Archive of Our Own

The World is grand, or special as one would say, as everything tends to be with him.

It isn’t new, as much one would think, but it is not quite as old you would suppose. Phil had slowly lost the count of the days as time progressed on, forgoing any kind of time measuring in favor of simply focusing on trying to create and create, ideas burning with fervor on his mind, hands always reaching higher higher and higher, buildings being raised with the sweat and work of his hands, determined to persevere no matter what. The World had been a gift, something his parents had saved up for ages, knowing how ambitious their son was, and thanks to a few favours, some outside-server currency to help Phil’s meager savings and some contacts, he had been left alone with a whole new World at his fingertips to do as he wished.

The Admin in charge of creating it had been very kind, he can clearly remember, listening to Phil's rambles attentively, and making sure everything was as perfect as it could be. Creating a world, or a World to be exact, was no easy task, millions of tiny tasks and energy destined into channeling the Universe’s magic and desire into actual space one could interact with. He can still recall clearly, the Admin’s shock when they had asked what type of World he wanted, and Phil had answered with Hardcore.

Hardcore wasn’t… a common choice. 

It was the most dangerous set up one could think of, when the Universe only gave you one life to enjoy, threatening to take it away at any second, the danger intensified almost threefold, with the ever present anxiety of when will your time come haunting your steps as one tried to survive against the odds. To put it simple, Hardcore wasn’t something one would waste a World in. Creative were the most sought after, and the easiest to set up, where one could experiment to one heart’s desire without any fear of threat, and the added benefit of possibly acquiring enough magic to ascend into adminhood, if one were adept at it. Survivals were also plenty common, for young players exploring their newfound freedom and setting out on their own, to enjoy the Universe’s gifts without a care, the possibility of respawn assuring them to always keep what they made until they got bored of it.

The usual was making it so the difficulty of the World was Peaceful, Easy, or Normal, or, if one thought themself brave enough, Hard. Lowering the barrier between the Universe and the World itself, letting the crude behaviour of it bleed into the mobs, letting harm become real and scar the once unblemished skin. And even then, most shied away from it. Why make life painful when one could live it carefree?

Hardcore was for the veterans, for those not afraid of anything, for those ready for the challenge, or to put it simply, for old souls. Not for baby face players, still riding the high of competitive servers and games, barely out of their teenagehood. To say the Admin had done a double take at Phil, would be generous. Hardcore was also not a easy thing to set up. It takes genuine talent to make a World locked to Hardcore, to bend the Universe’s will to the extreme, where the barrier was the thinnest, where sometimes one single thing going wrong could mean the end of everything that he knew, when there was still so much to learn about, as inexplored as it could be considering how old Player Society was. Despite this, after some insistance and making sure and double checking of his decision, the world was created for Phil, locked into Hardcore mode and to his Player signature, so no one else could try to enter it without his permission. 

Once all set up, Phil said his goodbyes and entered through the portal, breathing in the fresh air of the World and gotto work. Time flew, as he lost himself to the pace of creating and making his dreams true, buildings rising up to the towering skies through his sheer will alone. He set up some kind of audio blog, where he would record himself with his communicator, some kind of diary to keep at least a vague idea of how much time he had spent on each building and keep a log of progress in every project he had. He conquered the Overworld, taming it with the wildest of buildings he could think of, the unimaginable Nether explored to every single corner and even the End, when the Universe finally released it to him. It could have easily been one year, or maybe approaching two, before Phil started to notice some… strange happenings.

The World is fine, don’t get him wrong! But sometimes Phil… sees something he isn't sure he's meant to see, and wonders if everything is alright. As days creep by, there is this irrevocable sense of wrongness in the air, making him uneasy and constantly on the lookout, bristling his hair and making him guard his every step, as if waiting for an ambush. There are misplaced materials around his base, as if he had forgotten to tidy up behind himself, despite how orderly he was normally.

Animals would simply… not stop walking. Walk and walk and walk, until they died from exhaustion, their corpses left behind to rot, despite how the Universe was supposed to take it back. It was the first thing that tipped him off, to be honest, about how everything was weird. Corpses were supposed to disappear. Everything was made out of the Universe, the mobs, the blocks, the players, the World itself, nurtured from the Universe's own magic despite how it longed for it back. And once it had used up all of its time, the Universe would take it back, because from the Universe came and to the Universe it would return. That was the rule… Or at least, he thought so, as he stared at the corpses of the cows, and tried to ignore the freezing feeling running down his spine. He never got around moving the skeletons, too unnerved to even entertain the idea, watching the bones contrast against the dark grass underneath it.

 The plants would stay still, never growing, never withering, as if frozen in time, never blooming despite how much bone meal he threw on them or how much sunlight they received. The Nether would sometimes feel frigid or the same temperature as the Overworld, as if the lava was not there, with the supposedly warm realm feeling still, the air heavy and somewhat dirty, as if air trapped in a humid jar. Phil didn’t know what to do, and simply tried to continue onwards, despite how sometimes what he built would disappear or how his shadow would flicker in the dark, in ways it shouldn’t.

Phil ignored it, as much as he could, and continued on, ignoring how his reality felt detached, felt behind a thick glass, as if watching some screen apathetically. 

“Day…” Phil pauses, gulping and trying to not shiver as he talks into his communicator, “Day 589, my entry of yesterday is not registered anymore, only the sound of silent breathing… Maybe I didn’t talk into it? Not, not sure, ah, but nothing important happened, i think? Can’t… Can’t really remember.’” 

The communicator screen simply blinks up at him, the red dot blinking in the screen to indicate it was recording, a silent witness to his shaken behaviour.

“I… I think I have to leave,” he admitted, low, as if in shame, tongue heavy and throat closing, dare he say, almost scared. “Something it’s not right… I… I can come back, though, right? Surely I can come back, just… just, get someone to look at the code of the world, maybe, someone to tell me that everything is alright.”

“... End of entry.” Phil sighs and after making sure to save the recording, closes his communicator, the small device going into his pockets as he leans against his wall and tries to think about what to do. He groaned into his hands, feeling tense and shaken. This never had happened to him before, the world feeling so off kilter, so wrong.

He slowly gathered everything, making sure to close all doors and board up all windows, knowing that even though he would only leave for a while, it was better that he left everything carefully stored, so it wouldn’t get damaged while he was absent. He knelt down, carefully petting his dog’s ears, leaving enough food and water in its bowls before closing his main base behind him, starting the slow trek towards spawn.

He took his time admiring everything around it, the terraformed dirt, the fountains, the flowers he had so carefully transplanted, now rotting and withering under the pale sun, the tree he grew from a tiny sapling, the first shack, the path he had taken over a week to build. It felt as if he should take his time, something holding him back, trying to imprint the memory of it all into his brain. Phil paused, breath heavy, as he blinked down at his hands confused, why did… Why did he feel so tired? He tried to shake his head, and continued on slowly, feeling as if he were walking through water instead of simply air. Everything looked… discordant.

Did that tree always have it’s bark stripped? He didn’t remember making his path out of cobblestone, staring at the coarse material under his feet. The sun felt harsh, light blinding, yet why did everything feel so pale, so far away? He could feel his breath picking up, as he continued slowly towards spawn, only a few good meters away, eyes hurting and tearing up from the strong wind running around.

What… What was he doing? Phil paused, swaying and staring at his hands, watching the muscles move slowly. Was… Was he doing something?

He blinked up, at the dark red sun, the sky a dissonant… purple, was it always purple? He shuddered, shivering violently as the wind picked up more and more, feeling as if ice had grabbed a frozen hand around his arms, tugging him down, down, down, and down.

Phil blinked up at the sky, and got to wonder for half a second why he was laying down on the floor, before he felt his breath taken away, gasping as if like a fish out of water. He blinked up at the orange, blue, purple sky, blinked once, twice, and then Philza couldn’t remember anymore.

Phil awoke slowly, groaning as he forced himself up, gasping for breath.

He opened his eyes, blinking at the sterile light hanging above him, and looked around, shivering, despite how much blankets were on the bed covering him. He was… Where was he? He didn’t recognize this place, not at all, the pale cream walls surrounding him a total stranger. His house was made out of wood, all the walls covered with paintings and little trinkets from his travels, yet everything here was clean, without a single spot of dust. 

There was a single window to his right, the shutters down, letting very soft light in, only a slim ray, coating the end of the bed in a warm glow. He managed to sit up correctly, wondering if he would have enough energy to get out of bed and see out the window where he was, when the door, which he hadn’t seen half hidden behind a wall, opened and a person walked in.

Phil blinked owlishly at the other, feeling an odd pressure on his chest at the sight. The other player had a purple and white coat on, and every pocket filled with what seemed like every type of pencils ever, messy fur sticking out in every direction, four eyes blinking back at him. There was a feeling in his bones, a sensation that he didn’t quite like when looking at the other, like an uncomfortable tag you could never find, irritating, pricking. He narrowed his eyes, feeling like he had cotton stuffed in his mouth, trying to find out why exactly he was feeling this way, when the other person had done literally nothing, and was standing a good distance from the bed, body language relaxed. He realized the other was speaking, while he was lost in his mind, and grimaced.

“Ah, sorry, I… Could you repeat that?” He asked, words tasting funny on his tongue, as if not meant to be.

“Oh, of course,” the other said, smiling gently, “My name is Em and I’m one of the local Admins of subsection A from Hardcore halls. Someone found you passed out outside a World Portal, and brought you to the Core Clinic.”

“Oh… Uh, thanks?”

Em laughed, and shook their head, “Don’t worry about it. I was wondering if you could tell me what happened? You spent a lot of time passed out, and your few lucid moments you were… really out of it. Did you lose your World?”

“Ah, no? I can’t, uh, just… Give me a moment to remember?” Em nodded attently, and Phil closed his eyes, grimacing, “I think… Something was wrong? I was going to the hub to ask someone to come take a look but uh, I don’t remember what happened after, sorry.”

“Oh, that 's okay. Would you mind if I asked a few questions?” At the shake of head, they tapped their communicator, a whole screen opening up. “Alright, you are sure you didn’t die, right?”

“Yeah, I haven’t died yet.”

“Not a single time?”

“Yep!”

“Alright, next. Is this your first world?” At the nod, they wrote something down with a quick flick of their fingers. “Could you possibly describe what was wrong, what you needed help with?”

“Mate, this is going to sound really weird or crazy but just… let me explain?” At the nod of the other, Phil sighed and started his explanation, “My world started to… malfunction? Or something similar, I don’t know, I just… Things would go missing, animals died suddenly and the corpses never left, plants rotting out of nowhere, or just, a general sense of unease filled everything. It sounds crazy, but I just wanted someone to check it out? So I started going to spawn to leave but then, uh, I started to feel dizzy, I think? I can’t, I can’t quite remember.”

Em paused, brows furrowing, as they lifted their eyes to look at him.

“The corpses didn’t disappear?” they asked gently, sounding concerned, and Phil nodded violently.

“Yeah, it was super weird shit!” Phil exclaimed, wincing at the loud sound.

“Hmm, I will send someone over to check, can you give us your Portal ID?” Em asked, writing down the numbers Phil rattled off, nodding as they sent a message. “Alright, I notified someone who will go check it out. For now, I suggest you rest for a while, you really don’t look good man. Do you need anything while you stay here?”

“Nah mate, thanks for the offer. I think I'll probably just… lay down, I don’t feel that great.”

“Sure, someone will come to check on you in a few hours then, see you later Phil,” the admin said, closing softly the door behind them, leaving Phil alone in the room.

Carefully, he laid back down, exhaustion hitting him like a monster, chest relaxing as he felt the presence of the Admin finally go away. He rubbed a hand over his sternum, grimacing, wondering why he had been feeling that way, but he was starting to feel too tired to actually think it over, eyes heavy as he looked at the white ceiling. He felt so weird, out of place, so to say, just… A feeling he could not precisely pinpoint, rolling around his brain, making him weird and tense.

There was nothing he could do about it, no matter how much he shifted in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, the feeling remaining intensely, although he started to notice it less as time passed. Not because it faded, oh no, he just simply got… used to it. The last rational thought he had was that this was such a shitty way to fall asleep before he knew no more.

Phil woke up a handful of hours later, not even registering that he had fallen asleep, as the medic of the Core Clinic, Rol, came by and examined him. She had found nothing wrong with him, although she has taken into consideration what he had commented, the uncomfortable feeling of something raw lodged on his chest anytime he was near someone, but she ultimately didn’t find anything about it, only encouraging him to rest more and, if possible, and he stayed on the Clinic until the next Tick cycle, in a few days.

The days passed by like that, with Phil mostly sleeping away and talking through his communicator to his friends as he waited for the Admins verdict on what had happened. He could feel the itch already, the urge to go back and create, to make his imagination into reality, the thrill of being in Hardcore, and feeling as if he was going crazy, trapped in the small room. He spent most of the time outside bed, staring out the window into the quiet hub of the Hardcore halls, where veterans and beginners alike would walk around, the glimmering world portals glinting in the distance, their call alluring him, begging him to come back.

It was one day before the tick cycle ended, in the early morning of a Saturday, when he felt someone knock on the door. He watched Em, the admin of the beginning, enter with someone at their side, the now familiar prickling sensation returning to his chest as he smiled at the Admins on his doorway. The artificial sun was barely bright today, shining dimly through the window, as Phil sat down on the bed and looked at the people in the room.

“Hello Phil, this is Egar, he was sent to check on your World and we are here to tell you what we have found out so far” Em said, gently, indicating to Egar to stand towards the center.

“Well, your World is, uhh, not accessible? The major theory we have is that something must have corrupted in the Universe’s code or files, which then caused all of what you mentioned. I’ve seen it in the past but not to this extent.”

“Not accessible?” Phil asked, something like muted horror creeping up his throat “What does that- Does it mean I can’t go back?”

Egar grimaced, and Em took over, sighing regretfully.

“Yeah, I doubt you will be able to come back, I’m sorry. We still aren’t quite sure why it happened, but if anything comes up we will contact you. Meanwhile, we would suggest staying on the hub for a while? We still aren’t sure if anything could have happened to your internal core and magic and would like to, if possible, keep an eye on you, but we understand if you prefer to leave.”

“Oh, uh, one question?” Egar interrupted, “How long did you stay in the World? The files are too corrupted to see for outsiders, so the age of the World could possibly shed a light into this matter. The extent of the error was really… intense, so to say, and I’m trying to think what could have caused it.”

“I—Uh, last time I checked around 589 days? But I'm not sure, my blog got some files lost but as far as I remember it was 589 days.”

Egar whistled, eyes widening, and took a step back, Em also looking over in surprise.

“That’s, oh wow, That’s a lot”

“It is?”

“Yeah!” Em exclamed, passing a hand through their fur, “The biggest data record we had for hardcore was like, 412 days. Holy shit”

“Could that have affected something?” Phil asked, causing both Admins to shrug.

“We aren’t really sure. Hardcore is, uh, pretty volatile, and it is known for the Universe to unstabilize some Worlds because of the duration but it’s still all up in the air. That is a pretty good theory, but as we said, we don't know for sure since the files can’t be accessed to check over the code. If we find anything else, we will communicate it to you”

“...Oh, okay. Alright, thanks” Phil heard himself say, a lump on his throat, as he watched them leave, white noise filling his ears as he tried to process what he had learnt.

Phil stays silent, not able to understand what is happening around him, as he watches out of the window, lost in his thoughts. The idea that he is not able to come back home is heartbreaking, a stab on his heart that bleeds and bleeds, as if poison had been spread over the damned blade that injured him. He knows that the logic course should be to simply go back home, at least for a while, take a break but he doubts he can bring himself to do that. It would feel like a failure to come back, to watch his parents try to console him. Especially, since he hadn’t even died, he had been kicked out of the World, most probably. And what a mockery was that to him! Considering how much he loved his World, to be kicked and barren entrance, like a stray dog who annoyed too much.

But what options were there? He didn’t exactly have the funds to create another World, and didn’t exactly have any connections out here, since he had spent over a year isolated in his own place, talking to absolutely no one. Groaning, he fell onto the bed, looking at the ceiling, a hand rubbing absently over his chests as the weird sensations slowly faded. What to do, he thought, what to do, what could he do. He could possibly participate in some competitions to try to get some funds? But he wasn’t that good at social interactions, and he was sure that nobody would sponsor him if he tried, but besides joining competitions he didn’t know any other way.

The next day, Phil checked himself out of the clinic, wandering outside the halls until he stopped in front of the gates that lead towards the Public servers. The strange unease that had gathered in his chests grew in waves, as more people started weaving around him, causing Phil to tense up, jaw locked up as he stared in apprehension at the open gates, where mindless crowds walked around, in groups so thick, Phil could barely see the walls of the halls. He wondered absently when he developed social anxiety, as he tried to make himself step into the crowded halls.

