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Flamefrags adjusted the strap of his satchel, checking the supplies he'd just bartered for—potions, golden apples, ender pearls. The heat radiating from his skin made the air shimmer around him. He'd been careful, kept his head down, didn't draw attention to himself.
He had lent his maxed-out horse to Lomedy for a day, and hence he was on foot.
His foot hit the pressure plate before he even saw it.
"Oh, bro, you've gotta be—"
The ground erupted beneath him. Pistons fired, cobweeb shooters activated, and suddenly Flame was suspended in a tangle of sticky web, arms pinned to his sides. A trap. A goddamn trap. Well, water bucketing was out of the question.
"Well, well, well." Twenty figures emerged from nowhere, weapons drawn, faces hidden behind masks and hoods. Bandits. "Look what we caught."
"Bro, this is so lame," Flame snarled, flames already sparking along his fingertips. The webs were strong, but they weren't fireproof. "A trap? Really? What is this, amateur hour?"
"Amateur enough to catch you," one of them laughed, twirling a diamond sword.
Flame's eyes narrowed. The heat around him intensified, flames licking up his arms. The webs began to singe, smoke curling into the air. "Yeah, well, you're about to regret that, bro."
The webs caught fire, burning away in seconds. Flame dropped to the ground, immediately pulling out his sword. They scattered, but he was already moving, using their surprise against them.
"Not so easy now, is it?" Flame taunted, ducking under a sword swing and retaliating with a stab that caught the attacker square in the chest. They went down hard. "Bro, you really thought some webs would hold me?"
He was winning. Actually winning. His flames were roaring now, infused with his sword.
"Come on!" Flame shouted, grinning despite the chaos. "Is that all you got?"
The bandits were panicking now, their formation broken. Flame pressed his advantage, flames whirling around him in a controlled inferno.
He didn't see the bandit on the ground.
The one he'd knocked down earlier—barely conscious, acting on pure desperation. Their blade lashed out in a wild, last-ditch swing as Flame moved past them.
Pure. Dumb. Luck.
The blade sank into Flame's left leg, just above the knee.
Flame felt the hot, sharp agony as his momentum carried him forward and the blade went deeper. He stumbled, his flames flickering and sputtering as pain exploded through his entire body. It had somehow jabbed a vital muscle to his calf.
"Got him!" someone shouted.
And just like that, the advantage was gone. Flame tried to keep his footing, tried to summon more fire, but his leg buckled beneath him. He hit the cobblestone hard, his satchel spilling its contents.
The bandits closed in immediately, sensing blood.
"Not so tough now, are you?"
A kick to his ribs. Flame tried to move away, but another boot caught his shoulder. His leg was bleeding badly, his energy draining fast.
"Should've just handed over the supplies," one of them sneered, raising a sword.
Flame tried to move, tried to summon fire, but his vision was swimming and his leg was screaming and there were too many of them—
The bandit's sword raised high, preparing for the final blow.
It never fell.
A mace—radiating an aura of pure energy—smashed into the bandit's chest, and a death message automatically flashed, loot dropping on the floor.
"How pathetic," a voice drawled, dripping with disdain. "Twenty against one, and you still need traps? I'd be embarrassed if I were you.”
Flame's blurring vision tried to focus on the newcomer, with a presence that made the air itself feel unstable, like reality was bending around them. Black, sharp horns were visible, and their eyes—swirling with energy—gleamed with violent delight.
"Wemmbu?" Flame groaned, clutching his bleeding leg. "Oh, bro, anyone but you—"
"Oh, how delightful. You're welcome, by the way." Wemmbu's mace swung in a devastating arc, and three more bandits went down in a shower of agonized screams, followed by death messages. “Though watching you struggle was quite entertaining. Should I have waited longer? You really sucked against these chunguses."
"I had it under control!" Flame spat, even as blood pooled beneath his leg.
"Yes, clearly." Wemmbu moved through the remaining bandits like a force of nature. "Lying in a puddle of your own blood, surrounded by enemies. The very picture of control."
"Bro, I was doing fine until that chungus stabbed my leg out of pure luck.”
Wemmbu didn't even look as he backhanded a bandit who tried to flank him. "Really, Flamefrags, I expected better. This is just sad."
A bandit tried to run. Wemmbu's mace caught him in the back, sending him sprawling.
"You should all run," Wemmbu called out to the remaining bandits, voice cheerful in a way that promised nothing good. "I'm giving you a three-second head start. One... two..."
They ran.
