Chapter 17: Drums of war

Year 10, Day 75

I don't remember falling asleep.

One moment, I was standing beneath the open sky, my face tilted toward the sun—the first true sunlight I'd felt in years. It was warm and golden, and for a breathless second, it felt like forgiveness. The next moment, I was waking in my bed, tangled in blankets that smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. Morning light slanted through the window, soft and pale. The air was rich with the scent of woodsmoke and fresh-baked bread, like the world itself was welcoming me home.

Bowen sat at my bedside, hunched over a steaming bowl of mushroom stew, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He looked thinner than I remembered. When he saw me stir, he let out a slow breath and told me I'd been asleep for about 20 nights. The villagers had taken turns watching over me, waiting—hoping—that I would wake.

Three years without a single night of rest. That was the toll of the Nether. Down there, sleep is a memory the fire burns away. But the Overworld is different. It reclaims what the Nether stole. Slowly. Gently. Without asking.

I don't remember what I dreamed. Maybe I didn't dream at all. But when I opened my eyes, my body ached with the weight of stillness, and something inside me—something quiet and urgent—had changed.

I was starving. Not just for food. For answers. The Nether Wart was waiting. And I was finally ready to begin.

Once my strength returned, I wasted no time. Even in the haze of recovery, the task lingered in my mind like a splinter—itching, insistent. That crimson fungus. That cursed, curious thing: Nether Wart.

It's not like anything else I've worked with. It pulses when the air turns cold, almost like it's sensing some unseen threat. It recoils from light—shrinks back from it—and wilts if you so much as treat it like an ordinary crop. It behaves more like an animal than a fungus. Or maybe something in between.

I tried everything. Dried and ground it into powder. Boiled it in water to make some kind of base material. Infused it with glistering melons, crushed redstone, bonemeal from the bones of the undead. Even added rotten flesh and fermented spider eyes. Every combination, every ritual, every technique I could come up with. I fired up the brewing stand with shaky hands and desperate hope. Nothing. Not even a flicker of reaction. No results. No potions. Just dead mixtures and wasted time.

Then I stared at what little I had left—six, maybe seven portions of Wart, barely enough to fill a planter box if I wanted. That's when the realization came, cold and clear as a mountain stream: if I want answers, I have to cultivate it.

I cleared a chamber deep beneath my house—low, hidden, far from any trace of sunlight. I laid out soil, kept it cool, kept it dark. Planted the Wart and waited. And waited. All I got were mushrooms. Useless. Bland. Unremarkable.

That was my mistake. I treated the soil like it was enough. It isn't. The Nether Wart needs corruption in order to propigate. Not just shade and damp—but the actual, tainted memory of where it came from. It needs soul soil. That strange, whispering earth from the Nether, heavy with the weight of things long dead.

I can't believe I'll have to go back there—so soon. My skin still remembers the heat. My dreams still smell of ash. But I don't have a choice. Either I go back to scouring the Nether looking through Nether Fortresses to restock on the cursed fungus over and over, or I bring back what I need and cultivate it here, on my own terms. I choose the latter. I have to.

If I'm going to understand this thing and what it is... or rather what it wants—then I need control. I need my own supply. I need to stop surviving off what the Nether gives and start shaping what it can't hide. Tomorrow, I go back and look for more.

Year 10, day 110

I've returned from the Nether. I wish I could say the journey felt easier this time—that maybe, after everything, the path would be familiar enough to dull the fear. But it wasn't. It never is.

The moment I stepped through the portal, the air once again closed around me like a noose. That same suffocating heat clamped down on my lungs, thick with the scent of scorched stone and sulfur. You don't breathe in the Nether. You endure it.

Even after three years down there, it still greets me like a stranger who wants me dead. But I wasn't there to fight. Not this time. I went to the fortress to dig. I went to find the thing that makes Nether Wart grow—not just survive, but thrive.

My rucksack is heavy, its seams straining under the weight of soul soil that I collected from that Fortress. It's paler than any dirt I've known—so dense it swallows the light. When I press my palm to it, it pulses, slow and steady, like a heartbeat. Not mine. Not human. Something older.

Sometimes, when the firey wind dies and the scent of sulfur fades, I swear I can hear it. Not in words, but in sound—a breathless exhale, the soft moan of something that remembers pain but has long since accepted it. A lullaby made of suffering.

And yet, it's exactly what I need. With this, I can cultivate Nether Wart, in the Overworld. On my own terms. Under my own roof. Far from the blood-colored skies and shrieking horrors of the place it came from.

When I arrived back home, I descended into the chamber beneath my house—the mushroom garden I'd carved out in desperation weeks ago. The old earth still sat there, undisturbed and useless. It was warm, soft, and silent… but it had failed.

So I dug it up. Every block. Every last grain. I dug with purpose, clearing the beds until only raw stone remained. Then, slowly, deliberately, I laid down the soul soil—one block at a time. Each piece thudded into place like a heartbeat, dense and cold. But it was the sound that unnerved me.

Not just the scrape of tools or shifting weight, but… breathing. Faint, uneven. As if something was crouched just beyond the walls, watching, waiting. The soil whispered when I touched it. Not words—just the impression of sound, like a memory pressing against the edge of hearing.