After a while he managed to step inside, keeping his head low as he made a direct line towards the tournament focused servers, scouring the boards pinned outside the Portals with intensity, in search of any good offers. Most of the good ones had strict requisites, requiring determined skills that Phil was sure he didn’t have. He doubted a hermit who has spent over a year isolated in his own Hardcore world counts as someone “relatively famous”.  He sighed, defeated, but continued checking around, ignoring how uncomfortable he felt every time someone passed nearby. 

A few hours later, Phil had found exactly not a single slot open, most of the tournaments with any good money having very strict requirements and the ones with low prizes already all full. He wandered back to the Hardcore halls, deciding to spend some time there to see if there was any good opportunity there, in part because he was tired and also because he didn’t want to spend anymore time inside those crowded halls, his head already pounding with the beginnings of a headache from all the noise and if he found nothing, the apartments were nearby, and Hardcore apartments were always open, most rooms soundproof and known for being very comforting, something Phil was sure going to need after the day finished.

The halls were mostly deserted, and all the open boards of the few hardcore public servers were practically empty. Most have closed down since he had last been here, almost two years ago, and Phil took a few moments to appreciate how fast the pace of time was. He had barely noticed the pass of it in his World, wrapped up in his projects and more, barely time to even notice the days besides a quick entry on his communicator. Sighing, Phil debated with himself if he should cut short this day and simply head back to the apartments, when he got a sudden spark of pain on his chest, at the same time someone’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

Both jumped, Phil taking a few steps back, as he lifted a hand to his chest silently in a bit of pain, and Egar, the player who had sneaked behind him, shaking his hand.

“Ouch! Sorry, didn’t expect a spark” Egar laughed it off awkwardly, shaking off the last tingles of fingers before nodding at Phil, “I was looking for you! Can we speak, for a moment?”

Phil nodded, unsure, following silently behind the admin until they found themselves at the public benches, both sitting down on the extremes of it, Phil wondering what the Admin could want with him.

“Look, I forgot to ask yesterday but what are you planning to do with your World?” Egar asked, jumping straight into business, barely giving Phil any time to react before the other continued on. “Will you keep it? Delete it?”

“I— Uh, probably keep it as it is? I can’t, I don’t think I can bring myself to destroy it,” Phil admitted, shrugging. “I spent a lot of time there, and even if I can’t access it anymore, I don’t think I could ever think of deleting it”

“I see, I see,” Egar nodded, “Look, I was asking because the glitch with your World really intrigued me. It’s not something very common to see, and to the extent yours was? It’s unusual so to say, especially considering how long you spent living there.”

“Alright… But what does that have to do with the world and me?” Phil asked, wary, unsure of how this was all connected.

“Well, I wanted to see if you would be willing to transfer me the ownership? As far as I’ve looked, only the owner could really check what is up with the World, but only Admins can check the code, so I wondered if you would be open to that? If you want anything, I can see if it’s in my power to do so.”

Phil blinked, confused.

“What?” He said, blankly, “Why would you be interested?”

“It’s not everyday that such a long hardcore World dies, because of a glitch specially. The other Admins are also curious about it and everyone would love to study the case more,” Egar admitted, shrugging, “Scientific curiosity, if you would like to be more precise and call it that.”

“Huh,” Phil leaned back, thinking the offer over, and internally to himself, How curious.

“... What can you do?” Phil asked, curious, and then, gasping, as if suddenly illuminated by an idea, “Can you make Worlds?”

Egar leaned back, but nodded hesitantly.

“Yeah, I know how to make them, though Em knows more about it.”

“Could you get me a World?” Phil asked, excitement thrumming through his veins, “Can you do that?”

“I…” Egar paused, hesitant, “I mean, I can? But, what World do you want?”

“A Hardcore World, just, just a single one would be okay,” Phil said, rubbing the odd spot over his chest, “I… I just want to come back, you know.”

Egar’s demeanor got softer, and nodded in sympathy, Phil trying to ignore how the sentiment felt like needles on his back, firmly looking the other way.

“Sure, I can make you another Hardcore World in compensation. But, uh, as my duty as an Admin, this is me, advising you to preferrably stay a few more weeks in the Hub? You got discharged just today.”

“Yeah it’s just… Too noisy, you know?” Phil waved a hand around, trying to sound pathetic enough so everything could get on faster. He really didn’t want to stay here more than necessary.

“No yeah, I get it,” Egar nodded, writing something down  on his communicator before standing up, awkwardly, “I’ll message you when I have it ready, probably tomorrow.”

Phil nodded, waving as the Admin left, and practically crumbling against the bench once he was alone, finally breathing easier, wondering when would this strange ache leave. It had faded a little by little, but not fast enough, and Phil preferred to spend his time alone and in pain than with people around, the sensation of the player around him causing him to tense and get uncomfortable. He sighed, and shook his head, it wouldn’t matter anyways, since he hopefully would be leaving soon.

Once alone, he would take care of it.

Egar makes true to his promise, and less than two days later, Phil opens his eyes to the blaring light of the real sun rising over his head.

Its light feels so warm against his skin, Phil wastes a few minutes laying in the coarse grass, taking a moment to appreciate the sunlights he was missing since he got to the Hub. It feels nice, the edge that had clung to his skin finally giving way, disappearing as he let the sun rays bathe him in the light of his New World, all his alone.

After some time, he forces himself up, wincing as he notices in what biome he had spawned in. Savannah sprawled as far as the eye could see, the giant mountains towering above him, the trees twisted, the orange wood a bright contrast against the pale grass. Savannah… Urgh, Phil didn’t like Savannah. Pouting, he got up and started to collect as much wood and branches as he could fit into his inventory, the interface opening with a quick flick of his wrist, as he stuffed it full of whatever he could find and need, killing any animal he found on his path with his crudely made wooden sword, the blood splattering against the dirt in unflattering shapes, Phil barely giving it a glance before continuing on.

As the sun rose and fell, Phil found himself circling the entrance of a cave, the dirty sword trailing its tip against the grass as he circled the open mine, looking into the dark insides with apprehension and apathy. It felt dangerous, to even consider going inside, when before he would have spent the whole night walking around, running away from all the mobs with a humming laughter nestled in his heart, until he found a village to stay for a while. But now, there’s an emptiness inside his chest Phil cannot explain. 

There is something missing, he thinks, as shivers run down his spine while the stars finally show their faces, but he cannot bring himself to care, he thinks. He thinks a lot, he muses, and jumps down, kicking the wall and causing the whole entrance to cave in, the dirt falling onto the hastily made beams and making sure that now nothing can get in or out. He spends most of the first week there, hiding in the dark as he carves the minerals out of the stone, the molten iron taking form in front of his very eyes, until he thinks he has enough to probably survive. He keeps most of his place dark, the torches making him get such a heavy headache, he can barely see in front of his eyes, vision swimming and twisting, until he finds himself back at his scarce camp, lying down on the ragged rocks and dirt that covers the floor.

Maybe he should have stayed more in the Hub, he muses, as he slays down the monsters that litter this little cave he is occupying for the time being, the headaches terribly overwhelming and somedays Phil feels so sick, he can barely eat a loaf of bread without getting extremely nauseous. But he continues on, he refuses to backtrack, going deeper and deeper into the cave, until the air is musty and humid, a hollowed sensation clinging to his back at each turn. He finds abandoned mineshafts, the rotting wood beams barely standing the brief passage of time this World had, and for a moment wonders how long he has been underneath.

Time is… Easy to lose, here, where there is no indication of day or night besides a vague sense of hunger and tiredness. There is nothing here, besides piles of rocks, dirt, and the sound of monsters crawling down the lower corridors, the sounds haunting his every step as he looks over his small domain. The mobs in this World are harsh, sharp edges and shiny weapons that threaten him at every step, but everything eventually falls to his blade, as he makes his way through the undead and similar. 

He clears everything and then, once safe in the knowledge that there can’t be anything else to hurt him, he sits down to forge his armor. He had kept a big stack of iron over in the furnace, the metal warm enough to be shaped into an armor, as he heaved up his iron pick and set to work. Ideally, he would have a forge, and more professional tools, possibly stolen or borrowed from a nearby village, but as it is, Phil makes do, slamming down the pick onto the iron, until the ingots slowly start to flatten out and a bumpy, but functional, chestplate appears. 

The iron is still extremely warmth, having been kept next to the coals and a bucket of lava had fished out of a small lake underneath, but Phil is distracted, constantly checking up behind his shoulder at every second, tensing and untensing at every second, waiting for an ambush that will never come. Distracted as he is, Phil simply picks up the chestplate with his bare hands while looking back, scanning the dark for any signal of a mob nearby, dropping the chestplate onto the water bucket nearby absently, jumping at the sound of steam erupting from the bucket.

He looks at the steaming chestplate, and then at his own hands, surprisingly free of burn, and then back again at the chestplate in the bucket. Did he…? Phil pauses, a shiver running up his spine and settling down heavily against his shoulders, as he stares at the steaming piece of armor. Why didn’t it burn…? Phil shakes his head, and shoves the thought very far back, deciding to not question this lucky accident, chalking it up to picking up a part where the iron was more cold.

He soon leaves the cave, digging a small exit through the dirt and letting it collapse behind him, barely looking back as he felt tremors running down his back, as if something were staring at him, despite the clear lack of anything alive nearby. He picks a direction and starts walking, never straying more than a few blocks for animals, who all seem to try to run away from him, despite having a completely clean sword and his clothes not having any evidence of blood in it. It’s strange, and he files the fact away, more distracted with walking and trying to find a village to spend the time now, and hopefully, barter with them for some supplies.

Nonetheless, after some time he finally wanders into a village. The villagers all look at him from afar, keeping their distance as he tries to communicate, ignoring all attempts Phil makes, seemingly not even speaking the Villager Dialect Phil knew, which should be impossible, as he had learned it at the hub and was pretty universal. The villagers leaned away from him, some even going as far as to leave the house they were in if he knocked on the door, not even giving him a glance back.

It didn’t help how weird he felt around the villagers, uncomfortable and skin prickling, as if shoved against a cactus. He rubbed his chest, as he went through the abandoned houses and stole what he could find that was useful, shoving it into his inventory as the villagers watched from afar. If they weren’t even trying to talk to him, it didn’t matter if he stole a few books, after all, he doubts they would care a lot. And he doubts he will come back anytime soon, he thinks, as he shivers looking at the iron construct guarding the village, that never stops looking and following him around as he investigates.

Phil storms away barely two days in, frustration bubbling up inside his chest as he leaves the wary villagers behind him, his pockets filled with more materials that he entered with, angrily biting into stolen bread as he searches for a horse. The village is in a desert, but he swore he had heard a horse nearby, and he had found a saddle stored away in one of the chests, and he was desperate to simply leave. He can hear the animal nearby, but no matter how much he searches for it, there is nothing to be found. To make matters worse, the whole sky goes dark, as grey clouds hang over his head, and rain starts to pour, leaving him wet in a matter of seconds.

He curses, loudly, and stomps away, wondering why the hell it is raining in the desert. When he comes back to the village, cold and clammy from walking under the rain, he stops before the entrance of the village, as a rare feeling feels in his chest. It feels… better now, and he wonders what changed, as he enters and looks around, all torches blown out, streets empty. There are cracks in the cobblestone paths, the blocks cracked open, strange and almost faded spots covering the sand, that are slowly being washed away by the rain when Phil finally gathers the motivation to investigate it.

What happened, Phil wonders, as he steps carefully around.

The horde of zombies gathering inside a cramped house is the answer he gets, after he comes around a corner. He wastes zero seconds ducking behind a nearby wall, heart hammering on his chest as he peers through the broken windows, to the house at the end of the path, where the majority of the horde is gathered. 

“Why the hell is there a horde?!” Phil asks furiously, as he pats around for his communicator and frantically tries to check how long it's been since he joined the world.

Hordes aren’t common, like, at all. Despite being a social oriented monster, zombies tended to stay in small groups of 4 to 5 individuals, almost never making it past 15 without a common target nearby (AKA, a Player). And this horde was, at minimum, 20 zombies. Why the hell had a horde spawned? It literally takes months for the Universe to gather enough energy to create such a large quantity of monsters, even in Hardcore, it would take at minimun a month! But the glaring five days printed in his communicator is blaring evidence that points to the contrary. Phil feels kind of freaked out, to be honest, despite how he just ducks his head and retraces his steps back, barely emoting outside at all.

Phil just silently leaves, as silent as he had arrived, walking through the pouring rain until he arrives at the edges of a jungle. Along the way he had found a horse, a large and sleek animal who hadn’t shied away from him, just staring straight into his eyes as he approached with a bridle and saddle in hand, and had let him mount it with an almost unnatural grace. The only bad thing Phil could find with the horse, besides how weird it looked sometimes, was that the animal had a tendency to walk when he dismounted, straight to the north, never stopping even if it ended up in water, as if desperate to get somewhere. 

The jungle towers above him, sprawling, as if barely contained within the biome, vines covering every inch of the floor that is free from rotting logs and leaves. Phil mostly goes around the edges, the horse faithfully following where he leads it, as the dark jungle covers with jealousy almost every inch of earth it has. It unnerves Phil, watching places where bark or part of the tree itself is missing, among all the flora, a glaringly obvious fact in the chaotic organization of the biome. The leaves are treacherous too, covering whole ravines splitting the dirt in two, with giant leaves that offer no protection from gravity, often leaving him to barely evade falling onto the holes. 

The whole place is… weird, Phil admits to himself, as he starts his third day of exploring, watching the sudden cliff come into view. It’s as if the mountain had been cut in two, and then one half taken away, the floor strangely flat and covered in jungle, the ever growing vines covering the abrupt and jagged stones of the cliff. It feels wrong, as if something had happened, something had gone bad. It is everywhere, if one cares to find the details, in the twisted stems of otherwise normal stems, in the missing parts, the terrain all jumbled up, as if a toddler had been given free reign over it and had forgotten halfway how it was supposed to go.

When the jungle finally comes to an end, at the sunset of the fifth day, Phil’s hands shake from how tense he grips his bow, the weapon constantly drawn out and ready to shoot, as the owner looks over his back constantly, an intense feeling of being watched covering him as he walks by. A plains biome appears, finally, separated by a deep river, that drags away the greedy vines that try to claim the places it doesn’t belong to.

He makes the horse cross first, the animal thankfully managing to swim across the river, and looks back at the jungle. He feels dirty, covered in grime and guts of monsters that he had slain during the trip, covered from head to toe with either dirt, leaves, blood or both. The jungle calls to him, it feels like, alive and writhing, benevolent almost. 

Without even thinking, Phil steps closer and brings out his flint and steel, the flames jumping hungrily at the food offered, soon covering everything it touches. The jungle seems to sway in the wind, twisting in pain it almost seems, as it is consumed alive by the raging fire, until the sun is covered in the smoke and ash of it’s attack. Phil stares, until he feels as if the image has been burned into his retinas, before turning away and crossing the river, jumping onto the horse’s back and galloping away.

If asked why he had set the jungle in fire, Phil would have shrugged or just said he felt like it. If he were to answer honestly, though, he would simply say he wanted to see if it would scream as it died.

Thankfully, nobody is around to ask, and the blond man leaves the crime behind, as the smoke rises into the sky, twisting in the air in a macabre dance, as if it were a premonition, an omen to something else.

As time passes, Phil has to admit that this World is… Weird. 

Or maybe the word isn’t weird, maybe it’s always been like this, and he just now doesn’t have enough energy to ignore it as he always seems to do. There is just… Something not right, he thinks, as he stares at the cavern he is currently digging by hand, pausing in the monotonous swing of his pickaxe as a rational thought finally comes to mind. He feels… Not, not detached. It isn’t close enough to be that, but… Phil sighs, and passes a hand through his hair, grimacing at the sweat gathered there, while he overlooks his current creation.

He… If asked, Phil could not describe it, not truthfully. He doesn’t think there can be enough words to ever describe it, the vocabulary too limited to ever try to describe something similar to this. There is just this sensation inside of him, like a thrumming within his bones that grows louder each day, an itch that can never be satisfied. By now it’s been, if he remembers correctly, almost… three years? Or maybe a little more, time is, is hazy at best, and forgettable at worst. It’s difficult to remember, he finds, but it doesn’t bother him anymore.

Why should he? He’s happy here, in the sprawling world that he inhabits, the hungry and turbulent oceans, the ever expanding skies, with wide open jaws that threaten to swallow him whole, the writhing earth beneath him, as he carved it into his dreams. At first, he thinks, it had been different, but it had been so long ago, he couldn’t bother trying to remember why it had been different to begin with. 

