Chapter 19: Journey to The End

Year 13, Day 1

It's been about a year and a half since I first began preparing for the End. Every day since then, one thought has stayed with me: if I don't return, the village must endure. That truth has gnawed at me ever since the Illager war, ever since Bowen's sacrifice. I am not immortal—no matter how strong my armor, no matter how sharp my blade, no matter how many potions flow through my veins.

So I began preparing my people. I gathered the villagers—Smith, Henry, and the others—in the square and spoke plainly: "I cannot always protect you. One day, I may not come back. But this wall, this land, this community—it must survive."

Their faces fell silent, but in their eyes I saw determination.

The days that followed reshaped the village itself. I set aside the mantle of warrior and leader, and took up that of a teacher. The clerics and their apprentices became my first pupils. I showed them how to grind blaze rods into powder fine enough to fuel a brew stand, how to recognize the shimmer that means a potion was brewed correctly, how to avoid the common mistakes that turn strength into poison. They took to it quickly, their hands steady where mine had once been clumsy.

Their apprentices, however, were another matter. Within the first week, one managed to overheat the brewing stand so badly it cracked in half, steam hissing and smoke filling the hut. I thought the explosion would take out half the roof. Instead, it took out my patience—and reminded me that even failures can teach valuable lessons.

Now, the village have enchantments, passed down through the library and the enchantment table. And now we have potions, brewed by careful hands and stored in glass bottles that shimmer like captured light. Speed, strength, healing—gifts that no raider or undead horde will expect.

Smith is the one I've chosen to lead if something happens to me. I trust him with that responsibility more than anyone. He and his apprentices are master blacksmiths now, more than capable of forging blades, repairing armor, and keeping our walls bristling with copper blocks. If the Illagers ever return—or worse—he'll make sure the village is not caught unarmed. With the new fletchers at his side, the forges and workshops never cool. Swords, bows, crossbows, and arrows fill the stockpiles faster than we can count. The clang of hammers on anvils has become as familiar as the toll of a bell.

Henry and his band of apprentices took charge of the land. Farming, livestock, and everything that keeps their bellies full. He's turned the ranchers and field hands into a true force of nature. Fields rotate between wheat, carrots, potatoes, and beets, while the melons and pumpkins have their own careful cycle. Even the animals are part of the plan—pens shift with the crops, and the composters enriches the soil. Nothing is wasted, not anymore. The villagers follow his guidance with pride, though I once caught "Seed" gnawing on half a raw carrot harvest before Henry scolded him. That one may be more trouble than he's worth, but even trouble has its place here.

To bind it all together, I handed out enchanted tools from my own forge. Iron pickaxes thrumming with Efficiency for faster mining. Unbreaking shovels that seem to scrape forever without chipping. Axes that split logs like they were twigs. The mines now hum with progress, the rhythm of steel against stone echoing through the tunnels like the heartbeat of our people. Every strike, every harvest, every forged weapon—it all tells the same truth.

This village no longer depends on me alone. It is learning, adapting, growing into something that will survive long after I am gone.

The wall now rises higher and stronger than ever before, every crack repaired, every weakness reinforced. Iron golems patrol its length, their heavy footsteps echoing through the streets like drums of war, like guardians hewn from the mountain itself. Their glowing eyes scan the dark horizon, unyielding, tireless, unafraid. The villagers sleep soundly under their watch, dreaming in the safety of stone and steel. To them, I am still the shield that stands between them and the darkness.

But in my heart, I know the truth. My protection cannot last forever. No blade swings endlessly, no armor endures every strike, no warrior fights without end. That is why I write these words, why I pass on my knowledge. So that if I fall, they will not crumble. They will endure.

This village has evolved. From rough stone huts to reinforced buildings. From fear and silence to voices filled with confidence. From nameless, faceless crowds to a community of individuals who now carry names and identities of their own. They no longer simply survive—they live, they build, they dream. And perhaps, at last, they no longer need me to endure. And so, I moved my attention to the Nether.