When the beds were ready, I brought out the Nether Wart. Crimson, twisted, swollen with spores. The caps pulsed faintly in my hands—warm, almost trembling, like lungs in slow motion. I knelt and planted them carefully, pressing them halfway into the soul soil. The spores didn't fight me this time. They sank in willingly, as if the soil was something they recognized. Something they had missed.

And now, I wait. There's no sunlight here. No running water. No warmth. Just soul soil and silence. The air around the planter has grown colder, as if the chamber itself is holding its breath. Even the torches flicker differently down here—uncertain, like they sense something wrong.

I don't know if it will work. Maybe the Nether Wart needs more than just soil. Maybe it needs suffering. Heat. A sky that bleeds. Or maybe… maybe it just needed to be planted by someone who understands what it is.

But if it does grows—if it thrives—it means more than survival. It means potions. It means knowledge. It means power. And in this world that I call home, power is everything.

Year 10, Day 125

The last few days have been… madness.

The village was attacked. No one saw it coming. No one was ready. Whatever peace we'd scraped together was shattered in an instant. Fire, panic, screaming in the night. And something else—something I still can't put into words. The world is different now. I am different now.

It all began ten days ago—right after the Nether Wart took root. To my astonishment, it worked. The cultivation experiment worked. The crimson caps didn't just survive—they propigated quickly. My cold, forgotten cellar, once nothing more than a damp stone basement, now pulses with life. Strange, slow life. The kind that shouldn't exist in this world.

The Nether Wart rooted itself deep into the soul soil, drinking in the corrupted energy like it had been starving. The stalks thickened quickly, their crimson flesh twisting toward each other, swaying—ever so slightly—as though moved by music I can't hear.

The whispers haven't stopped. Every time I descend the ladder into that room, the air changes. It's colder. Heavier. The very walls seem to pulse, and the soul soil murmurs faintly. Not in words, but in layered, haunting echoes—like the dying screams of a battlefield buried long ago, still reverberating underfoot.

And yet… the Wart grows. I've resumed my records—notes, sketches, measurements. I document every stage. The cursed fungus grow in numbers with each passing day. Spores now cluster along their ridges, twitching slightly when I pass too close. They're almost ready. I'm almost ready to resume experimenting on potions.

If I can isolate the right properties… I could craft potions. Regeneration. Strength. Resistance. Answers. If I can unlock what lies dormant in these twisted roots, maybe I can survive what's coming. Maybe we all can.

But then came the horn. I was in the cellar, crouched by a freshly sprouted cap, checking moisture levels in the soul soil—just another quiet task in my daily routine—when I heard it. A sound unlike anything I've ever heard.

It rumbled through the walls. Deep. Ancient. Not thunder. Not a creature. A horn. Long and mournful, distant but clear—cutting through the stillness like a blade through cloth.

I froze. The Wart stopped swaying. Even the whispers fell silent for a moment, like the soil itself was listening. Something had arrived. And the world I thought I understood was already gone.

I stormed up the stairs, two steps at a time, heart pounding. Threw open the front door. And listened. The silence was deafening! No cries, no bells, no footsteps. The wind had died, the trees stood still, and the world held its breath. The village hadn't reacted. No alarms. No panic. No one screaming. But I know what I heard. That sound didn't come from within our walls—it came from beyond them.

Someone had sounded the drums of war. And the timing… it's too perfect to be chance. Not now. Not when the Wart has finally taken root. Not after the years I spent buried in the burning belly of the Nether.

I could feel it. A presence out there in the distance—vast and watching. The war the Illagers were preparing for in the shadows… it wasn't coming; it had already begun.

I ran into the village square, expecting life, motion, something. But the streets were deserted. Doors shut tight. Curtains drawn. The only sound was the soft groan of wood shifting under the weight of silence, and the wind brushing against the old stone walls I helped raise.

I shouted into the emptiness. "What's going on?" There was no answer.

Fear had already done its work. The horn wasn't a warning—it was a declaration. A signal. A mark burned into the soul of every villager, telling them one truth: they're in danger.

I didn't find another soul until I passed the farmhouse on the east side of the village. It was Henry.

He was peeking through a crack in his door, eyes wide, hands trembling like dry leaves in a storm. I approached slowly, voice steady, controlled. "Henry. What's happening?"

His voice cracked. Just a whisper. "They are here."

That was all I needed. I turned and ran straight for the gate tower. My Diamond Armor was already strapped on. My Netherite Sword hung at my hip, the blade humming softly. My bow rode my back, strung tight, quiver full. I climbed the rungs of the ladder straight up the wall, thirty feet of reinforced defense I'd built when this village was still just an idea, a hope.

At the top, I steadied myself and looked beyond the walls—toward the origin of that sound, the one that had frozen the blood of my villagers. And there, in the far treeline, under a sky that had gone strangely dim, I saw them. They were indeed coming. An army. Not monsters, not beasts. Illagers, dozens of them.

The Pillagers marched at the front, their crossbows already loaded, steady in their filthy hands. Their uniforms were torn, streaked with soot and dried blood—but their formation was tight, their steps perfectly measured. These were raiders. Not wild scouts wandering too far from their outposts. These were soldiers. Trained. Disciplined.

Behind them came the Vindicators. Larger, slower, and deadlier. Their iron axes dragged against the ground with a grinding screech, carving shallow lines into the earth like they were already digging graves for us. They moved with the calm of executioners—no urgency, no fear. Just purpose.

