Chapter 1: The First Day
Summary:
Nine pioneers. One spawn.
No walls, no rules, no names written yet.
But already, silence weighs heavier than words.
The calm before the fracture.
Notes:
I’ve always loved the chaos, the betrayals, the fragile alliances of SMP worlds. The End of an Era is my attempt to capture that feeling players building something bigger than themselves, and watching it all fracture. This first chapter is only the surface. Darkness is coming.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter I – The First Day
A breath.
Then a flash.
The void fractures.
And suddenly, the world opens.
A vast, cloudless sky. A smooth, untouched plain. No builds, no paths, not even a footprint. Just grass, wind… and the harsh light of spawn.
A figure appears in the glow.
Then another.
Then seven more.
Nine in total.
Poafa. Nufuli. Spoke. Zam. Flame. ClownPierce. FerreMC. Wemmbu. Owenjuice.
They look around. No words yet. Just pixels, familiar skins, nametags floating above heads still empty of certainty.
The world is calm. The server is at peace.
Literally.
A plugin prevents any attack. No sword can strike. No fire, no fall, no danger. Everything is frozen in an artificial calm. And yet… something is already moving.
Zam steps forward.
He doesn’t run. He doesn’t shout.
But every step feels deliberate.
He punches a tree. Places a crafting table. A chest. A torch.
Then he speaks:
— We’re not gonna scatter like clowns. We need to lay the foundations. Fast.
He looks at the group, but doesn’t push anyone. He offers. His voice is clear. His tone, already steady.
— A Kingdom. A real one. Not some shaky little clan. An Empire.
Beside him, Spoke says nothing.
But he sees everything.
And when he finally speaks, it’s blunt:
— An empire, yeah. But not to rule. To structure. To… understand.
Flame steps forward, sharp-eyed. His skin is upright, his posture precise. He already holds a stone sword in his inventory.
— If you’re doing this… I’m in. I fight better when I know why.
Owenjuice speaks less.
He listens. He connects. He soothes.
When two voices clash a bit too hard, he drops a line. A joke. A fix.
He never asked for a role but within hours, he becomes the bridge between egos.
And just like that, in a random clearing, the ZamEmpire is born.
Nothing grand. A banner on a block. Three chests in the grass. A map pinned to a trunk.
But a direction.
A will.
And already… invisible walls.
But not everyone follows.
To the east, beyond a clear lake and a small grove, two players walk in silence.
Poafa. Nufuli.
They don’t stop. They don’t look back.
Not out of defiance.
By choice.
They speak little. But what they say matters.
— It’s too soon, Poafa murmurs. Too clean, too controlled.
— I know, Nufuli replies. And me… I prefer trees to concrete.
They settle in the heart of the forest. Where the light filters gently through the leaves. A fox watches them, then vanishes.
They place a crafting table. A chest. Nothing more.
It won’t be a nation.
Nor a faction.
It’ll be a sanctuary. A world within the world.
A place to believe in something else.
And beyond the mountains…
Three players dig.
ClownPierce. FerreMC. Wemmbu.
No speeches. No banner. Not even a campfire.
But they mine.
They smelt iron.
They shape tools.
Clown tests timings. Ferre assembles a forge. Wemmbu carves a path through the trees, marks the slopes, calculates elevations.
They follow no rule. No leader.
But they move.
Fast.
And already, their names light up red in the chat.
Full diamond. Day 1.
Their PvP is clean. Cold. Surgical.
No wasted words.
They’re not pioneers.
They’re predators.
Night falls.
Back on the original plain, the first torches flicker in the wind. Beds placed too quickly. Cobble roofs. A few empty furnaces.
Zam walks between the chests. Spoke’s already noting down axis lines. Flame’s outlining a wall. Owen chats with a new name that just spawned a few blocks away.
The Empire is still just a camp.
But the tone is set.
Farther out, Poafa plants seeds.
Nufuli lays leaves around a circle of stone.
Nothing symmetrical. Nothing practical. Just… beautiful.
And in the far north, Clown brews a potion. Ferre seals a chest.
Wemmbu smiles.
No war.
Not yet.
But in their eyes…
Something has begun.
Tomorrow, others will appear.
Others will place their chests. Others will ask who owns the plain, the forest, the mountains.