It’s just another thing that he had become used to. Like the itch over his back that never goes away, or how he can reach chests that are on the other side of the room, how the ceiling in his base looks so close and so far away. It’s just… facts, by now, the way the Universe twists and pulls and shatters at every second, constantly rebuilding as he walks around, and Phil can’t bother to remember enough to care too much, he thinks, it’s been way past that. And it’s better this way, he recognizes in a nebulous way, when he feels frozen with pain, doubled over as he chokes on the sludge like blood that rises and rises, seeing his harms disappear and reappear, glitching out of the reality this Universe allows, feeling himself be remade and destroyed every second, like an ever growing virus, like he—

He goes back to mining, his eyes illuminating enough in the dark so he can continue on with the task, as he shapes this strip of stone into the cave he wants, thoughts forgotten once more in the ever-erasing reality that is his mind. He blinks at the zombie that is coming behind him, and without stopping to mine, he reaches out with another hand and swipes at it with the sword, the mob falling instantly at his hands. He blinks, and shrugs, using his third hand to reach the shulker filled with materials, and continues on, scratching idly at his skin, the painful rash he had gotten last week just becoming worse as days went by.

He goes on and on, time blurring and energy never stopping, losing any meaning to the word, as Phil pulls and twists, ignoring the burden and burning of his own body, until the cave is finished, and he steps back to examine it, grinning at the wide entrance that meets him from outside, there’s not much to do now, just giving it a gentle shape and bringing the monsters he needs to populate it with. He takes a few minutes to wash himself, and looks at his reflection in the water, pausing at the strange reflection that meets him. 

Only one pair of eyes stare back at him, the icy blue a shade he feels is wrong. Isn’t he meant to have more? He thinks distantly, as he washes off the dirt and grime, shaking off the droplets sticking to his face, clinging to the scales dotting his skin like shiny freckles. He’s sure he isn’t meant to only have two eyes, but after a few moments, he shrugs, and goes to pick up everything, cleaning away the chests and shulkers and storing everything to take back to the base, as he has finally finished this project, discarding the worry almost instantly, becoming lost in the sea of forgotten things.

He pauses in front of his bed, the sheets covered in blood, and wonders if he should try to save it. He always wakes up covered in blood, pain lacing his face or back, or whatever place his body next decides to hurt, as the sensation of something amiss remains within, evergrowing before fading in the background, forgotten. It has become such a thing, Phil can’t remember when it even started, or if it’s always been there to begin with. But it always happens, everytime Phil goes to sleep, he wakes up gasping, feeling as if he is being deleted out of existence practically, a burning too great to describe swallowing him for a few minutes before it dies off, leaving him drenched in sweat and blood. 

But, Phil had gotten used to it, as he had gotten used to everything here, and he has a perfectly working wool farm back on the main base. In the end, he simply burns it like the rest of the beds he has ever used, and watches the blood shrink and become black, sliding onto the floor until it scars like an explosion, corroding the earth beneath it, shrinking and writhing as if alive, a virus onto the code itself it seemed. The smell is awful, and Phil wrinkles his nose, as he takes a few steps back to breathe fresh air again.

He kicks off the ashes and turns back to pick up the shulkers, the world shimmering away for a second as he stretches to grab everything, storing it deep within his inventory, before extending his elytra, the End-machine opening as if it were alive and attached to himself, as he jumps and takes to the skies with a burst of a firework, towards where he can feel spawn is, a tugging ever existent that guides Philza back to his base, not bothering to use any more rockets besides the one he used to take off, managing to get back without running out of altitude despite the big distance.

He stops and unloads everything, in the second of a blink, he stands once again, with hands empty at the door of his base. For a tick, the world shrinks and grows in front of his very eyes, an immense sense of dread keeping him frozen on the spot, as he stares at It, at They, ever growing ever listening, reaching greedily towards him It—

What was he doing? He frowns, momentarily, and then nods.

Yeah, next project, right?

The end-machine attached to his back shuffles, as he bends down to enter through the small iron door, instantly folding back and shrinking, as if guided by his own thoughts. It stretches, once he manages to enter, and flutters before settling back, the shimmering material twisting in the air, like butterfly scales before going back to a simply shiny cloth, as always. He breathes in, out, in, out and nods.

Next project, as always.

The Witch Spawner preparations are coming along nicely, Phil thinks distanly to himself, as he brings beacons down, the space underneath filled with torches, more bright than it should be possible, as if the project wasn’t underground to begin with.

He wants this to be as efficient as possible, to make it better than anyone can ever imagine. Maybe he will be the only one using it, but he needs it to be perfect, as if to fill the ever growing void inside of him. He sets a new bed down, from the shulker he always keeps on hand, letting the respawn wash over, and gets back to work. The beacon makes mining faster, but it feels the same as it always has been, long claws holding the almost diminutive pickaxe gently, as it carves the earth open, shattering the stone with barely a thought to spare. 

He feels uncomfortable, but well, when isn’t he feeling that way? Like his skin is an ill-fitting suit, a mere mockery of what it’s supposed to be. He blinks, watching the world shimmer like a glitched communicator before his multiple eyes, before shrugging it off and continuing off, mining, mining and mining down, his mind automatically keeping track of how much is left to continue onto the next phase of the project. 

Then, he pauses, staring at the gaping black maw he uncovers with his pickaxe. It is a cave, he thinks, and takes the torch out of his inventory, the item turning itself on fire with a single flex of his cl—hands, hands he repeats, because he has hands, no claws, hands. He shivers, and continues on, jumping down onto the cave, taking out a sword and he holds with his other hand the torch. His elytra shivers behind him, and he spares the thought of putting on a chestplate, but ripping off the item is very painful, so Phil shrugs it off and starts descending, putting down a couple of torches as he goes, the light flickering behind him.

He finds more crevices, and lights it all up, letting the tug of shadows guide him towards where he hasn’t discovered. And pauses, in front of a three block leap. He can hear the monsters, the growling echoing through the cave, the skittering sound of spider legs against the cold stone, where the sun doesn’t dare to go. He hesitates, and he doesn't know why.

There’s… There’s this feeling, inside of him, like a crescendo, growing and growing, as he stares down at the last part of the cave he has to light up. It feels like a symphony, growing louder and louder on his bones, as if the Universe itself is preparing for this. He shivers, and tries to shake it off, as he takes out his bow and starts killing off the zombies he can see.

The undead fall under his hand, the enchanted arrows easily cutting through the rotten flesh like butter, as the groans slowly die off. He can’t see any of the normal zombies, but he can hear one more, running around, the echoing of metal against stone grating in his ears. It’s probably a baby zombie, and shrugging, he takes his sword once again and jumps off, swirling around to stab at the tiny creature that falls onto him like a rabid dog.

The fight is fast, without a second to spare, as he swirls and stabs, wincing at the harsh swipes the creature manages to land, that bleed sluggishly onto the floor, the blood hissing against the stone underneath. It feels like too much, soon, and Phil backs off, as he starts to feel overwhelmed, hands shaking, nails hurting from where he had tried to scratch the zombie off him. He turns, hand reaching towards his golden apples he keeps at all times on him, planning to retreat a little to heal up, when a weight throws itself onto him. It’s a spider, a giant furry arachnid that hisses, sinking its teeth onto his neck, despite the corrosive that feels like it fills veins. He tries to shake it off, but it bites harder, and Philza blinks, a silent gasp erased in time as he feels something come out and, like he is being ripped open, tearing through his body as he claws his way out—

And there is this hunger, this feeling, growing bigger and bigger, the flames of the forest fire torching his insides, he can feel it in the bones, in the hair, in the World itself, as it thrums, thrums in his heart, in his hearts, the ringing noise going louder and louder until he doubts he ever heard anything at all.

And he looks at the spider, watches it sink its fang into his arms, the ink beads bleeding down his body at the puncture, the sensation of anger, of relief, of everything in between and more growing louder, like the dog who has finally rebelled against the cruel boot of its owner.

And there’s a creeper and nothing, and he open one, two, three, a million eyes, gasping and lurching forward, as the void itself falls off his mouth, gurgling and choking him inside out, the sound of tearing, of ripping echoing in the small cave before Phil blinks his last tick as a mortal, as someone alive, as someone. 

He blinks, and blinks, as he stares at his own body, everything growing out of focus as he stares and stares at the blood pooling underneath the body- the corpse that he once inhabited. He heaves, falling onto the floor, shaking and trembling, looking at his hands, that shift and shift, no longer the human part they were supposed to be. His own form is rippling, like the disturbed water of a once peaceful pond, twisting and becoming, like a horrific form of metamorphosis, as he watches what once was become nothing at all. He closes his eyes, the two, three, six, eleven, a thousand eyelids closing, as he lets it go, all fear and similar draining out of him, as he feels the shifting start to slow down, not as brutal as before.

Phil closes his eyes, and Philza opens them, breathing, once again.

And It opens its eyes, breathing the cold air of the emptiness of the Void, feeling finally, blessedly, free, as the void drips and drips, the eyes blinking around as he moves his arms, did he always have five? He, It can’t remember.

They don’t think they can care anymore.

It feels as if He has been set free, the binding chains or mortality, the weight of it all on His shoulders, finally, finally being set free. They wonder at it, at how free It feels, staring at the shapeless hands He now has, at how different everything feels. It is brighter, and muted, it is loud and silent, it is a scream and a whimper, all at once, as he slowly gets up, barely sparing a glance at the corpse he should have claimed as his own. He can hear it now, clearer than anything, the thrill of the Universe within, as it pulls and pulls, the World finally succumbing to its Words.

He watches it all disappear, a specter and something more, until the black of the void is the only thing to stare back. He moves his not-hands, watching the aftermath of the image look back at him, an imprint of it left on every moment he makes, as he twists and sees the place that he is now in. He can hear the Universe calling him, beckoning him closer, and he goes, feeling the tug and letting it guide him towards what feels is his true Home.

He stares back at It, the brightness it once could have blinded him, the soft caress of a light now. He watches, shapeless and voiceless, at the ever growing and ever expanding Universe, the only Truth there is, that welcomes him home. He can feel the thrum of it, in his mere essence, as the void of it all tries to whisk away whatever he is now, as if he were a simple player.

But he is not, and he fears he has stopped being one a long time ago.

The Universe calls, and tells him he can rest, he can stay, that he-they-it can stay and let it go, become once again whole with Itself. And it is tempting, but he-they-it-he refuses and back away from the pulling embrace of It.

When the universe calls, will you answer it? Or will you cower like a worm?

(Neither, says the once-man, I’ll come back someday but not now, not when there is so much to see, to have, to live )

And the Universe grants him his wish, like a fond motherless Mother would to a sonless Son. Go, it tells him, a breath of the Universe filling him, go and be , it tells him. Go, my godling, go and be.

And Phil nods, shapeless and whole, nods and lets the tug of the once normal World take him back.

Waking up in the Hub is painful.

After learning what being truly weightless feels like, having a body again feels wrong, like clothes several sizes smaller, itching and digging painfully into it, as it shifts and breathes shallowly, trying to ignore how it feels everything realigning to what it was supposed to be.

It takes all of its concentration, to focus and force itself into something solid, as it watches its limbs twitch and tremble, like a bug would still twitch after death, nerves reacting to the stimuli despite the hollowness inside. It reaches, at the wild thing that may once have been its core, its code, shifting and twisting like an intelligent virus, and manhandles it into shape, knowing it has little time before some player comes along and beholds it. Something tells it that would be bad, so it presses on, and gasps, as it feels its shape settle.

It blinks, and it— They— He—  pats himself down, watching with curiosity his hands. The nails are black, digging in a way it seems painful into the skin, but he cannot feel anything, as he pokes around. Is he supposed to have this? He shrugs, as long as he passes as a player, he will be fine, and steps out of the shadow of his portal. The arch seems to wither away as he steps away, crumbling into code and dust from where he had put a hand to hold himself up, until there is nothing behind, that could have once indicated a portal stood there.

He dusts himself off, and steps into the path, trying to blend in in the shallow masses of players, ignoring how their codes dance and tilt teasingly in his vision, like nymphs dancing in a Greek Chorus, shapeless entities that he can see into, that he knows he can reach into, and mold to his own desires. He keeps his hands firmly to himself, ignoring the looks he gets thrown his way, as people stare at the faceless face, the too bright eyes, the creeping vines-like veins filling his supposedly mortal body, and shy away, as if knowing that if they stare too deeply, they will be unmade from existence itself.

He walks and walks, trying to adjust himself to how other players look like, something inside of him whispering him how to force his hands to be softer, for his face to be rounder and gentler, the thrill of a predatory glee that fills him as Players stare into him and see another mortal more, incapable of truly gazing what lies beneath. He rubs his fingers togethers, ignoring how he knows he isn’t supposed to have so little, how his shape flickers between the shadows of the Arches, as if waiting for the slightest opportunity to break free and drain the life around him, inadequate tongue touching the many rows of teeth that he keeps hidden behind soft skin.

He walks, for the most part, watching and adapting, and ignoring how the longer he stays, the more he feels his many limbs and eyes settle down, closing and staying still, like a hidden predator waiting for its unsuspecting prey to pass by before lunging. It exposes parts of his new self, or maybe true self, that he prefers to examine later, when the headache from too many people so close by thunders inside of him.

Maybe, the Players can sense it in some way too, despite how more normal he seems now, like a docile sheep in the flock. He can see it, the way some part of their brain registers it, the part that still is afraid of the dark and warns them of the dangers of being alive, as they shy away of him, uncomfortable by his mere presence, as if knowing how much his hands itch to tear into their code, and feed it to the Universe itself, to make it a feast for Them, as they gorge themselves on what makes Life itself. They can perhaps sense it, as their eyes stay carefully fixated on his sharp hands, or on his bright eyes, on how they shy away from his deceptively gentle face, as if knowing the true monster that lingers between them.

Nonetheless, he ignores them, as he finally reaches the truly Public Hub, ignoring the brightingly damned headache that their mere essence is, as he sits down in a cafe, and watches the streets, watching the unknowing prey continue on, as he forces himself to create a mouth and throat to eat the food that the waiter presents to him, with a nervous smile.

He watches a good fifteen minutes like this, watching others and trying to decipher how to process the food, as he manipulates the void inside of him into something that could function, not remembering the use of any of the names that come to mind, as he struggles to form a heart and a functional stomach inside of him, glaring at the muffin in the table. It is tedious, and at the end, frustrated, he simply touches the food and watches it disintegrate, too angry to keep wasting time trying to be able to eat. It’s been hours now, since he has emerged like a monsterful butterfly from the decayed Portal that once led to his World, and he can already feel the toll taking effect on him.

He feels horrifyingly empty, or maybe too full, it is hard to distinguish, to see what truly is and what is a mortal notion that he is supposed to know. He feels tight, and frail, and horrifyingly human, in a way that itches and hurts, that he deeply knows it is not supposed to be. The idea of being Weightless calls to him, like a Siren guiding the drowning man to their Death, but he turns it away, after a few seconds of consideration. He doesn’t want to go back, not right now, he knows that. There’s… so much to do, he knows, and he wants to see it, to experience it, in a frighteningly mortal way, that he knows it is not supposed to attract him anymore, and yet, it still seeks him.

While the idea of going back it's tempting, it is only so in a superficial way. He knows what he wants to do, and knows how the Universe will wait for him, until the ages of existence itself if needed be, ready to welcome him with open arms once he is satisfied with all of this, and be brought back into the cocooning embrace that the Universe thrums in tandem with.

So, Phil slips out of the cafe, and makes way to where he believes Hotels are, after interrogating unsuspecting passersby, who stare terrified at the Immensity that stare into their eyes and point at what they believe to know, ignoring how close to unreality itself they were.

One thing that not many people know, is that Players can appear as young as one can imagine, and even younger.

Normally, a Player spawns already an adult, capable of anything a Player needs to survive, in a World that the Universe itself picks for them to excel and learn, before they are sent their merry way into the Public Hub and meet how many people similar to them are. They are brought into existence,without a memory besides the already forgotten hold of the Universe as it makes them from its magic and Love and Its Will, and go, exploring what It offers them, with open arms, and endless resources, with whatever difficulty the Universe believes that Player is ready to begin with.

However, sometimes, sparingly, frail, sometimes, the Universe will hold the wild essence of a new Player and usher it into a smaller form, as if knowing what they will need when they are Awake. A Player can be as young as a child and as old as an elder, and sometimes, very sparingly sometimes, the Universe will not find a World for the Player, and will release it into the Hub, where experienced people will find them and care for them, in private Worlds or Wide Open Servers until they grow into their Playerhood and feel ready to leave the securing embrace of them. 

And so, The Universe gathers magic and Love and everything itself, and carefully holds the frail essence of a young player into Its hands, humming at the young that has been created, with all the Love it has, Mother and Father and Son of None and All. And the Universe, in all of it’s immense glory, releases it into the Hub, watching the stumbling child gasp, while Its Chosen walks the cities, frighteningly mortal and Not.

In another corner of It’s ever expanding reach, in another age, another reality, this would have meant nothing, and the two would have walked away, one into the hold of a significant Place and the other into the World that would mean anything and nothing at all.

But in this corner, in this pocket of space, of time, The Universe watches its Player meet Its Chosen who Once was, and hums, with the knowledge of fate being laid in every trembling step the newly spawned child takes.

He is walking, rummating in his inner self as he watches the Players part in the middle like the sea, faceless around him, as he taps his own fingers and watches the ever shifting code twisting itself in wonder and boredom.