But it was the rear that chilled me, the Evokers. Draped in long, ceremonial robes that fluttered despite the stillness of the wind, they didn't walk—they glided. Their eyes burned with unnatural light, and wherever they stepped, the world shifted. The air itself seemed to recoil, reality bending and fraying at the edges. The colors dulled. The sound thinned. Like the land around them couldn't decide if it was still real.

It was a procession of nightmares—each line of it crafted to terrify. To dominate. To erase. And yet, I stood above them. I had something they didn't: a wall.

Thirty feet tall. Reinforced with stone, concrete-laced mortar, and will. I built it with my own hands. Brick by brick. Day by day. When this village was nothing but scattered shacks, I laid the foundation for something stronger. And now, that wall stood between the undead and the people I swore to protect.

"Let them bring their magic," I said. My diamond armor is enchanted with Protection V. No magic or brute force can penetrate it so easily. So I said, "Let them come with numbers, with arms and spells." I thought I was ready.

They fight for conquest. I fight for home, that made all the difference.

The leader of the Illager army. A towering figure, draped in worn black leather, his shoulders broad beneath a tattered crimson cloak. Strapped to his back, a black banner snapped and twisted in the breeze—less a flag than a threat. It looked soaked in old blood, and maybe it was.

Without a word, he raised a twisted horn to his lips—carved from an unfortunate goat who got sucked in the crossfire. The sound that followed will haunt me until the end of my days. It wasn't just a call. It was a roar—ancient, hungry, steeped in years of rage and conquest. It shook the stone under my feet. It reached inside my chest and clutched my heart with frozen fingers. The wind itself seemed to flinch.

The Pillagers broke first, sprinting across the open field, their crossbows raised as they ran. They fired wildly toward the wall—bolts ricocheting off stone, some landing far too close. Their formation dissolved into chaos, but their intent was clear: overwhelm, confuse, kill.

Behind them thundered the Vindicators. Axes in both hands. Faces twisted with fury. They didn't scream words—just sounds, primal and raw. Battle cries that weren't meant to frighten, but to shatter. They came like a wave of iron and hatred, blades raised high and eyes burning with something that didn't belong in this world.

And then came the Evokers. They walked—slow, deliberate, untouched by the madness around them. Their robes trailed through the dust, their hands moving in tight, arcane patterns as they whispered to the earth. And the earth answered. From the soil, they pulled phantoms. Ghostly figures that flew up the wall bypassing my boundary. But they were no match for my arrows. They all fell like birds who lost the will to fly.

The battlefield was chaos. But from the wall, I held my ground, because this is my village. I will not let them take it without a fight. I wasn't about to let them breach the walls. Not while I could still draw breath. Not while I had arrows left to loose. I drew my bow, exhaled slow, and loosed the next shot. The arrow sliced through the air and struck a Pillager dead-center—right through the chest. He collapsed mid-charge, crossbow clattering from lifeless hands.

The second arrow found its mark with precision, slamming into a raised crossbow just as it was about to fire. The weapon exploded in a flash of sparks and flame, its wielder screaming and falling backward, armor smoldering.

The third arrow… pierced through two charging Illagers in a single, perfect line. One shot. Two bodies. Silence where there had been fury.

They wanted a battle, I gave them what they wanted. From the top of the wall, I had the high ground and full command of the field. I moved with instinct—sidestepping, ducking behind merlons, staying low, staying fast. Arrows hissed past me like angry wasps, but most missed, their trajectories thrown off by panic and rage. The few that struck hit armor: diamond-forged, enchanted, unbreakable. Their best weapons barely scratched me.

They couldn't reach me, but I could reach them. One by one, I punished their arrogance. Every arrow I released was a judgment, swift and final. Pillagers fell with arrows through their skulls. Vindicators staggered as arrows buried themselves in neck joints and under ribs. The line faltered—but did not break.

The field below began to choke with bodies, the fallen stacked on bloodied soil. But still they came—an unrelenting tide of rage and steel. For every one I dropped, three more rose behind them.

The sky dimmed under smoke. The air reeked of burning arrows, iron, sweat, and dust. My mouth was dry. My arms ached. But my grip held true. The war drums were no longer a distant sound carried on the wind. They were here. Beating against the very bones of my wall.

Arrow after arrow flew true, and Illager after Illager fell beneath the weight of my fury. I moved like a wraith along the ramparts—silent, focused, precise. Bow drawn. Eyes sharp. My armor caught the light of the sun, casting me in gleaming defiance as I loosed judgment with every breath.

Every heartbeat was a battle won from atop the wall, the enemy looked small. Manageable. Beatable. And for a fleeting moment, I believed the tide was mine to turn. Then I heard it. Another horn from the leader cowering in the back—but this horn was not like the one before.

This one was deeper. It echoed through the sky. I felt it in my chest first—a low, dreadful vibration that drowned the air in silence. When I turned toward the sound, bow still in hand, my confidence shattered.

They emerged from beyond the Illager ranks like nightmares given flesh. Massive beasts. Colossal, lumbering monsters with the twisted shape of wild buffalo and the fury of something far worse. Their hides were thick and cracked like scorched earth, covered in patches of fur and battle-scars. Their wide snouts were grotesque, flared and snorting plumes of rage. But it was their Illager eyes—small, green, and filled with unmistakable hate—that told me everything.