"Boring," Wemmbu sighed, then turned to Flame with a look of supreme disdain. "And you. What were you thinking?"
"Was just restocking, bro," Flame managed through gritted teeth. Everything hurt. Everything was spinning. "Not my fault they jumped me—"
"It's absolutely your fault for walking into their trap like a blind torch." Wemmbu crouched down, eyeing Flame's leg with clinical detachment. "That's deep. You're going to bleed out."
"Then help me, you asshole!"
"Why should I? We're rivals, remember? This would be the perfect opportunity to let natural selection take its course." But Wemmbu was already pulling out supplies, moving with practiced efficiency. "Though I suppose watching you die to dishonorable bandits would be unsatisfying. If you're going to die, it should be to me."
"Bro, you're literally the worst—" Flame tried to push himself up, made it approximately two inches off the ground, and his vision went white with pain. "Oh, that's not good—"
"Stop moving, you absolute idiot." Wemmbu grabbed him, and Flame was too weak to fight as he was lifted. "If you bleed out on me, I'm going to be very annoyed."
"Good thing I care so much about your feelings," Flame slurred, but his words were barely coherent now. The blood loss was catching up to him fast. The world was going fuzzy at the edges, darkness creeping in.
They were moving. Fast. Probably using an elytra.
"Stay awake," Wemmbu's voice cut through the fog, sharp with something that almost sounded like concern. Almost. "Flamefrags. Don't you dare pass out."
"Bro, I'm not... I'm totally fine..." Flame's eyes were so heavy. "Just gonna... close them for a second..."
"If you die on me after I bothered saving you, I'll resurrect you just to kill you myself—"
But the darkness swallowed him whole.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the feeling that someone had used his body as a pincushion and then set it on fire.
Flame groaned, trying to move, and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his leg and torso.
"Finally. I was beginning to think you'd sleep forever."
His eyes snapped open. The End dimension. He recognized the distinctive yet subtle hum of End energy in the air. He was lying in a bed—an actual bed—in what looked like a well-furnished room.
And sitting at the edge of the bed, one hand resting on Flame's forehead, was Wemmbu.
"Bro, did you seriously bring me to Minutetech’s base?" Flame tried to sit up. His body immediately vetoed that decision. "Why—ow, ow—"
"Because watching you bleed out in the open would have been messy and drawn attention," Wemmbu said, removing his hand. "You've been unconscious for six hours. The leg wound was deep and got infected. You're running a fever."
"I feel fine," Flame lied, even as his body trembled with chills.
"You feel fine," Wemmbu repeated flatly. "You have a stab wound through your leg, seven lacerations from being beaten, two cracked ribs, and a fever. But sure. Fine."
"Bro, why do you even care? You hate me."
"I don't hate you. I just think you're reckless, impulsive, and apparently incapable of detecting basic traps." Wemmbu stood, moving to a table where various potions and supplies were laid out. "And you're more entertaining alive than dead."
"So you saved me for your own amusement. Great. That's great, bro."
"Would you prefer I left you there?" Wemmbu returned with a bowl of soup. "Because I can still arrange that."
"You already dragged me to the End dimension, so that threat's kinda empty—"
"Eat this." Wemmbu held up the bowl.
Flame stared at him. "Bro, I can feed myself."
"Can you?" Wemmbu raised an eyebrow. "Sit up then."
Flame tried. He really did. But his arms were shaking, his torso screaming in protest, and he managed to get approximately three inches off the pillow before collapsing back down, breathing hard.
"Point proven," Wemmbu said, settling back onto the edge of the bed with the bowl. "Now open up or starve. I don't particularly care which."
"This is so degrading," Flame muttered. "You are trying to spoon-feed me—"
"I'm not trying. I'm going to." Wemmbu held up a spoonful of soup. "Open."
"Bro—"
"Flamefrags. You're weak, feverish, and if you don't eat something, you'll just take longer to recover. Which means you'll be stuck here longer. Which means I'll have to deal with you longer." Wemmbu's eyes were teasing but annoyed. "So really, this is for my benefit, not yours. Open. Up."
There was no warmth in his voice, just practical annoyance. Flame scowled but opened his mouth. The soup was good, warm and savory, and he hated that his body immediately wanted more.
"See? Not so terrible." Wemmbu prepared another spoonful. "Though you fighting me on this is delaying your recovery, so you're really just being petty."
"You're enjoying this," Flame accused between spoonfuls.
"Immensely." Wemmbu's smile was sharp and mean. "It's not often I get to see the great Immortal Demon completely helpless. You're usually so confident, so loud. This is refreshing."