It’s been what the Players call two days, he thinks, since he has arrived in this place, gasping and writhing like a twisted snake, as He forced himself into the shape needed to be able to see and watch what goes around him. It’s been two days, in this lightless and sunless place, and he already feels ready to move on. He has no idea where to, and finds himself watching the Portals with keen eyes, the empty spots for a New World to spawn calling to him, yet he finds himself hesitating. 

He knows, like he knows He is and He will be, that he has the knowledge to be able to create from Nothingness a Something, and that the ability to do so lays at the tip of his fingers, yet, he feels as if it’s not time. Or, at least, still not. There is something to do, he thinks, but cannot find What, exactly. Players, after the initial show of colors and code, are boring, just empty copies of one another, barely differentiable from each other if not for how each code Breathes into Existence. Worlds are interesting, as far as His sight goes, but nothing more, and while Admins are their own type of Creation of Playerhood itself, at the end, they are all the same, he feels like.

What keeps him here? He thinks, frowning, as he walks through the Hub, what is it, that doesn’t let him to go beyond what is here?

He feels it first, rather than seeing, the yawning maw of the Void, opening in the Hub, as Something is created, and breathes the first of many seconds in, a writhing mass of code that slowly takes shape, the burst of Magic and Love that He knows intimately to be Universe itself. He turns around, swiftly, and quickly located the source, a player, a child, that opens its eyes and looks around with the wonder of a new life, taking in the flashing colors of the Hub.

And then, The Player turns around and Looks at him.

Oh, he Thinks, That’s Why.

It's the Universe and It's not and It's Him and They and It, and like a moth to a flame, they draw closer, around the sea of faceless strangers that go on, oblivious of the meeting in front of their eyes. And the Child, for it is a child, small and frail and mortal and Magic and Will and Love, stares up at They—Him—It— and smiles.

The Child is not afraid, hooved little hands reaching at the immaterial clothes and the Not-Mortal, and clings, the core itself of the newly spawned Player adhering itself to Him. The Child is Tiny, small hands and body and feet, and when He takes it into His arms, the Child headbutts his face gently and clings tighter, so Mortal it makes Him hurt.

“Hi” He Whispers, watching the Child smile at His voice, “Who are you?”

The answer comes to himself silently, like a whisper from the Universe itself into his ears.

“Technoblade” He says, the Name clunky and entirely of the Child’s, “I am Philza.”

Technoblade giggles, and Philza feels his body finally settle, as he holds the newly made code that makes this Tiny Player and breathes for what feels the first time. The child is tiny and fragile, baby pink fur still soft to the touch, and the kid laughs when he holds him closer, cooing at the specks of the Universe that cling to Phil’s skin like sun-kissed freckles.

They walk around the Hub, same as yesterday and before, only this time Phil holds a kid close, feeling the steady thump-thump of Code and Player and Magic resting against his chest. Techno is not afraid, surprisingly, even as he watches Phil’s skin ripple and shatter like a broken mirror before reforming into something more “normal” among the mortals of the Public Hub. The kid simply headbutts him giggling, and lays against him, content to be held and carried as Phil wanders through the crowds of Players.

The first day with the kid, Phil doesn’t know how to react, besides holding him in his arms and walking around, hoping for someone to tell him what to do. He feels lost, in a way he can’t remember doing since he assumed this form, and watches helplessly at the passerby, hoping for a glimpse of a guide on how to act. Finally, when the kid looks pale and tired, Phil thinks of going to a nearby cafe, and watches bewildered the piglin practically inhale all the food in front of him.

Players… eat, right, he should know that.

They go back to the hotel where Phil was staying, the child tired and yawning widely, tugging impatiently at Phil’s hair so he could sleep. The kid practically collapses on the bed, curling up and instantly falling asleep, ignoring how Phil simply walks around, the Other not knowing what to do now. He can’t sleep, and while he could go out and continue to wander the Hub, he doesn’t like the idea of leaving Techno alone, it makes something uncomfortable crawl on his back, a tugging, a line that whispers that he should stay close.

And good that he does, as a few hours later, Techno wakes up and growls and squeals at him until he lays down on the bed too, the child quickly curling up beside him, one hooved hand clinging with all its might to Phil’s clothes. It feels sacrilegious, in some way, to hold the child close knowing how different he is, knowing that any second they spend together, is another second Phil will end up cursing this player, this child, with his child-like wonder still intact. But the child is tiny, and fits in his arms in a way that makes him feel that this was destined to be, that it was supposed to, and Phil cannot find any way to resist in the end, as he watches the dark walls and waits for time to pass, his precious charge safe within his arms.

Phil is attached.

He cannot deny it any longer, as much as he wished. He is so damningly attached to the kid, watching him walk and watch the open Hub, the lights reflecting on his eyes in a way that warms him at the clear happiness the kid presents. And normally, Phil would not think this is bad. Attachments are mortal, stupidly, fraying and fragile mortal in its love, but they are good, and Phil could not refuse the warm feeling that gathers in his chest at the sound of Techno’s giggles, that encourages him forward.

But, Phil is not supposed to be attached.

He is Something, Other in a nature that is practically opposite to Player’s own, and he knows, as he knows his name is Philza, and he is Everything and Nothing and More, that if the kid stays with him, the kid would not come out safe. It would change the kid, maybe in the same ways Phil did, so long ago in the haze-filled memories that escape from him like sand between his fingers. And the kid is too young, his core too unstable, so Phil knows deep within him that Techno would probably not survive the Change.

He can see it already, in the way the kid perks up at the sight of other Players, hands reaching to their core, as if wanting to tug on the lines of Code and Essence, and watch it all crumble. He can see it, in the way the eyes change, sharper and darker, a red shine overtaking the once calm brown. The way his hands change, curved and gentle hooves becoming wicked and sharp, as if claws wanting to be born. He can see it, written all over Techno’s body, seeing the way the two are now clearly connected, a tug that announces them as one and two and one onto itself, Universe to Universe, Dust to Dust, Fate itself.

Phil knows himself, he thinks, and as he watches his flickering image, he knows that he cannot help Techno. Not for now, at least. He is too unstable, too brutish, forgetful of the player's need to be able to take care of the Child. And he knows, too, that his own needs are too different for now, to be able to cohabit together. He sees it in his missing shadow, in the rows of teeth that glint from his hands, in the way other Players, normal and unburdened and Whole, evade him as he walks, the pangs of something, of a Hunger that cannot be described, lurks beneath his fake skin as he watches the hazy masses of Players walking around. He is not saddened by the fact, Phil knows his Strength, and he knows too, in the way he knows his Face is not What it should Be, that if they part ways, they will find each other, some way or another.

So, at the dawn of the last Day of the week, Phil helps Techno dress up, and they walk out into the Hub, knowing in some way or other, this will be the last time they see each other for now. They spend the whole day together, Phil carrying Techno to wherever he needs, until the lights above flicker and shut out, the fake Moon showing its farce of a face in the Not-Sky. 

Techno must understand, in some way, what is happening, despite how young he is, as he clings tightly to Phil’s robes as they stare at the wide open gates that lead to Hypixel.

“You have to go,” Phil tells him, a caring misshaped hand resting on the other’s shoulder, “You know it as I do.”

Techno shakes his head, and stares at Phil, as if he could make it better, as if he could simply whisk him away and let that be their story. He sighs, and kneels, watching with fond eyes the piglin, who shuffles closer and rests their foreheads together, a refusal and a goodbye tied together.

“I know,” He says, because what else can he do?, “But we know you aren’t ready for now. We will find each other, once more, Technoblade, do not doubt me.”

You promise? Techno seems to ask, his tail flicking wildly from side to side, as the child stares into the beast’s eyes.

“Of course,” Philza breathes, Magic and More slipping into his words, a future laid together with the sureness that only something like Him can, “I promise.”

The Portal flickers in an array of colors, as Techno steps into it and quietly disappears, whisked away to another Server, to somewhere he knows he can be safe. Phil watches him go, and stares at the Portal, knowing deep that they will meet again, yet tasting the joy of sorrow that coats his tongue in a strange palette of feelings he didn’t think could feel.

Afterwards, Phil knows it is time to move on.

He can feel it, thrumming in his interior, a need, a want, to extend his arms wide and fall into the World that he knows he is destined to. It is an Adventure, one would say, and also a Need, as basic as breathing can be for others, it’s the same for him, watching the World Portals glimmer in its magic, Code caught in his teeth as he stalks through the busy Hub in search of an opportunity.

Worlds are created by Admins, a great deal of Magic and energy funneled into it to raise from the Void and the Universe’s magic something New and Ever Changing. They take a great deal of knowledge and energy to make, as it is with most things that are risen out of nothingness. And yet, and yet, as he stands in the empty and ruined place that once held a Portal and that led to a now-erased World, he knows, in the way that he knows he is Other, in the way he knows he will see Techno again, in the way he knows that his name is not Phil anymore, that he doesn’t need anyone else for this.

He supposes he should be grateful for this, as he has no money to his name and he is certain that no one will look, that no one would even consider accepting his offer. Because Admins, in some way or another, know. He can see it, in the way their eyes trail after his figure, in the way they stare at the limbs that are not there, in the way that they flinch at the silence after he talks, as if an echo resonates in their ears. They See Him, and Phil can See them back, and he understands their hesitance, their wariness, their, dare he say, Fear. After all, who trusts the Reaper with cheap clothes?

And so, Phil walks and walks into the Halls where the Hardcore Worlds reside, passing by old portals and crumbled remains, until he is lost between the signs of tombs that gather around him. Because each empty spot, every rubble, every piece of debris, is that, in the end. The tomb, the remains of a World that died, of a Player stolen from their home, of a Life extinguished under the harshness of reality. Nobody comes here, he can see the dust and dirt and the echoes of forgotten calls that litter this hallway. Nobody comes here, nobody who still cares anyways, and so Phil looks, and tries to choose the place where his new reality will stand. 

He chooses one spot, half hidden under broken lights and overrun vines, impossible to truly See unless one dares to, and kneels haltingly into the dirt. He knows he can simply raise it up, he can feel the energy thrumming within his being begging to be released, an outlet for what he is sure is too much, but, he can’t simply… do it. He could, but, it would feel disrespectful, and so he kneels and closes his eyes, letting the harsher edges to fall away, and reaches with his unseen eyes, to where he can see the Code, slowly eroded and dying, recycled back into the nothingness of the Void.

Phil isn’t quite sure what exactly he is looking for, as he reaches and holds the broken Code, ignoring the way his throat itches and burns, the sudden sharp shape of his teeth against his mouth. And then, he hears them. It is faint, like the faded sound of a river, like the sound of a feather falling through the air, like the sound of nature breathing in, and Philza Looks and Sees it.

He can See them, their shapeless forms who look at him and truly See, and cry. The sentiment is lost, as he cannot distinguish between relief and pain and anguish and joy, and yet, he holds them ever so gently, something ancient inside of his many sharp teeth and jagged edges telling that This is Important. They are shackled, he can see, and ever so carefully, lets them go, blinking with his Eye as he stares at everything unraveling and Stop, watching it cling to him and let go and become More.

Barely a second has passed, and yet, when Phil leans back and focuses on the fake lights of the Hub, he feels as if he has aged a century more. He swallows, and notices distantly the taste of copper, before he decides he has wasted enough time and takes a claw forward, watching the debris sizzle and melt and come again, until a whole Portal stands in front of him. It does not emit any light, and yet, Phil feels blinded as he stares into it.

He feels weird, and blinks a few times, hoping his blue-brown-black-white-  Eyes focus once more before slowly standing up, feeling as if he is floating away instead of existing in front of the Portal. He notices, distantly, in a way that is bound to be forgotten, that the lights have faded and the fake sun above his head is no longer there, as if it hadn’t existed at all. He also notices, amusedly this time, the lack of clear hands, as he looks down to the blurry shapes that once were supposed to be Player Hands, and is now a mass of barely hidden multiple, a Eye, a Claw, a Talon, Undescriptable as the nature of how He truly is.

Phil shrugged, and didn’t bother with truly hiding it away, knowing it wouldn’t matter. The Portal is inviting, and looks as much as Him and Not, the shape Otherness that makes it almost stand out between the graves of its destroyed peers. But, it is, in a way, the closest Phil has felt like Home since he took this lie of a form and walked among the Players He maybe never was. The Portal ripples as he touches it, and Phil breathes in, and goes in without a thought to the way it feels as if he is being Ripped Apart and being Brought Home.

The Sun shines over his eyes, and as Phil lets his Guise fall, he breathes in the air he never thought he could do. There’s crows around him, shiny black and Ethereal, a touch of him and Nothing and More, that jump around him, calling in joy at the warmth of the Sun over their eye-covered feathers. Philza grins, with his many teeth and many eyes and many limbs and never ending shape, and takes a step forward, the crows taking flight behind him, the warning of a storm, of a cloud, of the Danger that truly Is.

The World Shivers with the Magic it was given, and Opens their biomes to the Truth that now lives in.

This is wrong.

Phil knows it, and his crows know it, and the World knows it, and yet, they welcome him in, like lambs embracing the wolf that walks through their ranks, like the cat who steps into a nest, like the Predator that irreplaceably touches everything. Being Unshapen, Unformed, being as free as he is right now, is wrong. It is hurtful, and He gazes upon the World he created, knowing he will cause its demise. 

Not regulating himself, not forcing himself back into the skin that feels like an old lover and the wrong clothes and the shoe that doesn’t fit and the once loved scarf someone made for you, is affecting this World. And yet, Phil cannot find himself to care, as he explores the biomes and carves into the underground riches and builds from the ground up the Legacy that will carry his Word even when he leaves. He doesn’t think he can truly fit back, not when he had shaken it off before he had even stepped forward, letting his creation gaze Upon Him as the Universe once Did.

He tries, though, and goes and goes, attempting to find the one Skin that won’t choke him alive as he wears it, the skin that won’t burn away under the Truth that he is, that he holds. So, using the limited time he has, he searches for what will fit, while he enjoys the freedom he knows he won’t have again once this dream is woken up and forgotten under the waves of the Reality that Playerhood believes it is.

As he lives here, though, he discovers and enjoys it. He goes to the sunset, and watches the sun a whole week without a pause, laying down in a field as if he is a Corpse that is rotting away under the gaze of the Heat. He sinks into the bottom of the oceans and walks and walks, staring at the life that is slowly coming into the surface, watching the light come deformed through the water and enjoying the kaleidoscope of the Ocean. He watches the Nether, and its creatures gaze back, knowledge of Creator to Creation, from Him to Them, and watches them live, as he walks through the scorching netherrack and looks at the slowly emerging shapes of new life. He looks at animals, and watches Life exist, everyday amazed once more by its existence, a fountain of wonder that he never runs out of.

His crows are there too, a faded cloud with the potential to be a storm, perching on his many limbs, unafraid to gaze back into his Eyes and chirp, their own eye-filled feathers looking into his own each time they preen. They don’t do much, besides feed on the animals that die under their watchful eyes, and talk. And, oh, how much do they Talk. They chatter away, a single voice through many, as they ramble about the food, the weather, the new buildings he makes, the minerals he gathers, every single thing they deem important, which is everything they gleefully tell him.

Here, in this World, Phil slowly fills his Shape, and comes into his Own. He learns what the itchiness of his throat is, as it is washed away by the blood that runs from his hands as he sinks his claws into the side of a cow, he learns what his Crows truly are, as he looks at the entwined code that tie them together, like the code that once clinged to him in the graveyard of forgotten Worlds. He watches animals Live, and watches them die, at his blade or another.

And, too, he sees.

The shape of a Child that isn’t, of someone that is not, of who is to Him as He is to. The voice that never reaches and the touch that never comes, and the presence that he wishes to forever hold. The Child is young, still, and yet,  it feels as if time is too fast, when Philza watches the baby piglin he once held grow into a warrior worthy of his name, who stares at the Eye and doesn’t flinch, and only offers him more Blood when he runs out of It.

They talk, whenever Technoblade manages to appear, short-lived his visits as they are, Phil holds them dear, close to what was once a Heart, memories that he so possessive is over, looking and staring and remembering, so mortal in its care that Phil surprises he hasn’t reverted back to the Player baseline that maybe, he thinks, once was. And Techno does the same, the reverence of an acolyte to their God, the love that a Child holds for the World, the Joy that Life always finds a way to have. 

Techno is his, in a way that not even the Universe could ever manage to separate, in the way their codes are united and tugging, a promise to forever find the other, the promised existence of an acolyte, a friend, family, and more. They talk, and Phil watches between blinks as Techno grows, while the never ending Sun glares above his head and the Blood and Life drips from the fanged teeth that cover him Whole. A God, Techno calls him, My God, of Blood and Death and More. And He grins, and lets his shape flicker pleased, the frayed amusement that he can manage to have clear in his being.