Their massive shoulders were wrapped in crude war armor: scavenged metal, stitched leather, and layers of cloth stained with blood and paint. Bone charms clattered from their harnesses, and jagged wooden spikes jutted from their sides like broken teeth. And mounted on their backs was a new wave of terror. Pillagers armed with reinforced crossbows. Vindicators clutching war-axes longer than a man is tall. And Evokers—cloaked, chanting, clinging to grim totems as they whispered ancient curses into the ears of their beasts.

The monsters roared—no, bellowed—a sound so deep and thunderous it drowned out the drums. It wasn't a cry of war. It was the war. These weren't shock troops. They were siege engines. And as the creatures I call Ravagers lowered their armored heads and began to charge, I realized something terrifying:

They weren't here to climb the walls. They were here to bring them down. And for the first time in years—after everything I'd endured in the Nether, after every battle, every scar—I felt something I hadn't allowed myself to feel since the fire first took my world. I felt what true fear was.

The Ravagers charged towards the wall. Their hooves struck the earth like thunder made flesh—a stampede of ancient gods called forth to break the world. I drew and fired as fast as my arms could move, arrows flying in a deadly rhythm. Each shot found its mark, burying deep into thick hide… but it wasn't enough. It was like firing sticks at stone.

They didn't slow. The arrows lodged in their flesh like thorns in a mountain's side—noticed, but ignored. Their tusked maws twisted into snarls, eyes burning with Illager rage, and still they came. Massive, unstoppable, snorting steam with every breath.

Then they hit the wall. They slammed into the stone like battering rams with blood and muscle, and the impact shook the village to its bones. I heard the crack before I felt it—a deep, horrible sound like thunder splitting through granite. A tremor rippled up through the rampart, and the stone beneath my boots lurched. I had no time to react. No time to think.

The wall buckled. I lost my footing. And then I was in the air; falling, weightless, breathless, spinning. The world blurred into sky and smoke and streaks of motion. There wasn't even time to scream.

And then—impact. I slammed into the earth with enough force to rattle my bones. Dust exploded around me. My armor groaned under the weight of the fall, but held. For a long second, I couldn't move. The Feather Falling enchantment had done its work. Without it, I would have been a memory smeared across the battlefield. My ribs ached. My vision swam. But I was breathing. Standing. Alive.

And that's when the true horror set in. The wall, my wall, was behind me. I had fallen outside. And in front of me… they were waiting. Dozens of Illagers. Pillagers locking crossbows. Vindicators gripping axes, their knuckles bone-white. An Evoker's eyes met mine, glowing faintly beneath his hood. It smiled.

And I realized, for the first time in this siege… I was alone face to face with an army that doesnt seem to end. Their crossbows raised, axes glinting in the sun. The Ravagers still bellowing, preparing for another charge.

No more walls. No more elevation. I was face to face with the entire army, alone. The wall behind me was cracked but holding. I, on the other hand, was on the wrong side of it.

I pulled my Netherite sword from its sheath, and the darkened blade gleamed in the sunlight like a piece of the Nether itself. Warm to the touch. Unbreakable. Unforgiving.

I let out a battle cry—raw, primal, defiant—a sound I didn't know I was capable of making. It tore from my throat like lightning from a stormcloud, echoing across the battlefield.

And then I charged. The Vindicators were the first to meet me—towering, broad-chested juggernauts wielding axes meant not just to kill, but to shatter. Their weapons gleamed with blood and rust, built to break bone and cleave steel. But I was faster. Leaner. Sharper.

My first strike was a blur—my Netherite blade sang through the air and shattered the haft of an oncoming axe. The same stroke buried itself deep into the Vindicator's shoulder, cleaving through muscle and bone. He dropped, howling, crumpling to the dirt.

They kept coming, steel rang against netherite, a symphony of fury. Sparks erupted with every clash, lighting the battlefield in bursts of violent brilliance. I spun, parried, countered—each movement driven by instinct, by years of surviving the impossible.

My sword—dark, weighty, indestructible—was forged for war. Their crude iron? It broke against it. Every blow they landed cracked. Every swing I returned cut. But I was one man.

An axe scraped along my flank, glancing off the diamond plating with a screech of metal. The impact stole my breath. Another slammed against my back like a battering ram. I staggered. My arms screamed under the weight of every block. My chest burned. But still—I stood.

The Pillagers aimed high and rained death. Arrows sliced the air. Most clattered off my armor like hail against a temple. But not all. One bolt punched into my thigh. Another grazed my shoulder, biting flesh. I felt them—hot, sharp, real. I roared, ripped them free with bloodied hands, and cast them to the dirt. I would not fall. Not there. Not at this moment. Pain was merely an afterthought. A whisper in the face of a scream.

One Vindicator surged forward, bellowing, axe raised high in a death arc meant to split me in two. I didn't flinch. I moved. Slipped beneath his swing, drove my shoulder into his gut like a ram, and then—without hesitation—drove my sword straight through his chest. He gurgled once. Then fell limp, collapsing at my feet.

Around me, bodies piled. Blood soaked the dirt. The air was thick with smoke, steel, and the scent of fire. But I still stood—wounded, gasping, burning with the fire of the Overworld and the fury of the Nether.