The Nether had become my second home—though to call it a home was far too gentle. It was more of a crucible, a world of fire and ash that sought to consume me, and in doing so, forged me into something harder, sharper.

When I first set foot here, survival demanded compromise. I wore gold armor, not for strength, but for acceptance. The Piglins tolerated me when I gleamed with their favored metal, and the fire resistance enchantments I had stitched into it kept me alive in a land where rivers of molten stone flowed like water. It was armor of diplomacy, of disguise—a mask to hide my frailty in a world that respected only power.

But I no longer needed it. The fire resistance potions I brewed freed me from the enchantments I once relied on, and with that freedom came clarity. I shed the gilded shell of survival and reforged myself for battle. Gold still adorned me, for without it the Piglins would see me as a threat—but this was no longer the weak, ceremonial plating I once wore. Every piece now bore enchantments of protection and unbreaking, turning soft gold into a warrior's armor. This was not for hiding. This was for fighting, for standing toe to toe with the very creatures who once saw me as nothing more than a juvinile weakling.

The Piglins wasted no time testing me. For years I kept my distance, earning scraps of respect only when I was called to patrol. But now? Now I step into their circle willingly, fists raised, ready to prove that I belong.

The glow of my enchanted armor drew their eyes like fire draws moths. To them, it wasn't a shield—it was a challenge, a provocation. Their tusked faces twisted into cruel grins as they closed in, surrounding me with guttural laughter that echoed off the Nether brick walls. I cast aside my crossbow, clenched my hands into fists, and gave them what they wanted: no weapons, no tricks, only flesh against flesh.

Their first blows taught me humility. A Piglin's fist is like a sledgehammer wrapped in bone and rage; the first punch cracked through my guard and hurled me across the arena like I was nothing. Again and again, they threw me down. Again and again, I rose. The healing and regeneration potions filled my veins and kept me returning, bruises and black eyes alike. They saw a weakling with glowing armor that needed to be put in their place, and I refused to let them be right.

I began to watch. To learn. They were relentless, yes, but they had patterns—habits formed by countless battles. I saw the dip of a shoulder before a hook, the shift of their weight before a charge. And when I drank my swiftness potion, their lumbering strength seemed slower, their attacks easier to slip past.

That was when the fight began to change. My fists, once clumsy, now struck true. The strength potion surged through me like liquid fire, and suddenly their towering frames weren't immovable. I caught one Piglin by the arm, twisted, and with a roar I lifted him clear off his feet, slamming him into the wall with a force that shook the fortress. The circle that once mocked me now watched in silence.

One fight became two, then ten, then dozens. My body broke and healed, but my regeneration and healing potions mended broken bones and bruises quickly. My movements sharpened until instinct carried me faster than thought.

Then I faced him, a worthy opponent. I faced him across the open courtyard of the bastion—a Piglin taller than most, muscles corded and bulging beneath his gold armor, tusks jutting from his lower jaw. His eyes glimmered with the same mix of curiosity and aggression I had seen countless times before, but today it was different. Today, I was not merely pretending to be a Piglin. Today, I was a fighter.

He lunged first. The swing of his fist was a blur, fueled by raw strength honed over decades of patrolling the Nether. I barely rolled to the side, feeling the heat of the air as his knuckles slammed into the stone where I had just stood. My swiftness potion lent me agility I had never known, and I darted in close, fists raised.

I feinted a left hook and watched him react—too slow. I twisted my body, delivering a right jab to his ribcage. The impact echoed through my arms while denting the gold armor; he grunted and staggered back, but not for long. The strength potion is doing its work. His tusks glinted as he smiled, and he swung again, a looping haymaker aimed to crush me. I ducked under, feeling the wind of his strike whip my hair, and countered with an uppercut. My enchanted gold armor absorbed some of the blow, but the strength of the Piglin still rattled my shoulders.