And Philza lives, and holds and breathes, and Settles, while the World withers to dust around him and the Universe hums in agreement.

Technoblade is a Child, and he Knows.

He Knows it, in the way he sees the Players around him walk and talk, in the way the Admins of this Server can clearly feel the connection that he has, too different to be acceptable but too dim to be hated. He knows it, and breathes it, as he lives and grows.

Hypixel is massive, the server one of the largest a Player can ever know, and yet, Techno feels trapped here, as he stares at the empty walls of the room where he lives, and ignores the warmth curl of amusement that is not his. The place is good, is kind, and cares for him as he wanders, adrift in the new place, staring at the shadows that he knows hold more. 

Simon, the Owner, is kind, and the Admins even more, apparently having taken a liking to the strange piglin colt that wanders with bare hooves through the clean paths and lets the sound of his presence haunt the empty space. They like him, somehow, despite knowing his claim, and that is both strange and alluring. He knows, in the way he knew his name was Technoblade and the way he knows he is meant to Be, that most players find him strange. It isn’t necessarily him, he knows, and it’s more the claim they can’t see but can perceive, the line that tugs him away from the sanctuary of his room and into the dirty roads that lead to coliseums that won’t open his doors to him, the way he stares and Looks, in a way no Player is meant to.

And yet, the Admins laugh at his confused expression when they show him sour foods, and hold him in their arms when he trembles, overwhelmed with the strange sights and colors and noises that the Server is, and care for him, giving him gifts, and remembering what he likes and talking to him instead of At Him, not afraid to meet the black eyes that know a little too much. 

And, oh, how it burns Techno, when he slips away from the warm bed Plancke tucked him in, and stares too closely at the Magic that gathers around Simon’s hands, when he runs and runs, until his throat burns and he looks over the edge of the map, staring at the Shape that is Not, at the Who that isn’t, at Him, who smiles with his Many Teeth and welcomes him so warmly it feels like home. He, who feels like home, who is warm and safe, who he Knows and Cares, his name a blessing in his mouth rather than the Curse He will become once day in others.

It's a tug, that he cannot ignore, a call of a Siren, of Himself and the Universe and the Truth and more. They are united, related, in a way that cannot be undone. Twins, he once thought, but maybe worse, just two souls so close that will never let go, so entwined together that one cannot tell where one begins and the other ends. Something where he stares at the mirror and watches Him stare back, no clear line to know where Techno begins nor ends. 

It’s Him and Techno, Techno and Him, and while he loves and cares for the Admins, for Simon, for Plancke, for NoxyD, for Slikey, for more, he also knows they are not on the same level as Him. He owes them everything, and yet, he trails after the figure that isn’t there, that talks to him with his Many eyes and Mouths and who looks every single time different, and yet, the same. The way that in his dreams he turns to Him, and watches him, eternal and long lasting and forever and ethereal, as he lives in the World that seems that moves at the fraction that his life does.

He is Techno’s, and Techno’s his, one and the same, two and divided, whole and fragmented. He gathers things for him, the rock he likes on the path, a feather of a pigeon that fell onto a potted plant, the half-unmade bracelet that he made out of almost withering flowers, the stick he found on a walk, anything and everything that he likes. He doesn’t know why he collects them, not really, there is no knowledge inside of his piglin brain that guides him, not an instinct that tells him what to pick, not a voice to help him choose.

And yet, he seeks them, little gifts, tributes as he likes to call them, which he lays on the small plate that Plancke gifted him, a small red porcelain dish which glints brightly when the lights hits it, and waits, until He appears again, faded and not here yet present enough that he can feel him around, who Looks at the meager offerings Techno has and grins, so widely and happy, terrifyingly mortal in his feelings, as he takes the trinkets with him before he disappears again.

And he grows, beneath the guiding hand of the Admins he considers family, and the Watchful Shadow that cares for him in a way those that are like Him are not meant to.

He grows from a tiny player, still fresh of the Magic that the Universe used to make him, to a gangly teenager and then, to a adult, the tusks that declare him capable proudly spotted in his face, the pink and wild mane that piglins sport running free through his skull and neck, as he walks through the Hypixel Server, another player more in the masses that lose themselves to the excitement of the crowds, and yet, still being More.

The Admin’s don’t truly understand him, even to this day, still incapable of truly seeing the God who he dedicates his life to, the call of the Hunt, of the Kin that wants him Home. And maybe, the admins will never understand, not in the way he does, but Techno has learned to come to terms with it. The Admins, his family dare he say, are also not cut from the same cloth that other Admin’s are, spread in the spectrum that Techno finds himself in. He sees it, too, in the ways their magic grows in ways that normal players shouldn’t, the ways they can See him too, and he can See them back, in how this server thrums and beats at the pace of Simon’s own soul, connected in ways others should find horrible.

Yet, they too are disconnected from him, in some way or another. They try to help, something Techno always finds himself grateful for, but they cannot find what he seeks. They see it, in the way his eyes look beyond, searching for his call, for how to serve what he belongs to. They try, and that is enough for Techno, as he bumbles around in search of It. Competitions thrill him, and make him grin, as he watches and Takes, rising in the ranks so fast, he cannot count in his hands how many times he has been accused of Cheats.

“Have you tried the Minigames?” Plancke says, as he works through his backlog of Code while Techno grumbles, facedown in the couch the Admin keeps in his office, “I’ll take that as a yes?”

The piglin nodded, burrowed under the cushions, and huffed annoyed.

“The PvP matches don’t catch your interest?” He said, “Hypixel has a lot of options, and I know you don’t like high populated parts but maybe they could work?”

“I’ve tried PvP,” Techno grumbled.

“Hide and Seek doesn’t count.”

“...I have not tried PvP.” Techno sat up, and sighed, “Any idea what could be a good start?”

“Well, from what you have told me, He likes trinkets, no? Maybe trophies could catch His interest too.”

Techno hummed, considering the idea. He doesn’t get to visit the other as much, everything so much faded and Dead, in the ways that a World succumbing to itself does. He doesn’t know if trophies could help, but nothing is lost with trying, no? He thanks Plancke absentminded as he leaves, leaving the Central, as he enters the crowded streets of the server, barely noticed as he weaves between the masses, until he finds the entrance towards the matches.

There’s a lot of options, and he hesitates, before joining one randomly, shaking off the small dizziness of teleporting as he watches his surroundings. A quick glance at his communicator showed him that he was participating in a Skywars match, which, to be honest, the name was fitting considering the map was a bunch of floating islands, where every competitor would collide and fight. He wouldn’t go as far as to say it was a “war”, but the name fitted, so he shrugged and went towards the chest nearby, once the barriers holding him disappeared and the round started.

It is easy to find the players, the after image of their code dancing behind his eyelids as he presses his advantage on, sharp sword as he goes after the first person he saw once the game started. He could see Code, but it wasn’t much, just in the corner of his eye, the image that wasn’t there, a trick of an imagination he would claim, if he wasn’t Marked as he is he is sure he would see nothing of the sorts. He knows what he sees, and he knows what to expect, years spent on the server getting used to this until he could manage to surpass it when it wanted to become a problem. He has learned the ins and outs of this years ago, he knows all there has to be to this, and yet, as he stands in the burst of particles that declares the Death of a Player, Techno finds himself dazed.

It is Something, he knows it, as he sees the lingering traces of what a Player once was attached to his hands, coating them not unlike blood coating the hands of the executioner. He breathes, deep, eyes wide as he feels the Change. Because it is, it is a Change in the way he hadn’t expected, in the way he had looked for. It is a tribute, in the rawest form, and Techno gives himself a few seconds to taste the feeling of a Soul passing through him before he continues on, sword acting as if an extension of himself, cutting down all of his enemies until he stands alone, gasping for breath, as the Console announces him the Winner of this round.

He can see Him, a flicker, a ghost, standing before his gasping form, beholding the first tribute he can finally truly give him. He is his God, and more, he knows, there are no words to describe truly what they are, tied in a way no mortal can comprehend. He has to say something, before he is taken away, before this tribute he has finally found is erased from his hands, as if never existing before. But the Name he has is Other, is His, and it is not one he can say, not freely, as he clamors it above the fading roar of the Victory. He is here, watching, and as Techno looks at him, he knows what to say, as he watches the hungry ever seeing eyes that stare at the blood dripping from his blade. 

“Blood for the blood god!” He cries out, and feels the weight of Acceptance settle over the title, “Blood for the blood god!”

This, he knows, is only the start.

Philza knows.

The end of this World is approaching, as it withers under the force of his Shape and trembles before the greediness of his Hunger. If he were to guess, it’s been less than a few months, yet here Time is warped, and Philza could easily say it’s been years. It certainly feels like it, as he gazes upon the buildings he has risen from the dirt, each one painstakingly built with careful hands, as he cradles the materials and tries to not crush them with his Strength. 

Building has taught him well, he likes to think. He may have built before, when these twisted hands were soft and pale, without the claws they sport, when he thinks he may have known what it meant to love as a mortal is ought to do. But building now, when he is Free, in the form that is not suitable for nowhere, for a being whose own existence is a curse upon any land? Building is an exercise, is a Must, to learn how to move again, how to hold, without destroying as he was prone to do at the beginning.

He is attached to the place, he thinks, but it’s time to move on, that he knows. Being Free, being Unshackled as he is right now, not bothering to hide the Otherness he is, corrupts the world. It is also draining, an itchiness that only soothes as he destroys, as he tears and watches His prey die, his murder of crows cackling as they swoop in to feast on the scraps. Maintaining this form has a high cost, that this World has seen paid in Magic and Blood, the grass underneath him having been fed by the blood he taints everything with.

His acolyte’s moniker is, in some way, appropriate, he muses. Blood God is a bit too much, but it fits, as much as it feels weird to accept. He is no God, never has, too sacrilegious, too Other, too Wild to be the proper form all Gods pride themselves in being, but there is no better word for it. Because he is not Mortal, and he is not God, and certainly, no Omniscient. 

“We move?” The crows ask, a sole voice shared among many, as they perch around him.

He nods, humming, as he reaches the portal that leads to the End. The dragon has been dead for a long time, having succumbed under his gaze, writhing black mass barely breathing as he fed on her energy, watching the purple essence taint the endstone underneath him. The Void sings when he enters, that song of Home that always welcomes him whenever he visits. 

He needs to dispose of this World, take the last of what it is offering, and use it to create a new place to live in. In any other circumstances, he would have claimed what is due and left through the entrance, but he wants to try something. He has grown in his Powers, and in his Presence, and he wants to see if he can raise another World without having to leave. He doesn’t wish to stop by the Hub, knowing deep inside of him that the onslaught of that many Players, that many Souls, that many Lives would have unleashed something no player ought to see. So, the best compromise is to be in the End, where the line between the World and the Universe is the thinnest, where it blurs and disappears, so he can leave the boundary without major repercussions.

“Hang tight,” He tells the crows, who laugh, their sharp talons embedded deep in his unhuman skin, “This might be a bit turbulent.”

The World sighs, as if sensing it, and opens wide, as his Hands carve through its bleeding being, tearing what he needs, the Magic willingly given thrumming within his being, as his eyes open wide, wings breaking through the skin to appear, dripping as if wax slowly melting. He holds this power given, this final gift, and reaches out, the Void parting around him. It feels weird, as if coaxing a wild feral thing out of hiding, creating where it's not meant to, but it’s not bad, just… something he feels is not meant to be.

Nonetheless, he manages, and with a last look at the already crumbling World around him, he steps, tugging, following, until he is standing, blinking the rays of the sun out of his dozen of eyes.

The crows cheer, instantly dispersing around, inspecting everything. Phil smiles, letting himself become smaller, eyes closing, wings retreating into the gap of his back, the dripping Void-Stars-Universe hiding away, eyes that are not Eyes dimming, until if one were to look, one would only find a player standing around, with blond hair and blue eyes, and nothing more. 

Nothing More.

Phil keeps himself close, hidden away by the shield which keeps everything alive, and gets to work. He could be Free once again, but what would be the point? It would only make this new World’s Death faster, as nothing is made to accomodate what he truly is without anything to serve as a barrier in between. And, he muses as he gathers wood, he wants to learn to pretend once again.

If not, how is he meant to find Technoblade again?

Time goes normal, he believes, when he finds himself a few days later in his house. It is small, made out of stone and fences, one that would not be able to fit him if he were to let go, but it is… candid, he thinks. There’s a messy bed in the middle, where he lays when time is too slow and he feels to bored, staring at the ceiling until Day approaches once more, and there’s an enchanting table on the corner, surrounded by brand new books, where he lets his blood drip onto what he needs as he yanks the magic of the World and wraps his tools in it.

It is… nice, Phil muses, it’s nice here. His crows have free range over the corpses of the cows he bleeds dry to feed on, keeping a steady supply of the animals fenced nearby, and it is easy to build, with smaller hands and keen eyes. Sure, sometimes he lets some features bleed in, when he needs a bit more help, but otherwise he stays small and frail, a disguise to keep this World safe. His crows keep their distance, mostly occupied with exploring their new home rather than keeping him company, staying not more than a few hours to say hi before leaving again. He builds his base, and a farm, and collects materials and wonders what project to start on, as his chest piles up and up, and he conquers this new End and the brand new Nether, until he knows how everything is meant to be, as if one of his own hidden feathers.

And then, one day, his crows come back en masse.

He is tilling the earth, replanting the wheat he had collected that day, when they surround him, overlapping over each other, stammering and barely able to talk. He tries to shoo them away, but they insist, tugging at his cloak, at his hat, at the elytra he had received from his conquest that is seamlessly tied to his back, until he sighs and, knowing they won't stop, asks what happened.

And they tell him, voice stammering as they try to talk over each other despite sharing the same voice, in a flurry of excited feathers and almost bloodthirsty eyes.

“The border!” They cry out, flapping their wings from their perch on Phil’s arm, “One part of the border is loose, there’s something—Someone there! New World, new prey!”

He narrows his eyes, and leans back.

“A New World?” He says, “I haven’t Felt anything.”

“It’s separate!” The crow sitting on his hat says, “A neighbour.”

“Different,” They tell him, “Like you but Not.”

Philza tilts his head. He is curious as to what could have caused such surprise on his flock, he can admit it, but he isn’t that invested, if he had to be honest. He has other projects to focus on, having recently decided on which one to start working on, and he doesn’t want to waste his time following tales that may just simply be lies his crows believe, illusions that the thin line between the edge of a World and the universe tends to create, specially in Hardcore.

“Alright, thanks for telling me,” He tells them, watching almost amused how the crows preen at the words, “I’ll check it out later.”

“Not now?”One of the birds asks, staring at him from the fence.

“Nah, not now.” He admits easily, “Maybe another time.”

The crows slump, defeated, and a few insist on going to check it out, but the majority seems to understand Phil won’t be looking at what they wish for some time.

“Come on,” He calls them, the crows following behind as he collects and puts the wheat and seeds away, collecting the shulkers filled with materials, “I finally decided what to work on.”

The crows perk up, and ask away, excited, as he travels towards the End.

Phil stands before his chests, and frowns.

He has been busy, working on Endlantis, as he had fondly named the project, and barely visits his base, but he is sure he had more fish before. His crows can’t open chests, and when they manage to take something out, they always tell him. Several stacks of dried salmon and tropical fish are missing, alongside a few corals. It actually has been going on for a while, but he attributed it to the crows, or simply forgetting, but this time the missing items are too much to simply ignore.

“Did you take anything?” He asks the crows, who shake their heads and deny it, and he believes them, knowing they speak the truth.

But, if they didn’t take them, then who did it?

He asks them so, hoping to get some idea, but most simply shrug, or as much as a crow can shrug. Most of the crows have been with him on Endlantis, and thus, have no idea even where to begin investigating. Phil is tempted to go back and continue working on the project, but he doesn’t like the idea of a thief loose on his World, and he is concerned if said thief won’t steal in the future more important things.

“What about the Border?” One of the “crows” suggested. The crow is not really of his flock, is too big and too strong, with bright eyes and glossy feathers that shimmer purple and red in the light, too unlike his other birds, with feathers so dark they seem to swallow the light, “Could it be from there?”

Phil hums, and considers it.

He had never investigated the Border in the end, and the crows had mostly forgotten about it, until now that is, chiming up with ideas of what it could be. It’s as good a time as any to investigate, and, even if it doesn’t lead to anything, at least he will find out what is up with the border. He nods, and gets to packing, emptying his inventory save for an ender chest, his tools, and a stack of blocks in case he needs to tower up or similar.

The crows caw excitedly, and he huffs amused, as he gets outside, letting his “elytra” expand, the connected shimmering fabric moving as if a limb more. It moves too naturally, and perhaps Phil had done a bit of cheating, his elytra more similar to living wings than anything, so he doesn’t have to waste rockets, but it is a change minor enough that the World doesn’t protest to it. He breathes in and out, and jumps into the air, his flock taking to air alongside him, chattering excitedly about the new adventure.

