Chapter Text
Wemmbu’s knees gave out beneath him, his body crashing face-first to the floor.
“Just…” he muttered, “One more… one more ancient debris.”
He pulled his shaking legs beneath himself and stood up, the dull netherrack walls around him blurring in and out of focus.
The gold pickaxe quivered in his hands—he dug with it to preserve his diamond one. The noise of metal against the netherrack filled the tunnel. Wemmbu could hear the wails of a ghast in the distance, the snorting of piglins somewhere above him, and the bubbling of lava that grew louder with each passing second.
“Wait, what?” he blurted, just as he finished mining the block in front of him.
Simultaneously, a gush of boiling liquid flooded into Wemmbu’s tunnel, splashing at the red walls and melting his iron armor, burning his hair, coating his legs in pain as he scrambled to cover the hole. The leftover lava seeped into the netherrack beneath him, the smell of smoke and ash filling his gasping lungs.
He observed the charred skin of his palms, the molten soles of his boots. The health bar on his communicator displayed only two red hearts. He’d nearly died just then.
The only thing that remained unscathed by the lava seemed to be the shackles; mocking his faded clothes and his scarred fingers in their still polished, pristine glittering state.
A sharp bolt of anger shot through his chest, relentless and suffocating. He glared at the loops of metal around his wrists and clenched his teeth, then bashed them hard against a block of netherrack. Nothing happened.
Wemmbu let out a growl. “I hate Zam.”
He could still see the netherite-clad figure on the deepslate throne, a shield-bearing guard on either side, golden lips smirking down at him as he'd entered the throne room—around a week after he'd gotten help trapping Spoke in the chunkban.
“I'm glad you're here,” Zam had said, eyes glittering in the torchlight, “I need a favor.”
Wemmbu had rolled his eyes and sighed. “What's the favor?”
The emperor had leaned forward in his seat and beckoned him with his pointer finger. When Wemmbu had arrived three blocks away from Zam's boots, Pangi had stepped off the mossy cobblestone and placed a leather-bound book in his hands.
“Open it,” Zam had commanded. His jeweled pinkie had tapped against the handle of his throne.
“You wrote it down in here?” Wemmbu had snorted.
When Zam had mumbled, “Something like that,” in response, broad grin never leaving his face, Wemmbu should have dropped the book and walked off.
Instead, he'd lifted the brown cover and read the black letters on the front page: ‘I hereby pledge my unyielding servitude to the command of my ruler, PrinceZam.’
Wemmbu had squinted as his vision had swept over all the words, then he'd attempted to flip over the paper for any other information. However, his hands had remained frozen in place.
He'd looked up at Zam, opening his mouth, only to blink back down and watch as thick metallic bands snapped around his wrists with twin gentle ‘click’s. A chain had then formed between them, a cold sting rising where the material—likely iron—touched his skin. The book fell from his grasp.
“Dude, what?” he’d blurted.
“Something wrong, Wemmbu dear?”
Wemmbu had stared at Zam, before scoffing. “Uh, yeah. Why and how are there handcuffs on me?”
“I think you’ll understand better if I just show you,” Zam said, beaming brighter, more menacing with each word. “Give me your armor. All of it.”
Raising an eyebrow, unamused, Wemmbu had said, “Why the heck would I—”
His own hands had cut him off as they’d unclasped each piece of his protective netherite gear, and piled them onto the carpet. A biting wind had ruffled through the clothes he wore beneath.
Wemmbu's mouth had slackened as Zam had chuckled, white teeth catching the light. “Splendid! Hand over all your elytra too.”
Squinting, Wemmbu had tried clenching his fingers into fists to prevent their next actions; but they opened his e-chest and pulled out the shulker—the one he'd spent countless hours searching through end cities to fill—then tossed it atop the armor.
“Oh, and don't forget the tiara!” Zam had chimed.
Wemmbu had watched his arms lift over his head, the chains of his shackles clinking together, wincing as the golden headpiece tugged on his hair. He'd raised the crown before dropping it unceremoniously onto the ground, its clatter muffled by the black wool.
Zam had then ordered Pangi to pick everything up. Wemmbu couldn't move a muscle as the guard had presented his hard-earned items to the emperor.
“Thank you, Wemmbu,” Zam had said.
Gaze locked and wrists bound, Wemmbu's breaths had started coming out uneven. Some details of their purpose remained fuzzy, but the handcuffs had seemed to allow Zam the control of the actions of Wemmbu’s limbs.
Still, he'd kept his stance straight and his jaw set. Wemmbu would rather burn a stack of enchanted golden apples than give Zam power over his mind.