He stumbled back, then came at me like a battering ram. I sidestepped and grabbed his arm mid-swing, spinning him into the nearest wall. The sound of cracking stone under his weight rang in the courtyard. But he was relentless. He tore free, charging again, fists swinging in a deadly rhythm. I could feel the adrenaline pumping in my veins, my strength magnified by the potions coursing through me.

I timed it. As he lunged, I sidestepped, drove my shoulder into his chest, and grabbed him in a bear hug. With every ounce of strength, I lifted him off the ground and slammed him back-first into the wall. The echo of impact rattled my bones, but he hit the wall harder. I felt him weaken, and I didn't relent—another slam, this time throwing him across the courtyard.

Finally, he staggered to his knees, chest heaving, arms quivering. I stood over him, fists raised, breathing hard. He looked up at me, a grudging respect in his eyes. Around us, the other Piglins were silent, watching closely, the test complete. I had survived—and more than that, I had proven myself.

Most importantly, I had earned the attention of the elders. The old, scarred Piglins—those who bore the weight of countless battles etched into their hides—watched me with something I had never seen in their eyes before: respect. They had measured me with their trials, tested me with their kin, and found me worthy. Worthy of more than survival. Worthy of a new mantle within their ranks.

And then came the day of my ascension. The courtyard was filled with Piglin warriors, their guttural chants rumbling like distant thunder as I was led up the blackstone stairs toward one of the elders over the pit of lava. The air was hot, thick with the stink of sweat and smoke. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest, each step forward echoing with a weight I could not ignore.

When I reached the elder, he held out his hand, demanding my crossbow. For a moment, I hesitated—it had been my lifeline since the day I first entered the Nether. But I knew what this meant. I unstrapped it, and without a word, placed it in his scarred palm.

He held it aloft for the others to see, then snapped it clean in half as though it were nothing more than a twig. The crack echoed through the chamber, final and undeniable. The broken pieces clattered down into the lava below, swallowed instantly by fire. That life was over.

Then, from the fire, came my rebirth. The elder presented me with a new weapon: a blade forged of gold, shimmering in the glow of the molten rivers. Its edge gleamed, not with durability, but with purpose. Gold was sacred to the Piglins—more than steel, it was a symbol of status, of command, of blood earned and blood owed.

He placed the blade in my hands, and with it, a new identity. From that moment on, I was no longer seen as a juvenile among them. No longer a guest or a wanderer of the Nether. I had been named a leader, a commander of young warriors.

The chants rose into a roar as the Piglins slammed their feet into the ground in unison. I stood among them not as Steve the outsider, not as the miner of gold or Netherite, not as the survivor. But as one of their own.

The first thing I did after my ascension was to take my new blade to the enchantment table. Golden though it was, I would not allow it to remain fragile. I burned through lapis and my own experience, weaving the runes until the blade glowed with power—Unbreaking to keep it from shattering in my hands, and Sharpness so that it would cut as fiercely as any steel. It was no ordinary sword now. It was my trophy, my authority, my voice among the Piglins.

With my blade at my side, I led my squad of juveniles into the wastes. I was able to mimic their calls of grunts and squeals so they knew what I was commanding. They carried crossbows, crude but deadly, and together we marched through the warped forests and basalt deltas, our boots crunching over ash and blackstone. We hunted through the shadowed corridors of Nether Fortresses, where the Wither Skeletons and Blazes lurked in silence until our weapons forced them out. Their tall, skeletal frames swung massive swords, but one by one they fell. Each battle left us stronger, each chest we uncovered richer.

The loot was always worth the trials—gold, diamonds, armor, enchanted books, even more blaze rods to feed my brewing fires. The Piglins would shout with triumph as we split the spoils; gold for them, the other resources for me. Their voices echoing through the halls like the roar of an army twice our size. And when we returned to the Bastion, we did not return as survivors. We returned as conquerors, richer and prouder than we had left.