The flight is long, and Phil spends most of it thinking of new parts to implement into Endlantis, or listening to the chatter of the flock with distant amusement, barely paying attention to the almost constant talking outside of vaguely nodding when the crows ask for his attention. He feels tired, when they finally arrive, thoughts drifting away into nothingness and Shape fuzzy as he tries to remember to keep it up, and they waste a day at the border, Phil simply laying down on the dirt as he waits for his energy to replenish. He can’t sleep (Monsters don’t sleep, do they?), and so he simply lays down and waits, watching the clouds pass by until he feels present enough to truly see what lies ahead.

The Border is in front of him, shimmering with the tell tale Blue that confirms the confines of the endless World. But, as he examines it, he can now see what the crows had referred to when they had told him it was “loose”. There’s a part, where the blue dies down and becomes pale, barely there if not for a tiny flicker of light, where the edges seem blurry, not dissimilar to how he Looks when his disguise barely holds, his true Image shining through. And, when he presses his hand against the barrier, he watches blandly surprised his limb go through, not feeling any resistance.

He closes his eyes and presses both hands, trying to see if he can Hear what his flock talked about when they said something like him. There is something, laced against the edges of his world, an accidental path, a fortuite bridge. It’s another World, he realizes, one that grew almost too close to His, touching at the edges, causing the magic that keeps them separate to falter and flicker, allowing the connection he now feels.

Is this where the Thief is from? He frowns, and opens his eyes, watching his crows peck at the barrier curiously, hopping from side to side as if playing a game. He pauses, and thinks, before nodding decidedly and taking his sword out of his inventory, the enchanted blade that is coated in his Blood singing with the thrill of a possible hunt. The crows all perk up, and fly excitedly around him, a storm of feathers and eyes, as they wait for him to step forward. He lets some perch on him, talons digging so deep into his skin the cursed blood bubbles up, falling onto the floor with a chime.

“Let’s go,” He tells them, and steps through.

It feels cold, a surprise, considering Phil cannot feel temperature anymore, and he watches the flickering edge of his World, both His and Not, as he steps carefully forward, taking care to not press where it is too inestable. The crows, surprisingly, stay silent, simply watching with expectant eyes as Phil walks. He can feel it, the part where they link up, and breathes. It feels like Him, but Not, similar yet different. A touch of Something that is not Quite Other but no Player nonetheless.

The World that welcomes him is tiny, is the first thing that he realizes, barely big enough to even be called a World. There’s forest around, thick and vibrant with life, and he can see Players running around, chopping desperately, their Codes almost trembling with fear, as they hurry along to whatever task they need to complete. There’s bedrock in the sky, and he tilts his head to watch it, hidden in the shadow of the trees, small blobs of rock holding the Code of Players within, some kind of prison, he realizes. 

This place is Hardcore, or at least, to the Players here it is, he can sense it in the thinner border, in the way the Universe brushes against the World, Entropy circling like a vulture to a dying animal, hoping for the moment of weakness to swoop in and destroy it. But, it is not truly Hardcore, he thinks, the barrier that keeps the World safe is thin, but not thin enough. Why? He looks up again, and waits, elytra shut tightly against his back, like a predator waiting in the grass for prey to pass by.

And, then, he sees it.

It is another Player, but the Code is… Different. 

They are flying, so he guesses they must be in Creative, but something else is up. His Code is wild, too different to that of a normal player, something messing with it. It feels… Familiar, but not quite, like something he should know, similar enough to ring a bell but different enough to confuse. They feel similar, in some way, to Technoblade, a normal player with a touch of Something else. But the touch in this player is not of Him, is not Other, what could it be?

He steps forward, curious, until he is out of the shadows, standing just at the edge of the forest, standing brightly against the meadow around him. The Player that is in the air notices him, and gets closer, and Phil analyzes them. The hair is brown, curly and messy, and it’s wearing a soft yellow sweater, the color almost faded from use. The eyes are black and wide, and look at him with wonder and confusion.

“I don’t remember you joining,” They tell him, voice soft and melodic, “When did you join?”

“Who are you,” Phil says instead of introducing himself, watching the other, trying to discern what is up with the other. The eyes are not normal, he thinks, Players eyes should not be like that, bottomless pits willing to see everything burn.

“I’m Wilbur,” They introduce themself, looking more confused than before. “I’m the guy who’s in charge, how do you not know who I am?”

“No,” Phil shakes his head at the other, insisting “ Who are you?”

The Player rears back, frowning, floating on the air, as he examines him.

“Did my Gods invite you?” He says, “Are you a new gift, a new game?”

Oh, Phil thinks, that’s why he feels similar. The Player in front of him is blessed, same as his dear acolyte, but this one was  blessed by Gods.

Philza has never met a God before.

Philza hasn’t met a God before, not really.

He knows the Universe, with Its humming Magic and Home, and he knows Admins, trained with their magic enough until they are capable of Creating too, and he knows of Blessed Players, like Technoblade, and Wilbur, are. But, he has never met a God before. He had guessed they were similar to Him, not a Player, something Different, perhaps better? Not tainted with the sacrilegious feeling he has, not made of Other and More, like his true Shape is.

The Sky Gods, as Wilbur tells him, are the beings who reign over this World. They constantly shape it and reshape it as they see fit, for the Games they like to play and watch. They are Omniscient, Wilbur tells him, always watching, always Knowing what happened, what is happening and what will happen. They are benevolent, Wilbur tells him with a tight smile and a True that not rings of Honesty but of Fear, and like to be amused, to watch and laugh.

When Phil asks about his stuff, he learns with no surprise that Wilbur has it, the Player saying they had been a gift from the Sky Gods, a reminder.

“A reminder of what?” He asks, but Wilbur smiles that same tight smile and just continues on.

This is what Philza learns at the end of the day: The Sky Gods are always around, but not always paying attention; the Gods like to be entertained, and the Gods favor Wilbur.

This, is what Philza discovers: The Gods are fickle, and greedy, and volatile. The Gods do not care for their Blessed. The Gods are selfish and Cruel. The Gods, he discovers, are not deserving of the Name.

He leaves Wilbur behind, letting the Player return to the game he was instructed to lead, to watch the helpless players fight and cry and suffer and die, for the amusement of his Gods. His crows are flying above, watching with keen eyes, as he snaps his elytra open and flies upwards, softly landing on top of the bedrock prisons. He can sense the Gods now, and knows how they are Looking at Him right now, and he focuses on the Hum of Magic, listening in on the frequency that the Gods live on.

“You have been stealing from me,” He thinks, speaks,  at them, and feels their amusement like a fiery brand, “You took from me.”

“Nothing of Value,” They say, “Nothing Important.”

“Couldn’t you have made it yourself?”

He can feel the Sky Gods shrugging almost, and if he squints, he can see their blurry Shapes floating in front of him, uncaring, godly, fearless.

“Why?” They say, “Why the effort when we can simply reach out and take.”

“Because it was a gift to your Player,” He frowns, and ignores how his form longs to truly appear, sharp teeth forming behind his tight smile in response to his quickly rising indignation.

“Why the effort, when we can simply reach out and take,” They repeat, smugly, “You are young, fellow brother, you will understand one day.”

They think him a God, Phil realizes distantly, and barely hides the disgust. 

“Peace brother,” They say, “We will not take from you next time.”

From you, they say, they will not take from you.

They will continue to steal, to take, to not… to not pay to what is Due.

It is an offense, it is a crime, a sin, a Heresy. It is a rule, a norm, something natural, something that just is. Philza thinks of Technoblade, of his acolyte, who fervently preaches for him, who presents bloody tributes with so much love and care he thinks he could cry if he were able, thinks of his Technoblade, and feels something wicked burn and burn inside of him. 

Philza is not made for care, for emotions, for feelings, but he thinks if he could he would shout from the indignity of it all. He thinks of Technoblade, suffering on the same fate as the Sky God’s blessed, and burns, rage, fury, hunger all mixing and opening wide inside of him, threatening to swallow him whole. Philza does not care, but he puts his sword away, and lets the barrier fall, tasting the horror from the Gods like honey on his mouth.

“It’s been a while,” He says, dozens of eyes opening wide and staring at the Gods that preach lies, letting himself lean forward, his crows taking flight en masse, covering the sun in a dark writhing and living shadow,“Since I have fed.”

The blood of a God, he finds out, tastes sweeter than anything else.

When it is done, Phil finds himself more satisfied than he has ever been, the ichor of the gods blood still staining his mouth.

The players that once littered the ground are gone, probably escaping the second they had sensed Philza actually exist, and the World is quiet, the grass below watered in the stainless blood. His crows, loyal and bloodthirsty, are waiting for him, as he makes himself smaller, forcing his satisfied Form into the shape a World can manage. 

“Hm, that was a bit of a mess, huh,” He says, and hears his flock laugh.

“You killed them,” A voice breathes behind him, and Phil looks, watching Wilbur looking at the sky with a lost expression.

“I did,” He acknowledges, blinking at the Blessed Player.

Wilbur opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it.

Phil watches him, head tilted as he examines the other. This is the prophet of the Sky Gods , the Blessed, the Acolyte, and yet, he does not look mournful or sad nor angry. Wilbur looks tired, yes, but he looks relieved, almost happy,  and it feels wrong. But, he thinks reproaching himself, if the Gods had done as it was supposed to, it would not be like this. Gods, and anything of similar nature, should care for their Touched, for their priests, for their blessed. 

“What… What now?” Wilbur asks, in the silence of the death, and what now indeed.

Phil should leave, go back to his own world but… What would happen to Wilbur? He is not in charge of him, and yet, Phil is curious about the other. This is his first time seeing another Blessed Player, and he finds himself a bit invested in it, as one would when seeing a new show. He shouldn’t have intervened, what another God or similar does should not matter to him, but the idea of not caring for one’s Acolyte had made him furious, the mere idea that in another time this could have been Technoblade’s fate is enough to want him to taste their godly blood once again. 

He could bring Wilbur to his World, but distaste fills him at the idea. His World is his Home, is his and perhaps, also Technoblade’s, in the way Technoblade is his. But Wilbur is nothing of him, and even if he wanted, he could not claim him. He was already claimed by the Sky Gods, and will continue to do so, even if the Gods are dead. But, he caused this, and he doubts it will take time to find some place for Wilbur. Endlantis can wait forever for him, there is no rush to go back, and he wants to see what becomes of the other.

“Come on,” He says, and flies down, the other scrambling to follow him.

“Where are we going?” Wilbur asks, watching with curiosity the crows circling above.

“We’ll find out,” He says, and nods towards his birds, “Go home, I’ll follow soon.”

The crows shriek, but follow the order, and soon, disappear in the distance where they had come from. He turns to look at Wilbur, the player looking tense yet holding the same curiosity his eyes reflect, and extends his hand. It is human, all semblance of claws, of feathers, of protruding bones now gone, yet he is sure the other can still remember the shape it once held, if one were to guide by the slightly fearful look the mortal throws at the hand. But, in the end, Wilbur takes his hand, tight and fearful and hopeful and curious all written over his body.

There’s ashes of some innocence, still not tainted by the harsh hand that should have guided, in Wilbur’s eyes, burning behind the fear that any beaten dog knows. 

“Come on,” He says, and smiles at the other, “I’m sure we’ll find a good place for you.”

The playground of the Sky Gods crumbles around them as they leave, and Phil savours the magic, Wilbur’s hand warm on his hand.

And they travel onwards.

They visit server after server, Wilbur faithfully trailing behind him, as they see new people and meet new servers and make homes along the nooks of each place. He learns, as they travel, that Wilbur is fifteen, and lived with the Sky Gods for six long years. Phil learns that Wilbur had a fish named Milo, which he loved very much, that he wants to play the guitar, that he likes singing and his favorite disk is cat, that he thinks he once had a friend, that he dislikes loud noises and big crowds, that fighting is boring but he likes shooting with a bow, and many more little quirks that make Wilbur be Wil.

They travel a lot, jumping from server to server, as they try to find a place for Wil to call home. He knows, in the way he knows he is not truly Phil and he does not care for anything like anyone is capable of, that Wil is simply clinging to him, refusing the servers they visit out of a wish to stay with him. But Phil is not made for the softness of a mortal, for the needs of an adolescent, nor the wishes of a friend, and he wonders how much until Wil recognizes it too. The servers give them a wide berth, almost evading them, probably sensing the Otherness that is Phil and that Lives in Wilbur, so alike that for any mortal, they are the same. If Wil is hurt by this, he does not show it, and Phil does not ask. Nonetheless, they continue to travel on, Phil still, curious for his own good, and the kid too attached for his own.

It is travelling that they meet another kid, Wil bringing him to the camp in the afternoon, as Phil is busy trying to figure out which meat is edible and which not. The kid is tiny, barely reaching Phil’s elbows, with bright blue eyes and blond hair, so similar to Phil, that he wonders for a second if Wil brought him to camp because he found them similar. The child, because while he does not know much about normal Players he knows small players are children, is unflinchingly loud and noisy, constantly yelling and jumping around, practically energy itself.

His name is Tommy, he declares between loud bites of the meal, he is seven years old and he thinks Phil is stupid and Wilbur even more. Amused, Phil just tells him to chew carefully, and leans back, watching the kids interact. Tommy has the brightness of a star, he thinks, and if he squints, he can see his bright code, which twirls and burns. It fits him, he thinks a few hours later, after both kids had fallen asleep while talking. There is something about Tommy that reminds him of Technoblade, something in the way he talks, he breathes, that tells him this kid was made to be Claimed. He wonders if Tommy’s God, or Other, will burn as brightly as he does, and puts out the campfire, throwing a blanket around the shivering kids and settling down to keep guard.

Travelling with Tommy is different, he decides a few days later. Not bad, not good, just different. Travelling with only Wilbur was silent, was walking and walking until the kid refused to continue, no servers given the time of the day as the adolescent focused on talking more with Phil. Tommy, instead, brings chaos in a way he didn’t think was possible. He and Wilbur constantly bicker, fighting for the joy of it he finds out, the kid practically impossible to keep quiet, constantly talking and bringing Wil out of his silence, making them stop in more servers to look at shops and play around and have adventures for the sake of it.

Tommy and Wilbur compliment each other well, and Phil wonders what it is like to love one another like the children do, in a way he thinks only brothers are capable of; they both move alike, in a way only a Blessed Player could do, with an Otherness that makes them stand out brightly against the crowds, Tommy hasn’t been blessed, it is not Phil’s place for it, but he moves still the same as they do, probably having copied it unconsciously, or maybe his own Code, recognizing the future that awaits him and preparing accordingly.

They start travelling less and less, as Wil grows up and Tommy gets more and more confident, staying for longer periods on the different servers they frequent, each time the kids looking less and less excited about moving on, until one day, Wil asks if they can stay more time on this server, the adolescent, almost adult, saying he wanted to stay for his friend’s birthday. And, then Phil knows, it is time for him to leave.

The kids are attached to this place, a server dedicated to nothing in specific, with delimited places for everyone to build on, and they have friends here, a feat they hadn’t managed before. They are ready to be without him, and Phil thinks they realize this as well, if one were to go by the way the kids always race to check on him, as if expecting him to simply disappear one day. He makes preparations, making sure to leave enough money behind for the kids to live well for a few years, packing all the trinkets he wants to keep and selling everything he doesn’t want. 

He makes his preparations and waits, and waits, comfortable to simply stay until Wil’s birthday happens. It’s been some years since he visited his world, but what use is worrying about time when one has all the time in the world to exist? 

The party is small, Tommy and Wil wanting one private for only them to celebrate. Wil is eighteen, and yet, he still looks the same kid as when he had arrived at his old World, Tommy also the same despite how much the kid claims he is 10 years old and, in his words, an adult now practically. There are no gifts at the party, but the cake is soft and sweet, and the home feels cozy and good. He waits until it is late, Tommy having retired to bed already, eyes heavy with sleep, before he talks with Wilbur.

“You’re eighteen now,” He says, smiling, and Wil looks proud of it too, “You’re all grown up.”

“I guess,” Wil shrugs, and then hesitates, before saying, “You’re gonna leave, right?”

Phil nods, because he hasn’t lied before to Wilbur and doesn’t plan to now.

“I will.”

“... When?”

“Tomorrow morning, I think,” Phil admits, and shrugs, “It’s been a long time since I’ve gone Home.”

Wilbur frowns, but doesn’t say anything. They do not talk about emotions, the other probably sensing Phil would not have understood if he did so, and despite the clear love and care Wilbur holds for him, Phil always finds himself unsure of how to react. He cannot care, not truly, has not been human enough for it for years, but he still finds himself looking after Wil, something like kinship attaching them together, maybe the way Wil reminds him so strongly of his own Acolyte, maybe pity, maybe something else. But

 Tommy and Wilbur are not his, though, at the end of the day; and no matter what happens, even if he could wish otherwise, it will stay that way. 

“...Keep in touch?” Wil says, hesitantly.

Tommy and Wilbur are not his, but… They are Interesting enough.