But tonight…
This first night…
The world is still pure.
It listens.
It records.
It remembers the names.
And in its pixelated silence,
something is already waiting
for the first sword to strike.
Notes:
A quiet beginning, nothing more. But every week, the story will dig deeper alliances, betrayals, and the fall of worlds. Chapter by chapter, the era will collapse.
Chapter 2: The Empire
Summary:
The Empire rises fast: machines hum, generals are chosen, and silence itself becomes a weapon. Strength turns into structure, structure into authority. And when Hardcore mode strikes, the world changes forever.
Notes:
This is where the Empire stops being just a base and becomes something larger, a machine, an army, a direction. I love this kind of turning point in SMP worlds: growth feels unstoppable, but you can already sense the downfall waiting inside it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter II – The Empire
The sun rises over a changed plain.
Spawn is still there. Raw. Untouched.
But around it, everything has shifted.
Cobblestone stairs now line the slopes. Packed dirt marks the first farms.
To the west, a bridge begins to link two hills.
And at the center where the clearing once welcomed the nine pioneers a heart now beats louder than the rest.
Not a city.
Not yet.
But a base. Active. Organized. Alive.
The ZamEmpire.
Zam is up before anyone else.
He’s drawn plans into the dirt with his sword.
He talks about efficiency. Logistics. Outposts.
He doesn’t try to impose. He proposes.
But his proposals are too clear, too precise, too well thought-out to ignore.
— We need to be ready. Others will come. They’ll build too. We move before they do.
He delegates. Assigns. Leaves nothing to chance.
A few blocks away, Spoke stays in the shadows.
He doesn’t speak.
He observes.
Every new player is logged. Every build assessed.
He goes underground. Digs tunnels straight as arteries.
Places signs. Links the storages.
He builds without being seen.
But everything flows through him.
And Flame… Flame is already forging.
His armor clangs against stone.
His sword is iron.
His gaze, elsewhere.
He recruits. He organizes.
He raises a wall to the north, block after block, in silence.
He doesn’t talk about the Empire.
He talks about threats.
And from that day on, he starts naming the heights. The cliffs. The ambush points.
He sees the invasion before it even exists.
Owenjuice, meanwhile, builds no wall.
But he speaks to the newcomers.
He greets the strange names lighting up in the chat.
He guides. He reassures. He shows where to mine, where to sleep, where to place that first bed.
He gives no orders.
He gives the will to stay.
The ZamEmpire has its strategy. Its structure.
And Owen… is its voice.
The Empire grows. One stone at a time.
But it’s already more than a base.
It’s a direction.
The third dawn barely breaks. The ground is still cold.
But the base is already awake.
In the southern gallery, a metallic sound echoes.
A repeated click. Precise. Unrelenting.
A player walks through shadow, his pockets full of redstone and observers.
MrCube6.
He says nothing. Asks for nothing.
He acts.
In two hours, he’s linked the central chests to the eastern wing.
In four, he’s set up the first clocks.
And by nightfall, he’s automated the flow of stone, wood, and food.
Others watch. They don’t understand everything.
But it works.
And in the Empire… what works stays.
Zam crosses him at the logistics hall entrance.
He says only one word:
— Thanks.
Spoke merely nods.
But his gaze lingers.
He knows what he’s just gained: a mechanical memory. A cold head.
A mind that never sleeps.
Later that afternoon, another name lights up.
MinuteTech.
He walks in, looks around, studies Cube’s machines.
He barely smiles.
But inside, his mind is already turning.
He asks no questions.
He settles in. He builds.
Circuits appear behind walls.
Timers, detectors, repeaters stacked with silent logic.
He doesn’t ask for a role.
He constructs it.
And in the shadows, someone watches.
ManePear.
He doesn’t have the same tools. Or the same weapons.
But he understands.
He approaches Minute, then Flame.
He trains. He forges. He mines.
He doesn’t speak much.
But he learns fast.
By nightfall, he and Minute slip away together.
They build an observation room on the roof.
And when the moon rises, they’re still there testing jumps, comparing bows, trading strategies.
They don’t know it yet.
But a duo has just been born.
Instinct and invention. PvP and redstone.
A complementary duality. A natural cohesion.