"Bro, you're such an asshole."
"And yet I'm the asshole keeping you alive." Wemmbu offered another spoonful. "You walked right into their trap. How embarrassing for you."
"I was distracted—"
"By what? Shiny objects? Your own reflection?" Wemmbu's tone was mocking. "You got caught because you were careless.
"Okay, okay, I get it, bro!" Flame took the next spoonful with more force than necessary. "Why'd you even save me if you think I'm so stupid?"
Wemmbu was quiet for a moment, preparing another spoonful. When he spoke, his voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Because you're my rival. If someone's going to take you down, it's going to be me. Not some dishonorable bandits with a basic redstone trap."
"So this is about your ego."
"Everything I do is about my ego." Wemmbu held up the spoon. "Eat."
They continued in tense silence, Flame glaring between every spoonful, Wemmbu remaining completely unbothered by the hostility. When the bowl was half empty, Flame finally broke.
"How long are you keeping me here?"
"Until you can walk without collapsing. Defend yourself without immediately getting stabbed." Wemmbu's tone was practical. "You go back now, those bandits will finish what they started. And then all my effort would be wasted."
"So this is about not wasting effort."
"Exactly." Wemmbu offered another spoonful. "I invested time and resources into keeping you alive. I'm not letting that investment die because you're impatient."
"Bro, you talk about me like I'm a business transaction."
"Aren't you? We're rivals. This is strategic. Nothing more."
Flame wanted to argue, but he was too tired. The fever was making everything feel distant and fuzzy. He accepted the last few spoonfuls in silence, his eyelids growing heavy.
"Wemmbu?"
"What now?"
"Why do you actually care if I die to them and not you?" Flame's voice was slurred with exhaustion. "Like, actually, bro. Why does it matter?"
Wemmbu was quiet for a long moment, setting the empty bowl aside. "Because you're worth more than that. As a rival, you're worth more than dying to cowards."
"That's almost nice. For you."
"Don't get used to it." Wemmbu stood, moving to check the bandages on Flame's leg. "Sleep. You're still feverish and you need rest."
"You gonna watch me sleep like an ass?"
"I'm going to make sure you don't die in your sleep, which is different." Wemmbu settled into a chair beside the bed, pulling out his mace to use a pocket handkerchief to clean its handle. And if you call me an ass again, I'm adding another day to your recovery time."
"You can't just do that—"
"I'm the one with the medical supplies and knowledge. I can do whatever I want. Sleep."
"Bossy," Flame muttered, but he was already drifting. The bed was warm, his body was exhausted, and despite everything, he felt safe.
Which was probably the fever talking.
"Flame?"
"Mm?"
"Next time you see a pressure plate in the middle of a random area, maybe don't step on it."
"Wow, bro, thanks for the advice. Real helpful."
"I live to serve."
Flame would have laughed, but sleep was already pulling him under.
When Flame woke up again, he attempted to stand up and immediately fell down, which resulted in an argument.
“I am not staying another day, bro, I feel fine—"
"You feel fine?" Wemmbu's voice was sharp with disbelief. "I left for a second to get you breakfast, You tried to stand five minutes ago and immediately fell. You call that fine?"
"That was just... I was disoriented—"
"You're still feverish, your leg is barely healed, and you can't even feed yourself without shaking." Wemmbu was blocking the door, one arm holding a bowl of soup. "You're not leaving."
Wemmbu looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, but his expression was as stern as ever, and as irritated as ever.
"I need to leave."
"You need to not be stupid for once in your life." Wemmbu sat down on the edge of the bed. “Open up."
"Bro, I can—"
"Feed yourself? We both know that's a lie." Wemmbu held up the spoon. "Don't make me force you."
Flame wanted to argue. Wanted to refuse. But his body was weak, his pride was already in tatters, and fighting Wemmbu right now felt impossible. He opened his mouth. Rather reluctantly.
They fell into the routine, Flame taking each spoonful with mounting frustration, Wemmbu remaining completely unmoved. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken rivalry.
"You didn't sleep again," Flame said finally.
Wemmbu paused. "I don't need as much sleep as humans."
"That's not what I asked, bro."
"It's the answer you're getting." Wemmbu reached over and flicked Flame's forehead. "Eat."
"Ow! Bro, I will literally kill you—"
"You can try when you can actually move." Wemmbu pressed the spoon forward with a smirk.
"Why are you doing this?" Flame's voice cracked slightly. "Like, actually. We hate each other. We're rivals. You should be celebrating that I got caught in a trap."