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to bring them with me into the Overworld. To march across the green fields with a legion of Piglins at my side, their crossbows ready, their loyalty unshaken. But the thought chills me. Their bodies are built for the endless heat of the Nether, their instincts tied to the molten stone and crimson forests. To unleash them on the Overworld would be to introduce a storm that no wall could contain.

And so, I keep them in the Nether—warriors of the fire, bound to the Nether. They are my allies, my brothers in arms, but never my villagers. Never among my people and start a new conflict I wasn't sure I can keep in check.

After so many months of preparation, it is finally time to seek the End Portal. The Survivor's Logs spoke of the key—an artifact unlike any forged by human hands. A compass not of this world, known only as the Eye of Ender. With it, one can uncover the stronghold buried deep in the earth—the gateways that lead to The End itself. But such a key cannot be crafted. It must be wrenched from the body of one of the most elusive and fearsome beings to ever stalk this world: the Enderman.

So I returned to the place where my journey truly first began—the cave where I had stumbled upon my first spawner. I can still remember how terrified I was back then, fighting for every breath as wave after wave of the undead clawed their way out of the cage teleported straight from the graveyard of the Nether. But that was long ago. Now, as I faced it again, I felt no fear. My blade cut through the endless husks with ease, my armor shrugging off their desperate blows. The spawner itself shattered beneath my strike, collapsing into scrap metal.

The air grew quiet again, the echoes of the dead fading into silence. But I knew better. The Logs whispered of it clearly: where shadow lingers, the Enderman walks. So I waited, sword in hand, every nerve sharpened. I could almost feel it—something vast and watching, just beyond sight. And in the darkness, I knew it was coming.

I waited. Time slipped away—days bled into nights, nights into days—and the cave became my prison of patience. The battlefield I had chosen was bright with torches, every corner illuminated to keep the undead at bay. This duel would be between us alone—no distractions, no reinforcements, no excuses.

I stood in silence, my armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight, the weight of my Netherite sword resting against my hip like a promise. Every breath was steady, but my heart beat with the rhythm of anticipation.

And then, as I expexted, it came. The air shifted first, thick and oppressive, as though reality itself recoiled from its presence. A ripple of shadow, and then the figure emerged: tall, impossibly tall, its limbs stretched thin like nightmare silhouettes. Twin violet eyes burned in the darkness, piercing through me like blades of light. And in its hands, it held a new spawner—ready to undo all I had destroyed, to flood the earth again with death.

I will not give it that chance. I called out to it, my voice steady though my heart thundered in my chest. The Enderman froze. It recognized me. Its reply came in that gargled, distorted tongue—a language that sounded like drowning shadows. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was before me.

Our eyes met once again. It loomed above me, towering like a black pillar against the torchlight, its gaze boring straight into my soul. For a fleeting heartbeat, I faltered. The creature did not move, but every instinct screamed that I had already been marked for death.

And then its maw opened. The cavern erupted with a scream so alien it seemed to shake the stone itself. The air split with its cry as it warped through the shadows, striking with those spindly limbs at a speed no mortal creature should possess.

But I am not who I was. My diamond armor rang with the thunder of its blows, absorbing the fury that once would have broken me. My Netherite sword flashed in the gloom, biting deep into its blackened flesh, each strike a memory of the fire and ash that forged me in the Nether. Sparks flew where steel met shadow, and for the first time, the Enderman recoiled.

The Enderman lingered in silence, its violet eyes locked on me. Then the cavern warped. Space folded, and it vanished.

A shockwave slammed into me from behind. Its fist hit like a falling boulder, smashing me into the wall so hard the stone split. My armor groaned under the force, ribs bruised, lungs heaving for air. No shield. No barrier but my resolve.

It blinked again. I twisted, Netherite blade raised—and steel met flesh. My strike sank into its side, black smoke bursting from the wound. The Enderman shrieked, the cavern trembling with its unnatural voice.

The torches flickered as it disappeared once more. I turned frantically, ears straining. Too late—the beast dropped from above, both fists slamming into the ground where I had stood. The impact cratered the stone, fragments exploding outward.