From that night on, they’re simply called:
Minute & Mane.
But while the Empire rises while machines purr and towers climb one absence goes unnoticed.
Spoke.
He’s gone.
No announcement. No message.
Just a silence stretching across hours.
His tunnels remain empty. His markers gone.
His name, silent in the chat.
Zam notices. But says nothing.
Flame knows. But doesn’t ask.
Because Spoke never leaves without a reason.
He crosses the mountains. East. Then south. Then nowhere.
Not toward a place.
Toward an idea.
And there, beyond the ridge a clearing.
No trees. No builds. Just three silhouettes.
ClownPierce. FerreMC. Wemmbu.
They’ve built no walls. No crafting table in sight.
But they’re already full diamond.
Their gear doesn’t shine.
It cuts.
They don’t speak first.
They watch.
Spoke stops at a distance.
He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t step forward.
But he stays.
Long.
Ferre sharpens his axe.
Clown crosses his arms.
Wemmbu stares into the void… then at Spoke.
Their glances are dialogue.
They don’t know each other.
But they recognize each other.
No witness.
No command block records this moment.
But that day, something aligns.
Not a pact.
A tremor.
Spoke returns at nightfall.
He says nothing.
But in his journal, one line appears:
— There are forces waiting only for disorder.
The sun had barely risen, and already, the heart of the Empire was pulsing.
The galleries had multiplied.
The stairways now led to three underground levels.
The storage chests spiraled outward sorted, labeled, connected by hoppers.
Players moved like ants.
And yet… nothing was chaotic.
That morning, a figure crossed the southern gate.
No fanfare. No greeting.
Just a quiet name:
Mapicc.
He stopped. Watched.
Then silently descended into the lower floors.
At first, some mistook him for a visitor.
But within two hours, the central base changed rhythm.
Mapicc didn’t ask for permission.
He opened chests.
Shifted items.
Rewired hoppers.
He optimized flow paths.
Restructured workshops.
Placed signs where others left chests at random.
— Who’s that guy? someone murmured in the north wing.
— No idea. But everything’s faster since this morning.
Zam eventually came to see for himself.
He watched in silence.
Mapicc didn’t greet him.
He already knew who he was.
When Spoke descended, silent as always,
Mapicc barely stepped aside just enough to let him inspect the system.
A simple nod was exchanged.
Not a word.
He didn’t need validation.
He’d already claimed his place.
Higher up, in the western gallery, another player was settling in.
Leo.
No one remembered exactly when he arrived.
He hadn’t made noise.
Hadn’t asked for help.
But for two days, he kept returning to the same place
Spoke’s secondary network.
He didn’t interfere.
He listened.
When Spoke passed, Leo vanished.
When Spoke spoke, Leo took notes.
He copied old layouts.
Read the signs left on blocks.
Redrew the maps on parchment.
Corrected scale errors.
He wasn’t mimicking.
He was learning.
Zam hadn’t noticed him yet.
Flame didn’t care.
But Owen… had already seen him at work.
And in a quiet moment, he’d whispered:
— He’ll figure it all out. Too late maybe… but he will.
Farther still, in corridors no one used except messengers,
another player moved in circles.
Reddoons.
He didn’t mine.
Didn’t build.
But each morning, he walked a full loop of the base.
He timed the routes.
Logged the blind spots.
Tested the paths no one took.
The forgotten shortcuts.
The darkened stairs.
He greeted no one.
But everyone crossed his name at some point.
And when someone asked:
— What’s he doing?
The answer was always the same:
— He’s just… passing.
And that’s all he did.
But it was enough.
Spoke had noticed him.
He said nothing.
But in his notebook, next to a base diagram, one name was written:
— Reddoons. Do not underestimate.
The clouds moved fast that morning.
The wind had shifted sharper, drier.
Around the Empire’s core, the towers now scraped the sky.
Chests were packed.
The galleries reinforced.
Suspended bridges now linked the wings.
Banners snapped in the breeze.
The Empire was no longer a camp.
It had become a fortress.
But that day, something else rose.
Not a tower.
An authority.
Flame didn’t speak to the crowd.
He didn’t climb any podium.
He moved through the corridors.
Stopped a few blocks away.
And waited.
Zam joined him around a bend.
They locked eyes.