They kept coming. They surrounded me in a half-circle—axes slick with blood, eyes burning with the cold resolve of killers. My blade dripped crimson, my armor chipped and scratched, my arms trembling—not with fear, but with the weight of battle. With exhaustion.

I planted my boots in the blood-soaked grass, felt the earth shifting beneath me with every heartbeat. Took a breath—deep, steadying—and raised my sword once more. If they wanted my village… they'd have to take it from my cold, dead hands. And I wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

The ground beneath me was painted in red—some of it mine, but most of it theirs. My lungs burned with every breath. My muscles screamed with each motion. But I kept swinging. Because there was no one else here to fight. No one else left to protect the villagers.

Another Vindicator rushed forward, then fell by my blade. An arrow shattered against my shoulder plate, sent ringing pain through the diamond plates. I barely noticed.

Then, as I watched a vindicator beg for its life, just for a moment—I hesitated. Not from fear, but from memory.

The world and the Nether. I remembered the Piglins—hostile at first, yes, but not evil. Creatures of trade, of honor twisted by hunger and gold. I had worn golden armor to survive among them. Offered gifts. Learned their ways. Fought only when I had to.

Even the Blazes and Wither Skeletons… I had never hunted them out of cruelty. I swung only to defend. To endure. Back then, I believed in restraint. But now…

Now I looked down at the vindicator, crawling through the dirt—wounded, bleeding, broken. He was trying to escape. Just trying to get away. And for a second—just one fleeting second—I thought about letting it go.

Then I remembered. I remembered what they do to villages when no one is left to stop them. I remembered the stories—the charred houses, the screams in the dark, the children stolen, the elders cut down where they stood. I remembered the horn… that ancient sound echoing through stone and soul alike.

They never showed any mercy, and neither should I. So I stepped forward, sword in hand, and became something I hadn't let myself be until now. Not just a survivor, or just a defender. I have become a weapon. My grip on my sword tightened, then I brought it down. Peace was a luxury I no longer had. Mercy, a kindness they'd never shown. This wasn't a skirmish. It was an invasion. And I was no longer just a man trying to survive.

I was a warrior. No… I was their protector. And I would paint this battlefield with every last one of those invaders if it meant keeping my people safe.

No matter how hard I fought—how many I cut down, how long I held the line—it was never going to be enough. There were simply too many of them.

I didn't see the end coming. Not really. After hours of nonstop bloodshed, after the clash of steel and screams of dying men became my entire world, I thought I could keep going. Thought I had to. One more swing. One more breath. One more step.

I had just driven my blade through a Vindicator's chest, watched him fall with a guttural grunt—and then… BAM.

The world exploded. A Ravager barreled into me like a living siege engine. I barely caught a glimpse—the flash of snarling teeth, the glint of warped iron armor strapped to its flanks—before its head slammed into my chest like a hammer through a shield. The breath was ripped from my lungs. My body left the ground.

I remember the sensation—weightless, helpless—as I hurtled through the air like a ragdoll. I hit the village wall with bone-rattling force, and somewhere beneath the roar of battle, I swear I heard the stone crack. My armor shrieked in protest. My bones did too.

Then… nothing. Darkness swallowed me whole before I even hit the ground. I had lost the battle. But here's the strange thing. They didn't finish me. Didn't run a blade through my chest or leave me for the crows. No final blow. No mercy, either.

They took me. Stripped of weapons and armor, bleeding and broken—I was dragged from the took me hostage. And I can't stop asking myself: why?

When I woke, the world was different. I was in a cage—no, a cell—deep underground. Stone walls pressed close around me, damp and suffocating. Iron bars sealed the only exit. My hands were bound tight behind my back, the ropes biting into raw skin. My Netherite sword, my diamond armor, my tools and the rest of my equipment—gone. All of it. Stripped from me and tossed me aside like I was nothing but a sack of potatoes.

The flickering torchlight outside the cell painted shadows across the floor. Somewhere beyond, I could hear distant footsteps—heavy boots, the sound of chains being dragged, Illagers speaking in their guttural tongue.

The pain was unbearable. My ribs throbbed. My head pounded. My limbs were too weak to struggle, and the ropes held tight, expertly knotted. I tried to focus, tried to think of a way out—but my mind was fogged by the ache of defeat.

The prison door creaked open, its iron hinges shrieking like tortured souls. I struggled to sit up as the footsteps grew louder—measured, confident, cruel.

An Illager stepped into view, flanked by two heavily armed Pillagers with loaded crossbows. The leader stood taller than the rest, with pale, ashen skin and eyes like cold steel. A black banner was draped over one shoulder, its symbol unmistakable: the horned totem of war.

I forced the question out through clenched teeth in their language. "Why didn't you kill me?"

The Illager leader smiled. Not with joy—no. It was a sneer of superiority, of knowing something I didn't. "Because," it said in a voice like gravel and oil, "you'll die soon enough in our sacred soil. We'll execute you in front of our precious outpost. Let the villagers we have imprisoned watch their hero fall."

I bit back the rage rising in my chest. "What about my gear?" I asked.

It stepped closer to the bars, smug and unshaken. "Ah yes. Your enchanted armor, your precious sword, your tools and resources. All very impressive. We'll put them to good use—tearing down your walls… killing your villagers… looting your treasure."