I rolled aside, heat rising in my chest. Swiftness surged through me, potion-born, my legs carrying me faster than the beast could follow. I came up from the ground and slashed across its midsection, sparks flying as my blade cut deep.

The Enderman reeled, its body flickering in and out of existence. It staggered but recovered instantly, fist sweeping like a battering ram. The blow clipped me square in the side, sending me sprawling across the cavern floor. My armor held, but the sheer force rattled my bones.

It advanced, towering, its gaze burning into me. I could feel the weight of its presence pressing me down, daring me to break. For a moment, the silence was worse than its screams.

Despite my swings, the Enderman refused to falter. My blade carved through its flesh, black smoke spilling from every wound, yet it pressed on with relentless fury. It was stronger than I had ever imagined—every strike of its fists shook me to the core, every blow threatened to crush me outright.

And its cursed gift of teleportation… that was the true danger. Every time I landed what should have been a killing strike, the beast vanished into shadow, reappearing in some dark corner of the cavern, ready to counterattack. Its movements were unpredictable, disorienting—always one step ahead of my blade.

But I adapted. I let it believe I was vulnerable. I turned my back, steadying my breathing, letting the echoes of my armor scrape against stone. I waited.

The air shifted. I felt the weight of its presence drawing near. Then came its cry—an ear-splitting, ghastly wail that tore through the cavern. The sound closed in, fast, too fast.

That was the moment. I spun, eyes clenched shut to defy its gaze, and drove my Netherite sword forward with every ounce of strength I had left.

The blade met resistance, then sank deep into its chest. The Enderman's body convulsed, its scream rising into a distorted howl that shook the torches and rattled the stone beneath my feet. Black smoke burst from the wound, its form flickering, failing, unraveling before me.

When it finally fell silent, the cavern seemed to exhale with it. And there, where the beast had stood, pulsed the faint, unnatural glow of my prize. The Eye of Ender.

And so, with Eye of Ender in my posession, after a year and a half of training and preparation, I said goodbye to my people.

The villagers gathered at the square, faces lit by the torches I had placed long ago when this was nothing more than a fragile settlement. Now it was a fortress, thriving, alive. They cheered for me, but beneath the noise, I felt the weight of silence—the fear they carried. They know as well as I do: this may be the last time they see me.

Smith clasped my hand with a grip like iron, saying nothing, but his eyes carried words that could have filled a book. Henry tried to smile, though I could see the sorrow in him. Even the newer villagers, the ones who had taken names like "Block" and "Seed," stood in reverent silence. For all their playfulness, they understood the truth: I was walking into a place from which no human has ever returned from.

I packed everything I needed. My Netherite sword. My bow. Trident. Potions lined in careful rows. Food, water, Golden Apples. Armor that had seen more battles than I could count. And then, as I turned to leave, I felt something brush against me. Shadow.

He blocked the path, ears flattened, eyes locked on mine. I knelt, placing my hands on his fur, whispering the words I had prepared: "Stay. Protect them. If I don't come back, they'll need you here."

But Shadow didn't move. His low growl rumbled, not of defiance, but determination. He somehow knew what I was walking into, call it instinct. He also knew he would never let me face it alone.

I tried to push him away. I tried to command him. But wolves do not follow commands when their heart speaks louder. Shadow's heart spoke of loyalty, of bonds forged stronger than iron. I sighed, brushing his neck. "Then come, boy. To the end of the world, if need be."

I mounted my horse, Shadow padding at my side. From my satchel, I withdrew the Eye of Ender. Its surface gleamed with that alien green light, its pull subtle but unyielding. With a steady breath, I raised it high and released it into the air.

The Eye rose, hovering, then shot forward, blazing a trail into the horizon. My horse surged beneath me, hooves drumming on the stone bridge that stretched from our island into the wide, untamed world. Shadow ran close, his paws light and steady on the bridge.

