor.

One of them lunged—its blackened sword raised high. I met the swing with my own, and where their corrupted iron failed, my Netherite endured. Sparks flew. The impact rang out like a bell tolling doom. Their weapon snapped in half, useless.

I stepped in close. With a grunt, I slammed my shield into its ribcage. The force shattered the skeleton in a burst of ash and bone, its remains falling to the ground as little more than soot and bonemeal.

I didn't pause. There was no time to reflect, no room for mercy. The fortress was testing me—and I was passing. But somewhere deep inside these halls, I knew the true trial had yet to come.

Just when I thought the fortress had revealed all its horrors, I heard it—that unmistakable, unnatural crack of fire being launched through the air.

I barely had time to raise my shield. The impact rocked my arm, sending embers flying. My shield, once sturdy, was now engulfed in flames. The wood charred instantly, the metal warped from the heat. I had no choice—I threw it aside before it melted onto my arm.

I ducked behind a wall, chest heaving, heart racing. Peering cautiously around the edge, I finally saw the source.

It wasn't a ghast. It wasn't a creature with limbs or a face. It was fire itself—living, floating, watching. A blaze. That's what I'll call it. A swirling inferno, suspended midair by spinning rods that glowed with a furious, golden heat. It hissed as it hovered, then launched another fireball that turned the stone where I'd stood into molten cracks.

Getting close is suicide. Its fire is too intense—it doesn't just burn, it melts. Steel wouldn't last a second in that inferno.

My only chance is to fight from a distance. It's time to see if my crossbow is up to the task.

It didn't take long to see that the crossbow was useless. My first shot flew true, aimed for center mass—but the arrow never landed. It burned away midair, reduced to ash before it even touched the creature. The blaze hovered there, unfazed, spinning its fiery rods like it was mocking me.

I ducked behind the stone again, the heat licking the air around me. I needed a new plan.

That's when I remembered the rockets. I didn't bring them for offense—just for emergencies, maybe to distract or light a path—but now? Now they were the only shot I had.

I drew back the string of the crossbow, loaded a small rocket into place, and steadied my breathing.

Then I leapt from cover. "Eat this!" I shouted, more for my own courage than anything else.

I fired. The blaze tried to absorb the rocket like it did the arrows, but this time it was different. The rocket struck, and in a flash of smoke and fire, it detonated—a short, brutal burst of explosive power that swallowed the blaze whole.

When the smoke cleared, all that remained were glowing fragments—twisted yellow rods, still faintly pulsing with heat. I stepped forward and picked them up. Blaze rods, I've decided to call them. Lightweight, warm to the touch, and humming with some kind of strange energy. I don't know their purpose yet—but I'll find it.

I pressed on, weaving through the corridors of the fortress, my boots crunching bones and embers alike. The blackened skeletons fell to my sword. The blazes fell to firepower and fury. Whatever this place was built for—defense, worship, or war—it now belongs to the dead.

After pushing deeper into the fortress, I reached its interior—a place less scorched by fire and more touched by time. That's where I found them: the chests.

Scattered in alcoves and tucked into shadowed corners, these old wooden containers were clearly meant for human hands. Their designs were familiar—simple, functional, and unmistakably Overworld in origin. I cracked them open one by one, each creaking under the weight of centuries.

Inside, I found relics. Weapons dulled by age, armor long corroded, and food—inedible, but still bearing the faint shape of what it once was. Bread. Apples. Jerky. Time had claimed their substance, but not their story.

Then came the real treasures: iron ingots, gold, even diamonds, sealed in compartments lined with decaying cloth. Supplies prepared by long-lost explorers, soldiers, or settlers who once dared to stake a claim in this hellish place. Maybe they fought the blazes and the withered dead. Maybe they built this fortress as a last stand.

I even found armor meant for horses which meant that there were horses here sometime in the past. But unlike the pigs that were brought here, they either didnt survive the harshness of the Nether or used to escape when things went wrong. Now, only echoes remain.

I packed what I could. Every resource counts in the Nether, especially those forged in the Overworld. But as I moved from chest to chest, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was looting a tomb—one built by my own kind, long before I ever set foot here.

Who were they? And what happened to them? I may never know.

As I stood there, staring down at the treasure in my hands—iron, gold, diamond, the remnants of a long-forgotten civilization—my mind began to spiral with possibility. A story formed, slowly pieced together from everything I'd seen and everything I'd survived.

What if the pigs that were brought into the Nether so long ago didn't just survive—but evolved? Split by their environment, some may have wandered into the warped forests. In that strange blue light and quiet gloom, something began to change. Over generations—thousands of years, maybe more—they began to stand upright. Their minds sharpened, and they started to mimic the humans that abandoned them.

The others… they took a different path. Those left behind in the crimson forests became something else entirely. Surrounded by rich fungal growths and constant conflict, their bodies grew larger, more brutish. Their tusks lengthened. Their instincts hardened. They became Hoglins—raw beasts of muscle and rage.

But the ones who walked upright… they found something. A fortress, like this one. Built by humans. Left behind like everything else—materials, tools, weapons, armor. The ruins became their inheritance. They scavenged iron blades, worn crossbows, chests filled with strange objects. And in time, they began to understand—or at least repurpose.