My fists clenched in their bindings. "You won't get away with this."

It tilted his head, amused. "Oh, but we already are. Your vaults of iron, gold, and diamonds? Ours now. Even your… Nether Wart."

At that, my heart froze. "How do you know about that?" I demanded.

The Illager smirked wider. "The Vex," it said, almost hissing like a snake. "They've been watching you. They followed you back from the Nether. You made your little haunted mushroom garden, and the moment you did… the Vex told us everything."

The Illager leader turned away, satisfied with the damage its words had done. "You thought you were alone in the Nether," The Illager leader added. "You weren't. We've been watching for a long time."

Then the Illager Leader left, the door slamming shut behind it. I slumped against the wall, cold sweat on my brow. The Vex. Spies from the shadows, tiny and cruel, slipping through the walls and air like ghosts. They had been watching me this whole time. Every experiment. Every failure. Every success.

The Nether Wart I worked so hard to grow—they were coming for it. My village was in danger. And I was trapped in a cage beneath the enemy's stronghold, helpless to stop them.

Hours passed in silence. My strength was gone. My hope, drained. The cell had grown colder, or maybe it was just me—fading into the numb acceptance of what was coming.

Then the footsteps returned. Heavy. Purposeful. The Illager Leader stood there once again, this time with two Vindicators flanking nearby like shadows of death.

"Time to die," The Illager leader said without emotion. Just another task on its to-do list.

The bars creaked open. The Vindicators stormed in and grabbed my arms, their grips like iron vices. My legs barely worked, but they dragged me out like dead weight. The desert sun burned my skin as we emerged from the outpost. I squinted against the light. I hadn't seen the sun in days.

Then I saw the Villagers. Dozens of them. Packed in wooden cages just outside the outpost walls. Their eyes met mine—wide with horror, sorrow, helplessness. They were not from my village, but captured all the same. They were here to watch me die.

The Vindicators shoved me forward through the sand until we reached a gnarled tree stump—roughly cut, darkened with past executions. I was forced to my knees. My head was pushed forward over the block.

One Vindicator handed the Illager Leader a ceremonial axe—grey steel, jagged, cruel. My heart thundered in my chest, but I didn't struggle. There was no point.

My eyes shut tight. I said nothing out loud. I didnt want to give them the luxury of my final words. "Let it be quick," I thought to myself. "Let them be safe."

I felt the axe raise. The wind shift. The silence of the crowd thickening— then BOOM!

A whistling roar tore through the air, followed by an explosion that rocked the sand beneath us. The axe paused mid-air. Gasps erupted.

Another rocket. Another blast. Then another. Smoke and fire erupted from the top of the outpost tower. Screams of confusion from the Illagers followed. The Vindicators spun around in panic. The sky was alight with smoke trails, and the roar of rockets continued as they struck the watchtowers, the roof, the prison pens.

The Illager Leader shouted something, but I couldn't hear it over the barrage. The axe never fell.

I opened my eyes, just in time to see a figure rush towards me. It was Henry—crossbow in one hand, firework rockets strapped to his back. He jumped and landed with a roll, loosed a bolt, and dropped a Vindicator mid-charge.

Behind him, others emerged—Bowen and Smith came to cut my bindings. I asked if they came alone. Bowen said no, every capable adult was shooting bows and crossbow bolts into the Illager outpost to distract them so that they can rescue me. I looked into the distance and found more villagers-turned-warriors. All of them armed to the teeth and engaged with the Illagers.

My people had come for me. The tables had turned.

While Bowen, returned to the front lines, rallying our people to push back against the Illagers, Henry and Smith were busy releasing the imprisoned Villagers. I was no longer bound, kneeling at death's doorstep.

The Vindicators were gone. The Illager Leader vanished into the chaos. Smoke and fire clouded everything, but I knew what I had to do. I rose to my feet and staggered toward the heart of the outpost.

Through crumbling stone corridors and past shattered windows, I ran. Flames licked the walls. Arrows whistled outside. Every step was a risk, but I had no other choice—I needed my armor, my weapons. I needed to become the warrior this moment demanded.

I reached the top of the outpost, and there it was. A chest with my belongings. I ripped it open. Inside lay my Netherite sword, my enchanted diamond armor, my tools—every piece stripped from me was now back in my hands. But there was something more!

I didn't have time to process it at all. That knowledge would come later. Right now, I needed the fire in my hands, the diamond armor on my back, and the will to end this.

I geared up—boots, leggings, chestplate, helmet. The weight felt right. Familiar. Like coming home.

I grabbed my sword, my bow and arrow, and my trident. Then I ran. Down the tower, through the smoke-choked halls, and into the chaos of battle.

The sun burned red overhead. The air rang with the clash of steel and the screams of war. My people held the line—bows loosing; but they were tired, outnumbered, and outgunned.

But then the Illagers saw me, charging out of the outpost like a revenant, geared and ready to fight.

"The human is loose!" one of the Illagers cried.

I plunged into the heart of the Illager horde. Sword met axe. Blade met bone. I moved like a storm, cutting down the invaders with a fury I had kept locked away for too long.