“Sure,” He agrees, and that’s all there’s to say.

Wilbur nods, and leaves, the lights turning off as he goes. Phil stays there, in the darkness, and wonders if this was different, if he was different, if they were different, would it end the same.

By the time the morning comes, Philza has left a long time ago. 

Being back in his home feels… weird.

Phil, as much as he thought otherwise, had grown used to the constant chatter of Tommy in the background and the guitar of Wilbur playing on the afternoons, and finds himself now dearly missing it, the base as quiet and cold as it always has been. He had never seemed to notice before, but now, it is all he can think about, as he goes on with his projects, still turning around as if to talk with the kids he has left behind.

He… It’s not truly missing them, but close enough. They were interesting, and were part of the routine, a routine he had followed for years and now finds himself confused at the lack of it. But there is nothing to do about it, and so he presses on, until the expected noises fade into nothingness and his skin no longer burns with the expectation of a hug or any gentle touch, the yawning and hungry barrier that had kept him hidden from other slowly falling away, as there is no child to protect from its grasping claws.

He eats a lot more than ever before.

It’s not surprising, he thinks to himself as he watches the corpses of the cows fall to the floor, after all. The Sky Gods had fed him for ages, and after that, he had been too careful to truly eat until he was satisfied, not trusting his own control to not take as a meal the two kids he was in charge of, as there was no protection, no link between them that would make him stop if he started. He had survived on whispers and the stray mob that was too nearby, the slimy feeling of their life like a bland jelly after tasting the sweet ichor that a God's blood had.

He didn’t necessarily need to drink the blood, to be honest, but it was the easiest way. He needed life, drank it heavily, the Reaper that no one accounted for, and blood was the easiest way to feed without burning away the World at his true Presence. He could eat the code, true, but it is more… delicate work, which he has no patience for, with his hungry claws and empty teeth, so he prefers the more messy way, as it is simpler and that was all he wanted.

And so, Philza feeds and Feeds, until he has barely two cows left, and his whole flock is feasting on the corpses left behind, cawing one over another incessantly, a melody of Death he is acutely attuned to. He builds, and builds, watching with a wonder not dissimilar to a mortal one, as he creates whole biomes from scratch, ever growing structures, as he pours a fraction of himself into it, until Hosts breathe and gasp into existence, a godly extension of himself. One could call them his family, or perhaps minions, but Phil likes to think of them as pawns, playing the game of life he is quite content to watch play out. They fight, conquer, lose, and cry, and Phil watches it all, as he continues on building more and more.

Wilbur keeps in contact, through it all, his messages pinging clearly through the almost forgotten communicator Phil has, always with an update, with a new story to tell. He weaves stories of games, competitions, and more, and he reads it all, hungry for knowledge of the exterior, his Godly extensions around him all clamouring for a crumb of the stories, after all, what else can the Blaze Empress and the End King talk about, other than the wars they wage and the stories of the kid that their Creator once helped?

And it is one day, like any other, that Wilbur talks of a Competition.

It is a battle focused one, apparently, and it had gathered the most popular Players around, a celebrity show more than a competition if one was to guess by the competitors. Wilbur was participating, of course, having managed to land a position into the tournament with a little help around, all rambling messages filled with details about it. And, Wilbur asked, would Phil be interested in joining and being his teammate?

It has been… a long time since Phil had visited the outside, and he only realized so by the age of his buildings and how different Wilbur looked through the photos he sent. Time has passed, almost without his notice, and it left him curious, not quite confused but close enough to make him frown and stop to think about it. His body felt… solid, as that is the best way to describe, having long ago returned to normalcy once he had fed enough to keep his crows occupied for ages, and he was, not tired, but bored. 

He didn’t have many ideas for buildings, leaving them to stay idle while he watched the Pantheon hiss and fight between themselves, in hopes that their fights would make the flicker of inspiration come back to life. But a Competition could be what he was in need of. Something to kill, to not think too deeply, to watch the players he supposed once was part of. Maybe it would be the inspiration he was searching for, and maybe, just maybe, he could use the time to try to search for his prophet.

He hasn’t seen him since he left to find Wilbur, and he misses him, as much as something like Him can miss someone. He knows they will meet, they are bound, they must meet again, but he cannot help but want the time to be sooner, to see his Prophet, a part of Himself, a connection to Players, a connection to Himself.

Phil sighs, and waves away those thoughts, replying a simple confirmation back to Wilbur before going back to packing up the materials he has around, having started to clean the mess some time ago. 

The Monday Competition (or, as everyone else calls it: The Monday Massacres), is, despite the public expectation, a small server.

There’s a hub that leads to the individual maps, and there’s a few booths for the public to watch, but no more. Techno, who was raised and lives in Hypixel, looks over the place offered and tries to bury the contempt deep down. He had wanted to join the competition, having seen how many famous Players were in, but now, watching the small server barely function, he wonders if it is still too late to simply go back. Today starts the 10th week of the Competition, and Techno wonders if his teammate this time will be good.

No shade, but Techno is kind of tired of carrying all his teammates, he is not going to lie. Sure, maybe winning like 2 times in a row and killing everyone to the chants of his God from the public in the practice round was maybe overkill, but listen, that was not his fault. Did he encourage it? Sure, but not his fault, no sir.

Normally, he walks around, too nervous to stay in one spot while waiting for his teammate, but for some reason, instead of running around he chooses to sit down in a bench that looks over the Entrance Portal, semi-hidden by the decorative bushes and trees of the small plaza the server has. His communicator is still being filled with messages, mostly from Simon and the others, wishing him good luck this week, and he reads them with fondness swelling on his chest. 

He puts the comm away, and leans back, watching with half lidded eyes every competitor that comes through the Entrance Portal. He is partnered with someone new this week, someone called Phi-something?, and he watches, hoping to catch a glimpse of his partner. When he had asked around, most people didn’t know who his partner even was, mostly commenting that it was “a hermit from some hardcore single world”, which, okay that’s cool, but that didn’t tell him anything.

A few minutes pass, and Techno considers giving this up and going to annoy Skeppy, when he watches someone new enter the server.

It is as if everything was quietened, conversations dying for a second as everyone watched the newcomer, something like an instinct wariness telling them to be alert at this newcomer, that something is Not Right. Everyone watches the newcomer, a small man with bright blond hair and an almost black green robe, for a few seconds, before slowly going back to their own conversations, as nothing happens, and they silently attribute that wariness to some silliness, to a fluke.

Techno, instead, keeps still quiet, but not out of any sort of fear.

There’s a thrumming within him, like a chanting rising in volume, as he watches the other with wide eyes, a drum that sounds like home. There’s a quietness inside of him, akin to when he stands powerful at the top of his dying opponents with the prayers washing off him along the sacrificial blood, a quietness that he thought he could never hear again.

He doesn’t even realize he got up and is walking, until he is in front of the other, an almost reverent silence filling him inside. The other looks up, and smiles, a smile that tells of Horrors, of Blood, and that makes him feel so at Home.

“Hello, Technoblade.” He says, a bright voice that echoes the divine murmur that catches at the edges of his soul, “It’s good to see you again.”

And the name comes like a flash of a thunderstorm, a striking knowledge of past years, of a tall figure that keeps him protected in the loudness of a Public Hub, and Techno smiles, an invisible weight he never knew he carried, finally crumbling away.

“Hello Philza,” He says, and watches the shadow of his God wake up, peering up at him with wide and inhuman eyes, “It’s good to see you again, indeed.”

And Philza, wonderful, terrifying, inhuman and Divine Philza, laughs, and hugs him close, the whispers of Death and Blood a crooning song, as Techno relaxes and practically collapses against the other.

“You searched for a long time, huh?” Philza says, and smiles, a smile that is not a smile and yet, feels like it to him.

“To the end of Times, Philza”, he says and smiles back at the bright and too loud laughter he gets back.

“To the End of Times,” Philza says, and it sounds like a Promise and a Threat.

Phil, as he said he could call him and how he is mostly known like this, is the best and more than Techno could have ever thought of.

They move together, a shadow and its figure, as they go through the games with almost a single focused mind, always behind the other, a shield, a sword, a duo that finally met each other. Whenever Techno needs him, Phil is already there and doing it, a silent shadow that eradicates everything in its path.

And perhaps, the other competitors can sense it, as they freeze and watch Death come to them, a horn announcing their end to the server, their blood an offering on their sword; as they watch with wariness the duo while waiting for a new game to commence, the flickers of inhumanity that surrounds them a lullaby too strong for them to hear and comprehend, keeping their distance as their buried and long-dead instincts as something alive shrieks at them to run away and never come back.

The only ones who, perhaps, understand this, is Skeppy and Badboyhalo, who watch, not with wariness, but with a fondness and healthy dose of fear as Techno and Phil advance with single minded focus, keeping their names in bold yellow at the top of the scoreboards through every single round. The Demon is not inhuman enough, not to the level that Phil (and Techno to an extent) is, but he can see it in some way, the tether that strengthens with each second, the line of fate that connects them in such a way it reminds him of his own charge, in some sense.

The Demon and his player keep their distance, but nod and wave politely to the Other duo in the competition, as they lean back and watch the reconnection play out with the thunder of the deaths as background.

Philza and Technoblade are strong, even more together, but this is their first time seeing each other truly since ages, and it's almost no surprise to them that they still lose a few rounds. They are a lot more focused on the other, circling around their teammate as if they were planets pulled by each other's gravity, always on the edge of collapsing against each other or forming a new galaxy altogether.

They don’t talk a lot, or at least, not in the way other teams do in this competition. Their talks are a look, a frown, the flicker of an ear, the straightening of a back, the clench of a hand around a sword; a conversation loud and clear to them in a way only those tied the same as them could comprehend. The games are a blur of wins and losses, both always standing together, less than a breath away from the other, as if afraid the other would vanish into thin air after waiting for so long to reunite.

They win, as almost everyone expected, and Phil laughs as Techno grins, receiving the prize with amusement, the admins of this small server practically throwing the prize at them rather than touch them, fear screamed clear in their stances.

As when everything is said and done, and the server is practically abandoned, Technoblade and Philza stay a little behind.

“Never again,” Phil says, as he writes his communicator contact into the piglin’s, eyes bright with the Otherness trying to claw its way out.

“Never,” Techno breathes, a promise, smiling.

“Come,” Phil says, extending his hand, “I think you must visit for real this time.”

It’s not a question, but not an obligation, and yet, Techno rises to it with the fervor a sunflower follows the sun.

“Of course, always,” He says, “For my God, everything.”

“For my Prophet?” Phil smiles, the glamour of playerhood finally falling away into pieces, something no one can see and understand, “The Universe.”

And Technoblade sees his God, the inhuman smile, the multiple limbs, the eyes that glint with bloodlust and power, the claws that no thing alive should have, the skin melting, freezing, an antithesis to everything that is alive; and finally, finally, feels at peace.

A God and its Prophet walk out of a server, and it sounds like the origin of an Armageddon and Genesis altogether.

The DreamSMP is the best server there is, some would say.

It’s impossible to get into, if you are not invited, guarded by individuals with more power than anyone can imagine, and, rumours say, a God of its own to protect it. With vast lands and almost unlimited resources, the SMP is what everyone could expect, inhabited by players and non-players alike, with kingdoms, countries and cities spread over its immense map.

And yet, as Philza stands over the corpse of someone he knew, he can’t quite see the attractiveness of the place. 

Everything is partially, if not totally, destroyed; the land watered with blood and filled with infighting. The people here, he sees, are not extraordinary. Just mortals, who like to play God and can never quite understand the fragility of their minds. And, if he has to be honest, it is not difficult to be here. It had taken a prayer, a small single prayer, and Philza had been able to reach, claws that no thing should have slicing through the barriers like a hot knife through butter, until he stood in a dim hallway, watching the Prophet he once wished was his own crumble under the weight of his divine past, until he was ashes and dust and nothing once again.

He killed Wilbur, and he watches the blood that gathers under his shoes, a carpet of color covering the damp stones.

(To kill one’s prophet is a Sin, that is what Phil Knows, but to kill another’s is a prize all on its own, he Learns as the blood that stains the stone reaches towards him.

It is a prize, and yet, Philza wonders why he feels so weird.)

Phil jumps into the fray, as he hears the screams, and watches the Withers die under his blade, still stained with the blood of a Prophet, the Nether stars a warm weight in his hands as he silently collects them. He watches, with guarded and silent eyes, the people that surround him. These are players, hardened by tragedy and war, with blood coating every single one of their hands, frighteningly mortal and fragile in the way a nuke is.

He leaves, weaving through the shocked figures with none the wiser, following the trail that tugs at his soul. He finds Technoblade pacing, blood still splattered on the pink fur, tail lashing out wildly as the piglin growls, frustration and anger clinging to every one of his hairs. The armor is scratched to hell and back, soot and dust staining everything it touched, but it still stood whole, and when Phil closed his eyes and watched, he knew it had protected the other from any injury.

He steps forward, and smiles at the sword that is instantly pointed at his face, the weariness and surprise on Techno’s face falling instantly away to fondness and happiness when he registered who stood in front of him.

“Hey, Phil”, Techno said smiling, storing away his weapon without any hesitation, despite the fact he could clearly see the blood that the blond was covered in, “Didn’t know you would come.”

“I didn’t either, but I am not one to ignore prayers,” Phil answered, shrugging and smiling at the hug the piglin gave him, “You look like shit.”

Techno laughs.

“That’s what war does to you,” He smiles, tail now swinging softly behind him, “Who called?”

“Wilbur.”

The piglin tilts his head confused.

“You know Wilbur?” He said, and Phil blinked, nodding, “I thought Wil was someone else’s.”

“Oh, no, he is!” Phil hurried to clarify, “He was the Sky God’s.”

“I’m sensing a but…?”

“Uhm,” Phil smiled hesitantly, “Let’s say I found him and was a bit… angry.”

Techno snorts, but accepts the explanation as it is, probably already guessing the rest. 

They talk for a while more, as Phil accompanies his Priest to his base, and helps him pack everything, while they catch up. They had talked, of course, through messages and calls, and occasionally, through the crows (Not the best method, as the bastards liked to play telephone with the messages practically, but it was entertaining and a good change from monotony), but it was nothing like being face to face, the tether that connected them finally soft, not tugging anymore, being able to enjoy the presence of practically the only one who could understand them, in a way no one could, or will.

Phil was tempted, of course, to go with Techno, and it had been difficult to resist when Techno himself had invited him, but he knew the other. Techno was, despite trying to hide it, tired. He could see it, the code barely flaring alive when he examined it, weapons damaged, armor scratched and more scars in him than he had last seen him with. Phil adored his priest, His in a way no other could ever understand marked by his hand irrevocable His, his Priest, his Prophet; but he also knew he wasn’t the best with mortals. He constantly forgets what a Player needs, and he knew that in these moments, Techno only needed himself, at least, for some time.

Plus, he would not lie, he wanted to see the others. To see what had caused that spark of Priesthood that Wilbur had buried to come to the surface, to see what had caused the crumble of the prophet Phil had once wondered if he could take.

And, as the weeks go by, he is not disappointed.

The people here are so different to what Phil had come to expect from a mortal. They are bright, and so unafraid, Phil can help but follow their paths with keen eyes, different, as if every one of them had been marked in some way, not a touch but as if a graze of Other in them. They still are cautious around him, either from the fact that he killed one of the leaders of this place or if they perhaps sense that he is no kind old man as he presents himself, a predator hiding in the grass between its prey.

They can see it, in the way he doesn’t walk quite like they do, in the crowds with too intelligent eyes, the dark robes that appear to be alive on their own, without any of the holiness one could expect from a God. Not human enough, not God enough, a mystery, a horror of both.

And yet, he thinks fondly, and yet, they still talk with him, call to him, bring materials and gifts and spend afternoons with him. They invite him into their new nation, carved from the corpse of the country it stood here before, and close rank whenever the “Admin” of the server passes by. They had noticed, in their own peculiar way, the fact that apparently, he and Dream didn’t quite get along, and had risen, protective and possessive, to keep guard whenever the man dared to come near by; which makes Phil laugh with delight at the idea of them protecting him, and yet, the greedy possessiveness inside of him considers with brand new eyes the people around him.

The truth is that, a few weeks after Phil had killed the Prophet that once was perhaps his, Dream had appeared. The Admin hadn’t invited him, had in fact, barred entry to him to the server, and had come wary to ask how he had gotten in.

(After Techno had joined the server, the piglin had managed to set up a meeting between Dream and Phil, in hopes that the blond could join the server. Phil had gone to the meeting, and it seemed to have gone well. But Dream was a survivor, before an admin, and he had gotten this far listening to his instincts, so when something inside had told him to never let this man get near him and his server, he had listened.)

Phil had smiled and hadn’t answered his questions, and if Dream now always carries a weapon in hand whenever he sees the Hardcore Player, well, nobody has noticed this far.

New L’manberg grows bigger and bigger, and Phil rests inside of its heart, the leviathan hibernating under the rafts of the newborn city, ever waiting, ever hungry.