“Why are you doing this, bro?” Wemmbu had asked. “What do you even want from me?”
“Your unyielding servitude, of course! You read the book.”
“Uh-huh,” Wemmbu had mumbled, “a pair of fancy bracelets aren't gonna make me do jack for you, man.”
Zam had giggled. “If you still believe that, Wemmbu, you're more of an idiot than I thought. Slap yourself for me.”
The words had barely registered in Wemmbu’s ears before his palm had thrown itself against his cheek. He’d bitten back a yelp at the pain. The shackles had rattled against each other, the sharp noise ringing through the silent room.
Stars had danced around Zam’s face in his vision, and Wemmbu had blinked them away.
He’d continued glaring into the emperor’s eyes—even as Zam had said, voice laced with glee, “That was weak. Do it again.”
Wemmbu’s hand had twitched before it had once more obeyed Zam instead of himself, slamming with more force into his jaw and snapping his head to the side. The bitter taste of blood had grazed his tongue; he’d bitten his cheek.
Teeth still clenched, he’d smoothened out his features. He’d tried counting his breaths as Zam had leaned back in his seat, hoping his heartbeat wouldn’t sound as loud to anybody other than himself.
This isn’t real, he’d thought, it’s probably another nightmare.
...but nightmares don’t normally hurt this much.
Zam’s jolly voice cut through Wemmbu’s brain, “You’re still holding back! I’m honestly surprised at how stubborn you are. Still trying to fight them after seeing what they can make you do. It’s honestly so pathetic.”
“What are they?”
“Doesn’t matter, Wemmbu darling, it doesn’t matter. Now, I want you to go to the Nether and mine me ten stacks of netherite ingots!”
“Bro— what? You don’t need— You’ve still got the duped stash from Spoke!” Wemmbu had claimed, even as he’d opened his ender chest.
“You can never have too much netherite,” Zam had said through his sickening grin, shrugging.
“You’re kidding me.” Wemmbu’s hands had picked back up the e-chest and started building the portal framework. “That’s— Ten stacks is like, impossible—”
“You should be grateful I asked for ingots and not blocks.”
Wemmbu has scowled, fingers clasped around his flint and steel. “Why are you doing this? Do you find it fun? Amusing?”
Zam had nodded, smile widening as he said, almost singing the words, “Don’t come back to the overworld ‘till you’re done!”
He’d then waved Wemmbu off, inspecting the paint on his fingernails instead of offering any tools or any protection.
Wemmbu had tried stopping his hands from lighting the portal, his feet from stepping into it, but a nauseating purple glow had coated his eyes as he’d entered the gateway. Zam’s laughter had echoed in his head, even as his worn-out sneakers had made contact with the netherrack ground.
He could still see Zam’s insufferable smile now, as he gritted his teeth and pulled his hands as far apart as possible, shaking from the strain. Nothing happened—save for the burn that amplified around his sore wrists.
The chains simply gave a small rattle when he dropped his fists.
Wemmbu dug through his inventory. “I have to still have something in here that can break these.”
As if sensing his words, his fingers froze themselves in place. He blinked at them, eyes wide, unable to move a muscle.
“Bro…” he muttered, “Fine. I’ll finish the job, sheesh.”
His fingers finally loosened, and he reached for his pickaxe once more.
Wemmbu let out a sigh, skin still searing where the shackles rubbed against it, and struck the netherrack again. Soon, however, his stomach rumbled.
He chomped down on two pieces of cooked porkchop, mumbling, “Never thought I’d see the day hoglins feel like a blessing.”
His eyes tried surrendering multiple times in the next few minutes—or had it been hours?—but he kept digging through the fleshy netherstone. The last time he’d fallen asleep in his netherrack tunnel, grasping brand new bastion-looted diamond pickaxe, he’d woken up being suffocated by a scorching magma cube.
The next block of netherrack seemed to take longer to mine than the ones that had preceded it, and Wemmbu let out a groan—before blinking at the rough sienna that lay in front of his eyes.
He switched pickaxes and swung, over and over and over, until the ancient debris gave way and his fingers clasped around the netherite scraps.
“The last one,” he said, unable to keep the giddy joy out of his voice. “I’m done. I’m finally done.”
With swift movements, he crafted up the last bar. He then opened the shulker in front of him and put it in; 10 stacks of shiny netherite stared back.
He closed the box and looked around at the blood-red walls. Fire still cracked someplace above him, and he heard the warping noises of endermen nearby.
“…now what?”