We chased the Eye across the archipelago, the salty spray of the sea at our backs. We galloped into the mainland, where rolling plains gave way to forests that swallowed the sunlight. We pressed onward—past jagged ravines that scarred the land, skirting mountains whose peaks scraped the clouds.

Through dense woods and tangled swamps we went, where the cries of frogs echoed, and the buzzing of insects thickened the air. Across deserts that stretched endlessly, heat rippling across the dunes. Always, the Eye soared ahead, guiding me further, ever further.

When the Eye of Ender finally faltered in its flight and drifted downward, I knew our long pursuit had ended. Its glow dimmed, settling into the earth at the base of a jagged hill. I took the eye and looked around. Before us yawned the mouth of a cave, black and hollow, its breath cold against my skin.

I stared into that darkness, the weight of countless footsteps before mine pressing down on me. This was it. The place where so many survivors had come seeking destiny, and where so many had vanished.

At my side, Shadow whined softly, his ears pinned flat against his head. His paws hesitated on the stone, claws scraping as though the earth itself unnerved him. He was braver than most, but even he felt the same presence I did—the oppressive hush that lingered at the entrance, as though the cave itself was holding its breath.

I placed a hand on his head, the warmth of his fur grounding me. "I know, boy," I whispered. "I'm afraid too."

And with that, I stepped forward into the cave. Shadow followed, close at my heel, the sound of his padded paws echoing in time with my boots. Together, we crossed the threshold into shadow, and left the safety of the world we knew behind.

The cave swallowed me whole. The air grew colder the deeper I went, pressing heavy against my chest, thick with silence. But it wasn't the silence of emptiness—it was the silence of memory.

The walls told me everything I needed to know. Signs, dozens of them, hammered into stone with trembling hands. Words carved in so many languages I could only read a fraction, but their meaning transcended words: prayers, farewells, names left behind so they would not be forgotten. "Strength." "Courage." "Remember me." Some were nothing more than scratched markings, initials burned into the wood by fading torches.

Then I saw it. One sign, its writing clear even beneath the dust of ages: "Alex was here. May the last of us find peace."

I stopped. My hand lingered over the wood, tracing the letters. Proof she had made it this far, proof she had stood where I stood now, staring into the same darkness. My chest tightened, and for a moment, I felt less like a warrior and more like a shadow of the countless survivors who came before me.

There were far more signs here than there were entries in the Survivor's Logs. That meant one thing: not all who wrote here lived long enough to record their story. Their words remained where their adventure could not.

I couldn't walk past without adding my own. From my pack, I pulled oak planks, carved and smoothed a sign, and pressed my words into it:

"Steve, leader of the Village. I will not stop here. If I fall, may my people rise and prosper."

I planted it into the stone wall, among the hundreds. My last words, left for whoever follows.

The hours that followed bled together. I wandered deeper into twisting caverns, marking my path with torches. The undead stirred, skeletons, zombies, spiders, and yes, the Creepers were emerging from the shadows as if drawn to my flame. They were nothing to me now. My blade silenced them in moments, bones scattered, rotting flesh cut down, their moans fading into the echoes of the cave. Each torch I placed relit the path that survivors before me had lit, only to watch it extinguish in time. Again and again, I struck sparks into darkness, walking the same path they once did.

And then, I found it. The stone around me changed. No longer natural, no longer carved by water or time. These walls were placed. Smooth bricks, cold to the touch, fitted with a precision no villager could match. I stood before a man-made wall, ancient beyond comprehension. The Stronghold.

Built by human hands, preserved by the earth itself. Perhaps hundreds of thousands of years old, perhaps even millions. And yet, here it stood, hidden, waiting for me.

I pressed my palm against the stone, the cold seeping into my skin. For the first time in a long time, I felt small. Small, but closer than ever to the truth.