They learned from our abandoned treasures. To them, armor was not protection. It was identity. Clothing. Gold became more than metal—it was status, language, recognition. Since gold was soft, abundant, and easy to shape, it became the default. It marked leadership. It marked youth. It marked unity.

And slowly, the fortress became a Bastion. And the upright pigs became Piglins. Not born of magic. Not summoned by the Nether itself. But shaped by it. Refined by fire, by fungus, by war, and by the scraps of a fallen human age.

We made them, in a way. The moment we opened the first portal, the moment someone dragged pigs through and left them behind. This world didn't forget. It repurposed our mistakes.

Deep within the twisting halls of the Nether Fortress, I found what I had been searching for—Nestled in a shadowed corner behind a crumbling staircase, a small overgrown garden pulsed with an unnatural red glow.

Nether Wart.

It sprouted from the soil like clustered veins, swaying gently in the still air. But it wasn't just the Wart that unsettled me—it was the ground it grew from. The soil wasn't normal. It wasn't Netherrack or fungus-covered stone. It was… ghostly. Soft, corrupted, and pale. Just like the Soul Sand I encountered in the deserts of the Nether.

It crunched faintly under my boots, not like dirt, but like dry ash. As if something within it still stirred—whispers, maybe… or memories. I wouldn't be surprised if the very ground was made from the remnants of the dead, twisted into a new purpose.

And that's when it hit me. These Nether Warts may have once been ordinary mushrooms, the kind brought here from the Overworld—perhaps accidentally, perhaps as provisions. But trapped in this cursed fortress, fed by this haunted soil, they changed. Warped by the countless souls imprisoned beneath them. Thousands of generations passed… and evolution, or perhaps corruption, did the rest.

I knelt down and harvested what I could—red, rubbery stalks still warm from the heat of the Nether. This was the ingredient I needed. The key to fighting back.

With the mushrooms in my pack and ash still clinging to my boots, I began the long journey back. Back through the Fortress. Back across the lava seas. Back towards the portal back home.

Thankfully—after what feels like an eternity wandering the Nether—I can finally return home.

I've walked beside warriors with golden tusks and ancient weapons. I've crossed oceans of lava on the backs of flesh-bound creatures. I've seen skeletal beasts rise from cursed soil, and I've harvested mushrooms that pulse with the power of the dead.

Year 10, Day 42

Not long after stepping back into the Overworld, I noticed something was different—almost immediately.

The base I had built what felt like ages ago was no longer the stark, practical shelter I had left behind. It had grown. It had evolved.

Outside the tall sturdy walls, life had flourished. Farmland stretched out in every direction, golden and green under the open sky. Crops swayed gently in the wind—potatoes, carrots, beetroots, wheat, sweet berries, melons, pumpkins. Neat rows, tidy irrigation lines. It was no longer survival—it was cultivation.

The animals had been moved as well. Where once they were huddled in pens within the walls, now they roamed open ranches. Stables stood tall beside red barns, their fences strong and well-maintained. Horses grazed freely. Cows lowed in contentment. Even the chickens seemed to strut with more purpose.

And then I heard the bark. Shadow. Before I could brace myself, he barreled toward me—tail wagging, tongue lolling out, joy bursting from every step. He leapt into my arms and nearly knocked me off my feet. I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in what felt like forever.

My village had changed while I was gone. The people I left behind—those I had protected and built for—hadn't just endured. They had grown. Thrived. And somehow, knowing that gave me peace.

The Nether had taken something from me… but here, in the sunlight and soil of my world, I had found something greater. Hope.

The wall now had a massive gate—towering, reinforced with iron and stone. It stood as both a shield and a symbol: strong enough to keep the undead at bay, but welcoming enough to let friends and allies pass through freely. It was no longer just a barrier. It was a beacon.

As I stepped through the gate, I was stunned. The fields of crops I had once planted inside the walls were gone—relocated beyond the fortifications. In their place stood new buildings, rising from the ground like the village had been holding its breath until now and finally exhaled into life.

There were more people than I could have imagined. Dozens of unfamiliar faces moved about—trading, talking, working. And children. Real children, laughing and playing between houses, darting past blacksmiths and carpenters, their joy echoing off the cobblestone.

Before I could process it all, I heard familiar voices calling out. Bowen. Smith. Henry. The three of them came rushing forward, smiles on their faces, arms wide.

"Welcome back," Smith said, clapping me on the shoulder.

I didn't even know what to say. I asked what had happened—how all this had come to be.

Smith explained that, sometime after I left for the Nether, a wandering merchant stumbled upon the village. It was so impressed by the high walls and the fortified design, it couldn't stop talking about it to other distant villages. Word spread like wildfire.

One by one, villagers from distant, vulnerable settlements made the dangerous journey to reach this place—drawn by the promise of protection and a future. They brought their friends, their trades, and their hope.

They built homes. Moved the animals and crops outside the walls where there was more space to grow. And together, they carved a new life out of what I had started.

I looked around at the village I once called mine. But it wasn't mine anymore. It belonged to all of them now. And that filled me with something I hadn't felt in a long time. Pride.