The Illagers broke formation, they didn't have a choice. On one side, they were being drowned by arrows. And on my side, they had to deal with my blade. They had tried to take my village, my freedom, and nearly my life. Now I was taking everything back.

The tide turned like a crashing wave. The Illagers, once proud and certain of their victory, were now nothing more than panicked survivors scattering in all directions. Their shrieks filled the air as they scrambled over one another, desperate to escape the flames and the fury I had unleashed.

Some tried to fight. They lunged at me with axes, arrows, even bare hands if that's all they had—but they were no match. My Netherite sword carved through their defenses like wind through dry leaves. One slash for every scream. One strike for every injustice they brought upon my village.

Those who tried to run… didn't get far. I raised my bow and let the arrows fly, one after another, steady and cold. I didn't aim to wound. Every shot landed in the back of a fleeing enemy setting them ablaze. I had no mercy left to give.

Then came the thunder of hooves—The Ravagers are back. A fresh wave of them came charging, their war cries bellowing louder than ever, riders whipping them into a frenzy. They aimed straight for me.

I didn't flinch. I reached over my shoulder and drew my trident. I took a deep breath, held the line, and threw it with all the force I had left. The trident sailed like a comet across the battlefield, spinning through smoke and ash—and struck the leading Ravager square in the forehead.

The impact was instant. The beast collapsed with a ground-shaking crash, its rider hurled through the air like a rag doll. The momentum behind it caused the Ravagers behind to stumble and trip over their fallen kin. Panic spread like wildfire. With a wave of my hand, the trident returned to my hand, ready to fall another Ravager foolish enough to still fight.

The remaining Ravagers, no longer under control, scattered in all directions, their riders abandoning the charge in blind fear.

The Illagers had seen enough. Their army shattered. Their beasts broken. Their will to fight evaporated. I stood there in the middle of the battlefield, armor scorched and weapons bloodied, but unbroken. Bodies of the Illagers littered the landscape.

Just as the last brave Illager fell, I heard a high-pitched screech—like metal scraping on bone—and the sudden rush of wind as something small and fast lunged at me.

A blur of blue and silver, the Vex. It came at me like a dagger on wings, its jagged blade aimed straight for my heart. I raised my Netherite Sword just in time. The impact clanged against the metal, and I staggered back. The thing shrieked again, its translucent body glowing with anger.

"So this was the spy," I had said to myself. The eyes that had been watching me in the Nether. The shadow that told the Illagers everything. And for some reason, it hated me.

It attacked again and again—vicious, fast, relentless. But I've fought in the fires of the Nether. I've bled in bastions and walked through lava. I am not who I was. This time, I was ready.

I caught its next charge with my sword, sparks flying as Nether steel met spectral. With a roar, I pushed back, slamming the flat of my blade against its tiny body and sending it soaring high into the sky.

The battlefield went quiet for a second—just wind, fire, and ash. I pulled my bow from my back, already drawing an arrow. The Vex spun in the air, wings twitching, blade readying to charge again. But it never got the chance.

My aim—sharper now. Trained. Tempered. The arrow hummed with power. Enchanted. Power V. I muttered, just loud enough for it to hear— "You've haunted me long enough."

Then I let go. The arrow flew, a streak of force and fury, and struck the Vex square in the chest. The creature didn't even scream. It shattered midair in a burst of dust and ghostly blue light, its blade clattering to the ground and dissolving moments later.

The spy was gone, the message was clear. No more hiding, no more watching. They'd made an enemy out of the wrong survivor.

The remaining Illagers fled. What few remained scattered like ash on the wind—their numbers broken, their will shattered. Even their leader, that grim figure with the crimson banner, disappeared into the trees with the last of his strength and pride. Their horns had fallen silent. Their beasts lay slain or vanished into the wilderness. Their fire, once roaring and relentless, had been extinguished.

The village erupted into celebration. Rockets streaked through the sky in arcs of silver and gold, bursting overhead like fireworks from another life—one untouched by war. Villagers laughed. Friends embraced. For a moment, joy returned.

We had won, but not without cost. Smith and Henry found me as the light of victory still shimmered above. They came running, breathless, pale—eyes wide with something far colder than exhaustion.

"It's Bowen…" Henry choked. "He's hurt."

My heart seized. We ran—through the square, past the bonfires and cheers—until we reached a quiet patch of torn earth beyond the field. And there… surrounded by villagers on their knees, by blood-darkened grass and hushed whispers… lay Bowen.

He looked so small. An arrow jutted from his chest, embedded deep, too close to the heart. No healer could fix that. No poultice or prayer. He needed a potion.

I tore through the battlefield like a man possessed—ripping open satchels, clawing at belts, scattering broken gear across the bloodied grass. My hands were slick with dirt and blood. I didn't care. I just needed one vial. One bottle. Anything that shimmered with the promise of healing. But there was nothing.

Not a single drop. No healing potion. No glimmering tonic of regeneration. No second chance. And that's when the truth hit me—sharp and hollow like a blade between the ribs.

Even the Illagers, for all their twisted arcana and summoned horrors, struggled with alchemy. Even with the Vex whispering in their ears and brought them small amounts of the cursed mushroom, brewing wasn't easy. They had the knowledge… but not the means. Not the ingredients. Not in bulk.