"I don't hate you." Wemmbu's tone was matter-of-fact. "I think you're reckless and impulsive, but I don't hate you."
"Same thing."
"It's really not." Wemmbu held up another spoonful. "Hating you would mean I want you gone. I don't. I want you at your best so that when I beat you, it actually means something."
"So I'm just a trophy to you."
"No. You're a rival. There's a difference." Wemmbu's mismatched eyes met Flame's. "A worthy rival doesn't die to bandits and traps. They die in fair combat, at their peak, in a way that matters. Anything less is a waste."
"That's the worst logic I've ever heard, bro."
"I'm a demon. It's kind of my thing." Wemmbu offered another spoonful. "But the logic is sound. You're more valuable to me alive and recovering than dead in a random place.”
Flame wanted to be angry. Wanted to hate being reduced to strategic value. But there was something almost... respectful in Wemmbu's reasoning. Twisted, but respectful.
"You're so weird," Flame said, accepting the soup.
"Says the Immortal Demon.” Wemmbu reached out and put his hand on Flame's forehead, right where the fever was warmest. "Still burning up. Pathetic."
Flame bit back a whine at the cooling touch. "Touch me one more time and I'm throwing you into lava, bro. I swear to god."
"You'd have to be able to stand first." Wemmbu poked him again, just to prove a point. "And we both know how that's going."
"I hate you. I hate you so much. When I'm better, I'm gonna hunt you down and—"
"And what? Burn my base? I don’t have a base."
"I hate you so much."
"No, you don't. If you hated me, you wouldn't be letting me feed you soup right now." Wemmbu reached over and ruffled Flame's hair roughly, making it stick up in all directions. "You'd be fighting harder."
"Get your hands off me before I bite your fingers off, bro—"
"You can barely keep your eyes open. I think my fingers are safe." But Wemmbu pulled his hand back anyway, smirking.
"Maybe I'm just too weak to fight, bro."
"Maybe." Wemmbu's expression softened—barely, almost imperceptibly. "Or maybe you trust me. Just a little bit."
"I definitely don't trust you."
"Liar." But Wemmbu's voice had lost some of its edge. "Finish the soup."
Flame did, the silence between them shifting into something less hostile. Not quite friendly—they were still rivals, still competitors—but not purely antagonistic either.
When the bowl was empty, Flame settled back against the pillows. "How much longer?"
"Another day, maybe two." Wemmbu stood, collecting the bowl. "Until you can stand. Walk. Until the fever's gone completely."
"And then?"
"And then you leave, we go back to being rivals, and you hopefully learn to watch where you step." Wemmbu moved to the window. "Though knowing you, probably not."
"I'm gonna stab those bandits alive when I get out of here," Flame muttered darkly.
"You can barely sit up," Wemmbu pointed out, moving back toward the bed.
"Doesn't mean I can't plan their deaths, bro." Flame's eyes flickered with actual fire for a moment. "Twenty on one. Traps. Stabbing me in the leg. I'm gonna make them regret every single choice they made."
"How bloodthirsty." Wemmbu reached out and patted Flame's head like a proud parent, messing his hair up completely. "I'm almost proud."
"Bro, touch me again and I'll set you on fire," Flame snarled, trying to swat his hand away but missing by a mile due to his weakened state. "I'm serious. I'll do it."
"You can barely lift your arm."
"I'll find a way. I'm creative with my murder methods."
"I'm sure you are." Wemmbu ruffled his hair again, just to be annoying, then moved back to his chair. "Sleep. You're still recovering."
"You gonna watch me again?"
"Someone has to make sure you don't die out of spite."
"That's not how spite works—"
"With you, I'm not taking chances." Wemmbu opened his book. "Sleep, Flamefrags."
"Hey, Wemmbu?"
"If you ask me one more question, I'm reading this entire book out loud. Egg told me to read it, but it looks very boring."
"Just... thanks, bro. For not letting me die."
Wemmbu was quiet for a long moment. "You're welcome. For not being worth less than bandits."
It wasn't warm. It wasn't soft. But coming from Wemmbu, it was probably the closest thing to genuine care Flame was going to get.
He'd take it.
"Bro?"
"I'm starting the book. 'Chapter one: The geometr—'"
"Okay, okay, I'm sleeping!"
But Flame was smiling as he drifted off, and if Wemmbu was smiling too as he read Egg’s book.
They didn't need to talk about that kind of thing.
Some things were better left unsaid.