I couldn't process it all—not at first. The buildings, the villagers, the farmland stretching beyond the walls… It was overwhelming. Like stepping out of a dream and into a future I hadn't prepared for.

But one question gnawed at me more than the rest: How long was I gone?

I needed answers. I made my way back to my home—tucked away in the same quiet corner of the village where I had left it. Remarkably, it was untouched. No new additions, no alterations. As if the world around it had evolved while it remained frozen in time.

Except for one thing. The chest. The one I had left under Bowen's care. I had asked him to place one piece of flint inside it for each day I was gone—just a simple way to keep track. When I opened the lid, my breath caught.

It was nearly overflowing. I sat down and began to count, methodically, letting the silence settle around me like dust in an old room.

1… 10… 100… 500… 1,137 pieces of flint.

That's when the truth hit me. One flint per day. That meant I had been in the Nether for over three years.

Three years.

Three years of lava and ash. Of Piglins and warped forests. Of ancient fortresses, firestorms, and twisted evolution. While the village grew, thrived, and welcomed new life… I was surviving in a world where life had all but struggled to live.

I looked at my hands—scarred, hardened, calloused by flame and battle. I wasn't the same man who had walked into the Nether.

And this village… it wasn't the same place I had left behind. This was no longer a personal outpost. It was a home. A refuge. A kingdom rising from the ashes of fear. And somehow, despite all the time lost… I was exactly where I needed to be.

The next thing I did after settling in was head to the old pond near the edge of the forest. The air was cool, filled with the scent of pine and fresh earth—a welcome contrast to the acrid heat of the Nether. I knelt beside the water, cupped it in my hands, and began washing away the soot and grime that had clung to me like a second skin.

I couldn't remember the last time I had taken a proper bath. The water stung slightly at first—my skin roughened, raw in places, hardened by ash and fire. But as I splashed it across my face and looked down into the reflection shimmering on the surface, I froze. I barely recognized the man staring back at me.

My skin had darkened, bronzed by the relentless glow of lava and the unforgiving climate of the Nether. My arms were thicker, sinewed with muscle from battles, from endless hikes across jagged terrain carrying heavy gold attached to my frame. My chest, too, had filled out. The Hoglin meat—tough and rich in protein and fat—had fueled a slow, constant transformation. I had become a warrior in form as much as in practice.

But what truly caught me by surprise… was my hair. It had begun to turn grey. The color streaked through the strands like silver lightning—subtle but unmistakable. And for the first time since my appearance in this world, I wondered: How old am I now?

Time slips strangely in this world. The sun sets and rises, the moons pass—but the weight of age is something different. I hadn't thought about it before. There's no need to count the years when survival consumes every day.

But seeing that grey… it struck something deeper. I must be in my forties now, maybe older. That thought didn't frighten me, but it humbled me. No matter how strong I've become, no matter if I slay the Ender Dragon or discover every last secret of this world—there will come a time when I will fall silent. When my sword will be laid to rest over my grave, and I will be no more than another entry in these journals. Another name in the long, forgotten list of those who came before me.

It's a sobering thought: that so many have lived, fought, and died in this place before I ever set foot in it. That I, too, will become part of the world's quiet history.

But maybe that's the way it should be. Maybe these pages will find their way into someone else's hands. Maybe they'll read my mistakes and victories and forge a path of their own.

I came back to my village expecting rest—maybe a few quiet days to breathe, to recover, to finally lay down my sword. I had survived the Nether, conquered flame and shadow, and returned with knowledge and Nether Wart. But what awaited me was something I never anticipated.

Bowen, Smith, and Henry met me at the gates with knowing smiles, eyes bright with pride. They said nothing at first, only gestured for me to follow. They led me through the heart of the village—until we reached the blacksmith's house.

And there it was. Resting on an armor stand beneath the warm glow of the sunlight… was a full set of diamond armor. My breath caught in my throat.

The chest plate gleamed like ocean glass, the helmet's facets shimmered like frost under moonlight. Every piece had been carefully crafted, tempered, and polished. I stepped closer, reached out, and let my hand hover over the smooth, unyielding surface. It was beautiful. A gift crafted not just from diamonds—but from trust, loyalty, and admiration.

They had finished it while I was gone. They had waited for me to return to claim it.

With reverence, I donned each piece—first the leggings, then the greaves. The chest plate settled across my shoulders like a second skin, heavy with meaning. Finally, I placed the helmet over my head, and for the first time… I felt whole.

When I stepped outside, the entire village had gathered. Dozens of villagers—young and old—stood before me in silence. Then, one by one, they knelt. Heads bowed in quiet reverence. Not to a king. Not to a god. To me.

To the man who built the walls, who fought the monsters, who crossed into fire and shadow and returned. The one who never stopped protecting them—even when I was lost in the deepest parts of the Nether.

I wasn't just a warrior anymore. I had become something more, a Hero.

And in that moment, beneath the wide blue sky, clad in unbreakable diamond and surrounded by the people who made everything worth it—I finally understood the weight of that title.

Not a reward. Not a trophy. But a responsibility. And I would bear it with pride.