Nether Wart, that cursed crimson fungus was the missing link. It was rare, volatile, and bound to the soul-rich soil of the Nether. Without it, potions were dreams sealed in glass. And I had brought it here. I had cultivated it. Nurtured it. Made it grow in the cold silence of my cellar.

That's when I realized something worse—something far more chilling. They didn't just come for the village. They came for me. That Vex… it had followed me. I remember now—those flickers in the shadows, those moments where I felt eyes on my back but saw nothing. It was watching. Waiting. Letting me do the hard work. I brought the Nether Wart into the Overworld. I tamed it. I cracked the code they couldn't.

And when I did, they came for my farm. Had they killed me—had they taken it—the balance would've broken. They would've had everything they needed to mass-produce strength, swiftness, regeneration. Invincibility. And the villagers? They'd be nothing more than livestock waiting for slaughter. We were a breath away from annihilation, and none of us even knew it.

With my hands empty, I returned to Bowen's side. His breathing was shallow. Each breath a ghost of the last. His eyes fluttered, caught somewhere between this world and the next—caught in that in-between place I'd seen too many times before.

The celebration had stopped. No more cheers. Only silence. The kind that settles over graveyards and battlefields. The kind that listens.

Victory had come—but its taste was ash on my tongue. And the cost of it lay before me, bleeding into the soil. I dropped to my knees beside him. The earth was wet—drenched with blood, soot, and the remnants of a battle hard-won but not without sacrifice. Bowen's breathing was shallow, ragged, each breath a war of its own. His chest rose weakly, just enough to cling to life for a few more seconds.

Then his eyes found mine. Still sharp. Still proud. Still Bowen. "I was proud… to serve you," he whispered in the villager's language. "To protect this home... you built for us."

The words struck harder than any blade I had faced that day. My throat tightened. My hands trembled, hovering helplessly over the wound. I wanted to scream, to tear the sky open and demand he be spared. I wanted to offer him a second chance—anything. But I had nothing. Just my bloodstained hands and a heart breaking in silence.

So I continued to kneel there. Praying with the others—not to a god, but to a memory. Not out of hope… but farewell. His eyes fluttered shut, his final breath a whisper lost in the wind.

And Bowen—my friend, one of my first allies—the one who stood beside me when I needed arrows and a good bow in my hand, the hands that maintained my trusted long ranged weapons—was gone.

He was the one who made sure my arrows always flew true. The hands that kept my bowstring taut, my bolts sharp. When the world fell to ash and chaos every evening, he gave me precision. He gave me silence between the noise. He gave me peace.

We brought him home. We buried Bowen just beyond the village walls—our home. No temple. No enchantments. No fanfare. Just a quiet hill, a grave of freshly turned soil, and a stone marker with a bow carved into its face. Clean lines. Honest. Like him.

One by one, the villagers came. Some whispered prayers. Others wept and touched the marker with reverence. A few left tokens behind:

—The small tools he used to hone flint to perfect arrowheads.

—A browned, crusty bread roll—half-burned like he always liked it, slow-roasted over his fire.

—A single dandelion, still in its pot. He once picked it on a whim and said it made his window less empty.

And then, like the sun slipping beneath the trees, they left. Quiet footsteps. Heads low. They returned to the village they once feared would never survive the siege.

There's still so much to do. Walls to rebuild. People to comfort. A world to stabilize before night falls again. But no one lingered at the grave, only me.

I stood there long after the rest had gone, my armor scorched, my sword stained with the blood of battle, my trident worn and glowing. My hand rested on the tombstone.

I couldn't shake the guilt. I had promised them safety. Trained for years. Fought through the Nether. Bled in every cursed shadow of this world to protect them. I faced Blazes in crumbling fortresses, bartered with Piglins beneath the basalt cliffs, and carved a haven out of chaos.

And still, Bowen had to die... Because of me.

A villager I once called an ally became my savior. He rallied the others when all hope seemed lost. He led them—through smoke, through blood, through fear—to pull me from the wreckage. And in doing so… he left a hole in this village no victory could ever fill.

I wanted to scream. To claw at the sky. To tear down the walls myself—as if punishing stone and mortar might undo the death carved into our soil.

But then I remembered. My hand went to my satchel, almost on instinct. Buried deep beneath supplies and ash-covered scraps, I found it again: a small parchment—crumpled, singed at the edges, but intact.

I'd taken it from the chest in the Illager outpost during the chaos. I hadn't had time to read it until now. It was a guide. Diagrams, symbols, instructions—all of it. A complete recipe guide to potioncraft. The kind of alchemy I had spent years trying—and failing—to piece together alone.

And suddenly, it was all here. My fingers curled around the paper. My thoughts raced. The Nether Wart in my cellar was thriving, its crimson stalks rooted deep in soul soil. Now, with this… I had what I needed to finish what I started.

I knelt beside Bowen's grave once more, the stone bow carved above his name watching silently over the fields.

"I'm sorry, Bowen," I whispered. My voice broke. "But I promise you… this won't happen again."

No more helplessness.

No more wounds I can't heal.

No more good people dying because I wasn't ready.

I stood slowly, folding the parchment and slipping it into the back pages of my journal. The sky was still tinged with smoke, but overhead, stars broke through—clear and sharp. A storm had taken something precious from us, but it also gave me fire. And this time… that fire will be forged into strength.

Next time, we won't just survive. We'll be ready.