Phil likes, in some way, New L’manberg. They are kind, and if Phil spends afternoons trailing after Tommy, the last vestige of Wilbur in this World besides the crow with brown feathers that always hangs on his shoulder, it is something nobody comments on. 

(Once, only once, had Tommy asked why Phil killed Wilbur, when the line between day and night was thin, and the fog that covered the ground laid thick and heavy on every soul.

“He asked me,” Phil had said.

“But… But why. ” Tommy had said, almost begging for a reason to believe his brother hadn’t died long long ago before Phil had put a sword between his ribs and watched him bleed out.

And Phil, the Other, the Not Mortal, Not God, had sighed.

“Because he prayed for it,” Phil says, and it explains everything, and nothing at all, “He prayed to me.”

And Tommy, who was half raised by the entity known as Phil, understands it, and quietly nods.

“You are not mine,” It says, the disguise falling away for a second, the millions of eyes gazing upon him “But if you pray to me, I’ll come.”

And to a teenager who has lost everything, has everything, and feels so, so alone, that is a promise he will not forget.)

Phil meets a lot of people he thinks he would like, if he could.

He meets Niki, a young woman with a face that once spoke of kindness and eyes that no longer feel, who bakes a lot and spends most afternoons talking with a kind sheep, Captain Puffy. He meets Fundy, Wilbur’s son, with fox eyes that are too keen and a fur that does not look real, who sticks to his side almost everyday. He meets Quackity, a hybrid with a big heart and bigger ambitions, who constantly seems stuck between joking to hide his feelings or feeling so much that he fractures into a million pieces.

He meets New L’manburg, helps build it with his hands, and watches it rise and rise and rise, as if to touch the sky. He meets with Techno and laughs, he helps Ranboo, a hybrid who is his kin on inhumanness, alike in ways only the Universe can comprehend, he listens to Tubbo talk, builds a house, and watches the lines of fey, of fate lay thick in twisting branches that Phil can’t help but follow.

He watches the country grow past the corpse it is installed in, watches it carve and grow, watches it become something Else. Watch it, as it is accosted and cornered, prodded with electricity until it is forced to give up its residents, until it is domesticated with blows and hits, and slowly, slowly, wilt, under the gaze of a Admin who once was human.

And, he watches the city grow fearful, and the government grow tense, and posters cover the streets, and wood, metal, slime and redstone come together in the middle of the city. And he waits, while his crows gather and gather and gather, until every tree is covered in eyes who wait gleefully for the grand finale.

And the Leviathan that lives in New L’manberg opens its snapping maws, growing closer and closer as Doom approaches them all.

Phil watches, with blank eyes, the people gathered in front of his door.

“Can you let us in?” Tubbo asks, as the rain continues to pour heavily on top of them.

Phil says nothing for one too many seconds before, silently, opening his door wider, and letting the group in. Quackity watches him silently, as he stands close to the fireplace and tries not to shiver from the cold, and hopes his uneasiness doesn’t show in his face. The older man hadn’t reacted to their outfits, barely even glancing at them, and Quackity doesn’t know why, but the fact that Phil had barely reacted at the blood covering them makes him want to close his hand around his axe.

The house is warm, with chests lining the bottom of the walls, a few brewing stands near the window and such. There is no bed, as far as he can see, and when he looks up, he tries not to gulp at the few dozen crows that are sitting on the rafter of the roof, silently watching them. He swears for a second, a tiny second, that there are more eyes than normal on the crows, but he tears his gaze away and forces himself not to think about it.

The group watches each other warily, as if unsure who should talk, while Phil leaves them be and starts gathering the books thrown around and putting them back on the bookcases in the corner. Quackity wonders, for a second, why Phil has so many books about mythology, before he catches the glances the others are throwing at him. He sighs, and steps forward, trying not to show how he is kind of unnerved at this whole thing.

“Phil, we have a request for you.”

The other humms, the noise scratching angrily at his ears, like nails on a board, and he grimaces, continuing on.

“We are looking for Technoblade,” He says, and ignores how he can see Fundy’s fur bristling at the way Phil turns around to look at them, interest seemingly catched, “You shouldn’t ask—”

“Why.” He says, and Quackity falters. Thankfully, Tubbo steps forward, looking a bit skittish.

“That’s not important. Phil, we need you to tell us where Technoblade is.”

Phil stays silent, and Quackity swears he can hear the crows above giggling at them, but that’s stupid, crows don’t laugh, right?

“Grandpa, Phil, please, we know that you meet up with Technoblade. Just, just tell us where he is.”

“It’s a presidential order, and as a citizen of New L’manberg you should comply.” He adds, when the blond still does not answer.

“I’m not gonna tell you,” Phil says, and he looks so nonchalant, so uncaring of them, it makes Quackity angry, as if he is just a stupid kid doing nothing important.

“We are seeking justice, as a citizen of this country you should help us!” He snaps.

Tubbo, Ranboo and Fundy start raising their voices, trying to make Phil comply, but it’s all in vain. The blond point blank refuses to tell them where Technoblade is, and goes as far as to laugh at them when they say they will try Technoblade for his crimes. 

And Quackity, okay, listen, Quackity is a rational man. 

He knows the importance of politics, he knows how to talk his way out of arguments, he knows how to swing an axe, and he knows he will get Technoblade killed, even if it costs this whole server all of their lives. But, the thing is, Quackity is scared. There is something wrong here, something seriously, seriously wrong, in the way Phil talks, in the way Phil moves, as if this isn’t his body, as if he isn’t alive, as if it's just a puppet that doesn’t know how to move and talk like a human. And the longer they stay here, the stronger and stronger and stronger his fear grows, as if there is water going higher and higher and higher, threatening to drown him.

So, when Phil moves, Quackity reacts before he can register it, the wood handle of the axe smashing the back of the head of the other, causing the older player to collapse on the floor like a sack of potatoes. And then, as Phil falls, something happens.

Ranboo and Fundy move fast, sensing what it’s gonna happen, before it actually does, Nether’s knows why. Ranboo practically throws himself, hands covering Tubbo’s eyes and using his larger frame to keep the president covered, eyes shut tightly and away from Phil. And Fundy tries, he lunges, chest filled with a type of fear no one could hope to describe, a warning stuck on his throat as he tries to get to Quackity. But it’s too late, just for a few seconds, it’s too late.

Quackity Sees It, Quackity sees It, and he screams.

He screams, high and terrified, scrambling away, unable to tear his eyes away from the thing that once was Phil. It’s just a second, just a single second, but it’s enough to make Quackity fear. He sees, for a second, just a single second, how Phil flickers, the disguise that keeps Philza locked away faltering for less than a tick, showing what It really looks like.  It’s horrifying, in its full glory, and Quackity screams and screams, as he scrambles back, panic beating in his heart like running a race. The sound It makes as it falls against the floor is horrible, mind-numbing, and it fills him with pain, as he grabs his ears and sobs, trying to get that horrible horrible noise out of his head, the crows laughing sharp and terribly above their heads.

Fundy has his eyes closed, same as Ranboo, but he grabs his sleeve, and tries to tug him away. 

But Fundy is not, Fundy is not truly a Player too, Quackity can see it now, the fur that is not fur, a mouth just waiting to snap around his neck and devour him, and he screeches, stumbling back, hoping to get away. 

“Get away, get away, get away, get away,” He babbles, almost rocking, eyes wide and pupils blown out, trembling on the floor, “Get away, get away, get away!”

“Quackity!” Fundy tries to distract him, sensing that the danger has passed, but whenever he takes a step forward, the other panics more and more. “Quackity, it’s done!”

“Get away!” He screeches, trembling so much, Fundy is scared he will pass out, “Get the fuck away!”

Ranboo is the same, whatever Quackity can See for now is too blinding, too Much for him, hissing and sobbing to make the others stay away.

“Quackity!” Tubbo exclaims, tearing himself out of Ranboo’s grasp and running forward, grasping Quackity’s trembling head, “Quackity, it’s me, it’s only me!”

The vice president of New L’manberg seems to recognize him, and keens , leaning forward into Tubbo’s hands.

“Tubbo, Tubbo no no no,” Quackity whispers, “I—”

“I know, I know!” Tubbo says, heart thumping with a fear he doesn’t know where it came from, “Breathe, slowly, you’re having a panic attack.”

“We need to get out,” Quackity says, standing up on weak legs, “We—We need to get away.”

“But, Quackity, wha—”

“Now!” He demands, and tugs Tubbo away, walking as far away from Phil as he can, “Search the chests for anything, and we go now!”

Fundy hesitates, but gets to it fast, Ranboo helping after watching the other two leave. They find, hidden in the chests, a dusty compass, that is clearly not used and is enchanted. In the back, it says “Techno’s”, and nothing more. They grab it, hoping it is useful, and leave, running away from the mad laughter of the crows in the rafters that seem to follow them outside.

Quackity refuses to answer anything they ask him, still twitching and clearly shaken and eyes very bloodshot and red, simply insisting them to hurry up, leaving the country so fast it seems as if he’s running away or escaping from something. Ranboo and Fundy don’t have an explanation to Tubbo about what happened, barely able to understand themselves why they had reacted, something in their bodies screaming about danger before they could even register it.

The butcher army leaves, as if hoping to leave behind whatever had happened.

And while the butcher army follows the old dusty compass, the citizens of New L’manberg raise their heads.

The citizens, the non players, all across the SMP pause, as if sensing something is wrong. It is, but they don’t know what or where, but they react all the same. The first ones are those citizens who have mobs or animals in them, leaving their houses, jobs, and start leaving en masse, as if hypnotized rats following a haunting music. The first ones to leave are those who are survivors, who are religious, who pray, who cry, who know when to listen to those old buried instincts to live another day.

The stupidly brave ones return to their houses, packing clothes and food, before quickly leaving in silence. But the smart ones are those who simply leave, following their feet out of New L’manberg and far far away, something in their code itself telling them to get away, of a danger that was slumbering and has awoken.

One by one, the citizens leave and leave, smart enough to follow the signals that others want to ignore.

The ones who stay, despite stupid enough to stay, are wise. 

They close their doors, close their shops and call their family. They gather their food and cover the windows, with curtains or boards or whatever they have at hand. They put everything in the center of the house, the farthest away from any window or door, and keep the kids there.

The non players prepare, guided by the instincts and Magic that they come from, and quietly, firmly, ignore the hundred of crows slowly gathering in every roof, every tree, every path, with dark feathers covered in thousands of eyes, that caw in laughter with one single voice.

The majority of the players of the server ignore the small voice telling them to hide, and foolishly continue on.

And as the butcher army captures Technoblade, the true monster in the server opens Its Eyes.

Phil wakes up, stumbling, confused, on the floor of the house he built.

He feels… Weird, he thinks, blinking his four eyes in confusion. He… Why is he on the floor? He needs to get up. He pauses, thinking. Ah, Hands, he needs hands to get up, right? They leave deep gouges on the wooden boards, but Phil finally gets up.

The room is messy, he thinks, chests wide open, showing their contents to the air. He frowns, and tries to take a step forward, almost falling to the floor when his hooves bucle underneath him. He stares at his hooves, did… Did he have those? He thinks this is not the right shape, but right now, the knowledge about how he is supposed to appear in front of  Players is almost non-existent in his head. There’s a noise outside, and he follows it blindly, the door crumbling under his finger at the first touch.

It’s his crows, his flock, chanting at the same time, a single voice echoed in a million bodies, demanding to be entertained, for the spruce paths that form New L’manberg to be watered in holy blood. Blood? Phil takes a step forward, interested, hunger making the Player body that was supposed to keep him contained crack under the weight of it. What Blood will be spilled, he wonders, and he stares down, where he can see the Players gathered.

And suddenly, everything comes to focus, as he stares at the caged form of his Prophet.

He is caged, shackled with iron that He can clearly smell is cutting into his skin. His Prophet is standing tall, but He can see the flicker of doubt, of slight fear curled on his spine. This is His Prophet, His Priest, His, being treated as if mere cattle, as if a low criminal, as if His was in the same level as other Players. He steps forward, and he sees His, looks up, sees Him, and relaxes, as if now everything will be okay.

There’s a scuffle going on right now, but Philza does not look away, His Priest doing the same. A tether, Two of a Whole, Universe to Universe, Magic and Code. Someone spots Him, He thinks, they are saying something, but He cannot hear them, not anymore. He takes another step, to free Him perhaps, to destroy the cage that dares to take away what is His, but something moves. 

Something moves, and His Priest is crushed, and is Dead, and is Reborn and Whole but Not, in a shower of magic, gold and green, and life and death, and…

And Philza has enough.

This is His Priest, this is His.

His to Kill, to Have, to Maim, to Keep, to Want.

Technoblade is His, and the entity known as Philza rips open his flesh container and Opens his Eyes.

Punz jumps into the Plaza, and a fight ensues.

Fundy can barely keep his eyes open, as he ducks and weaves, evading the blade of the enchanted netherite axe, trying to drive the mercenary away. Tubbo is the same, armed with a diamond axe and shield, destroying the TNT that is laid down before it can be blown up, Ranboo close behind to cover his blind spots. Quackity is busy too, keeping an eye on Dream, who he can see at the edge of his eyes in the distance, with the damned horse behind him, and another in Technoblade, shielding up in case Punz tries to get close and free the piglin.

Despite being four versus one, Punz is clearly winning, and Quackity yelps, hiding behind his shield when a blow of an axe grazes way too close for comfort.

“Pull the lever, big Q!” Tubbo yells, distracting the mercenary por one second, while the shapeshifter throws himself onto the lever, pulling with all his might.

Punz takes a step forwards to him, to fight him perhaps or stop it?, but the anvil is faster, and the clang of metal against the stand echoes loudly against the whole country. They grin, and have a second to almost start cheering when two things happen. First, Technoblade is crushed under the anvil in a splatter of blood and a spark of green and gold covers him, leaving behind the piglin now alive and whole, not bleeding anymore and out of his chains.

Second, it's a thick and loud dripping sound.

It’s messy and horrifying, as if something that was barely liquid was dripping, and everyone freezes once they see what causes it.

There, on the door of Phil’s house, Something Stands.

It could have been Phil, once, someone thinks in the deadly silence. His skin is… is melting, the color waxy and pale, whole chunks of it falling away and crumbling onto the floor as if it were some slime. The hair bobs up and down, as if alive, and they watch in silence how the dark green robe seems to fuse with the skin, moving and twisting, as if covering wriggling worms, also dripping like the skin, and yet, never staining the floor. The eyes are the worst, bleeding from the corners as they start to expand and expand, transforming into four, six, ten, and more dozens of eyes, all fixated on them.

Wings appear, a mix between flesh and elytra, covered in black tar feathers, extending far and far and far, covering the whole world in its shade it seemed, million eyes wide open on it’s robe, that is now skin but its not, a halo of bright light, of dark light, a broken halo surrounding him, as the thing that once pretended to be a Player called Phil looks at them. They stumble away, weapons falling off their hands, as a tearing sound resonates, limbs clawing their way out of the body that maybe, once, was Phil’s, claws dark and shiny on its newly created limbs that once could have been something else. 

The figure drips and melts and stays whole, and continues to change and twist and wither, ever changing, slowly becoming darker and brighter, a horror that, for a second, just a second, they will be able to understand, cursed for one second to understand the once Player that stands in front of them, before going back to their normal Player senses, no longer able to comprehend what they once witnessed. 

And there's this growing heartbeat, louder and louder, as the light breaches the server, as It—She—He—They—It—He stands before them, a mirage of an illusion before the curtain is pulled, before their eyes can truly see what nightmare this reality is. It is dead, and alive, and dying, and being born, and none at all, everything and yet, nothing, something not descriptable, not understandable.

"Are... Are you alive?" Fundy asks, horror and wonder and despair and comfort and every emotion someone can contain, the silver of Truth shining through his orange fur, as the fox gazes at What Is and What Will be, at Death and Angel, at the last Image, the Last Known. 

The Angel, the Blood God, tilts its head, and looks at them. Technoblade, in his cage, laughs and laughs and laughs, and Looks directly into the Flame that will never Hurt Him, watching his God finally Be.

"I think I died a long time ago," Philza says. 

And the shine of its true self is so damningly bright, in all it’s unholiness and Otherness, and it calls to them, a laughing, mocking voice, to look into the eyes of the Universe and Weep, for they are mortal and frail, and they will fall to the laugh of the prophet and the shine of the God-Killer. Someone tries to run, they think, someone who was once Green and Powerful, and is Now erased, a mere bug before Its power, his blood feeding the Truth that exists among themselves.

New L'manberg is gone, not with a whisper nor a whimper nor a scream, but with the shuddering breath of the sheep looking at the weapon the Butcher uses on it.

And in the far distance, in the Land of those Abandoned and the Snow, a gold haired boy looks back to the Second Sun shining in the horizon of his Home, and remembering a promise once made, prays.