The Stronghold was a labyrinth of stone and silence, though silence was too kind a word. Every step I took echoed back at me, met by the groans and rattles of the undead that had claimed these halls as their nest. Zombies shambled from cracked archways, their eyes dull and hungry. Skeletons loosed arrows from the shadows of broken staircases, their bows creaking like the floorboards of a haunted house.

But none of them slowed me. My blade sang through them, sharp and sure, while Shadow darted in and out like a phantom wolf, his teeth flashing as he dragged skeletons down to dust. For hours we pressed on, torch after torch relighting walls long claimed by darkness, until we began to see hints of what once was—a glimpse into the world before all this.

Libraries. Vast, cavernous libraries buried in the stone, their shelves straining beneath the weight of books written by hands that had turned to dust untold ages ago. I pulled one down, fingers brushing brittle parchment. The words were human, undeniably so, though the dialect was strange, futuristic and ancient at the same time. Written by people long after I lived but died eons ago. Each book was a remnant of a forgotten people, each page a whisper from a world that no longer existed. I wanted to linger. To read. To learn. But the portal was still waiting.

And then, after what felt like ages wandering this tomb of stone, we found it. The chamber was like nothing I had ever seen: a room of smooth brick. In the center stood the frame of the End Portal, an empty ring of stone staring back at me like a toothless maw over a pit of lava. Shadow growled low at the sound of skittering, and then I saw them—tiny creatures crawling from cracks in the brick, silver bodies glinting like shards of glass. Silverfish. Dozens of them.

They came at me in waves, biting and thrashing. I swung my blade, crushing them as they poured out, but more and more emerged until I spotted the source: a spawner, writhing with their vile forms. With a final charge, I smashed it to pieces. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Shadow's heavy panting and the drip of water in the stone.

I approached the frame. Eleven sockets glowed faintly, each holding its own Eye of Ender. Only one slot remained empty. My hand trembled as I pulled the Eye from my pouch—the prize I had taken from the Enderman weeks ago. The gem shimmered in my palm like a caged star.

With a deep breath, I pressed it into place. The frame shuddered. Energy crackled through the chamber, arcs of green and black light twisting in the air. Then, in the center, the void bloomed—an infinite darkness, swirling with stars that did not belong to this world. The portal to The End was open.

Shadow whimpered, pressing against my leg. I crouched, scratching his ears, my voice soft. "Not yet, boy. We'll face it soon—but not without resting first."

I set down my pack and began assembling a small camp in the chamber: a bed against the wall, a chest with spare supplies, torches to hold back the shadows. And when it was finished, I pulled out my journal, its worn pages waiting for me. This might be my last entry.

I now sit now at the edge of the portal's glow, its swirling light casting long, wavering shadows across the chamber walls. Shadow curls beside me, his fur warm against the chill of the stone, his steady breathing the only sound in this place that feels alive.

This may be my last entry. I've said those words before, but this time I can feel the weight of them. The End Portal hums before me, a void between worlds, a mouth waiting to swallow me whole. Beyond it lies the final test—the Ender Dragon, the thing that has haunted the pages of every Survivor's Log I've ever read. No one has written what comes after. No one has come back to write it.

I'll give myself a few days here. Time to think. Time to remember how far I've come since I first awoke in this world—alone, unarmed, surrounded by the dead. I've built walls, raised a village, forged tools from stone, iron, and diamond. I've walked the lava seas of the Nether and returned stronger than I left. I've fought Illagers, saved the cursed, and learned the art of enchantment in books and brewing strength into glass bottles. All of it has led me to this point.

I'll share one last meal with Shadow before we go. Some bread, a bit of cooked meat, the kind of food that once felt like survival but now feels like ritual. A reminder of the life we're fighting for.

I don't know what's on the other side of the portal. Maybe the Dragon. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe the truth about why I am here, why there are no more humans left but me. Whatever waits beyond, I will face it.

If these words are the last I leave behind, let them be a record not of my fear, but of my resolve: I will not run. I will not falter. This world deserves an ending, and I intend to give it one.

—Steve