No tension.
Just an unspoken agreement.
The military power… shifted.
Flame descended into the lower halls.
He didn’t summon.
He selected.
Five names. Five profiles. Five promises.
Twirps.
Instinctive. Unpredictable. First to strike, last to back down. A fire contained within a quiet skin.
Dol9hin.
Silent. Calculating. A natural tactician, ten moves ahead.
What_Max.
Half-invisible. Elusive. The kind who appears behind you without sound, then vanishes without trace.
Luckymixx.
Chaos engineer. Master of TNT, traps, and deadly detours. A demolitionist with a crooked smile.
MrCube6.
The cold machine. Center of the system. He knows redstone like a soldier knows his weapon. He doesn’t fight… he calculates your defeat.
Flame brought them into the arena.
Tested them.
One by one.
Then in pairs.
Then as a group.
He watched.
Pushed them.
Broke them, sometimes.
But none of them fell.
At the end of the day, he looked each of them in the eyes.
Then placed his hand on the wall behind him.
— You’ll get no medals. No ranks. No golden rooms.
Just a role. And an expectation.
He stepped back.
— You are my generals. You are the five blades of flame.
No one protested.
No one asked: why us?
Because they already knew.
And already, the Empire was changing.
In the upper galleries, Mapicc continued perfecting the resource system.
He spoke to no one.
Drew arrows on the floor.
Encoded chests.
Rewrote the storage logic.
Minute and Mane, meanwhile, were raising their observation tower.
Not just another build a vantage point.
A place from which the world could be read.
Always together.
Always in sync.
A duo that drew eyes… and stirred doubt.
Spoke kept logging every movement.
Every flaw in the system.
He didn’t correct them yet.
He watched.
And waited.
To the south, through the pines, a lone silhouette crossed the hills.
Flowtives.
He belonged to no one.
And yet he always returned.
He placed torches where no one passed.
Strengthened paths no one saw.
A scout.
A messenger with no master.
Flame had noticed him.
So had Spoke.
And in the cartography room, Owen lingered longer than usual.
He stared at the map.
The names.
The routes.
The colors.
He could feel something had shifted.
Not in the chests.
Not in the walls.
In the air.
The Empire wasn’t building anymore.
It was fortifying.
And deep down, a cold certainty was beginning to form.
Peace wouldn’t last much longer.
The sky was clear.
Too clear.
Inside the walls, everything was perfectly in place.
The upper floors were complete.
The resources flowed from one chamber to another like a well-oiled machine.
And that…
That was the problem.
The Empire worked.
Too well.
Too fast.
Faces changed.
Corridors filled.
Structures grew.
But at the core…
A rigid stillness.
The ambition was everywhere.
The soul still searching.
Zam stayed the course.
He believed in shared construction. A common vision.
He distributed tasks.
Welcomed new names.
Kept things turning.
But around him, the tone had changed.
Spoke remained underground.
He spoke less and less.
He traced.
He mapped.
He recorded the weaknesses.
He saw everything… but commented on nothing.
Owenjuice had become harder to find.
He still helped. Still guided.
But his silences had grown.
His answers vaguer.
He was drifting.
Fading, like a landmark dissolving into the landscape.
And Flame now Marshal no longer hid his authority.
He ran patrols.
Supervised training.
Multiplied the drills.
He didn’t ask.
He commanded.
His voice carried.
And his gaze alone earned respect.
The five generals obeyed without question.
Twirps led the strike teams.
Dol9hin coordinated invasion drills.
What_Max secured the underground, sleeping in the corridors.
Luckymixx tested traps in sealed rooms where no one entered.
MrCube6 expanded his redstone system until it automated an entire hall outside the military wing.
Minute and Mane kept rising. Quietly.
They asked for nothing.
But they were everywhere in towers, meetings, frontlines.
— Have you seen their pace? whispered Leo to Reddoons one evening. They’re moving faster than all of us.
Reddoons didn’t answer.
He watched.
Kept the mental map of the Empire’s maze in his head.
He knew that if the system cracked…
they’d have to act fast.
But for now… everything held.
Too well.
So the murmurs began.
Not revolts.
Not yet.
Just doubt.
— Why so many soldiers?
— Why are more and more chests locked?
— Why doesn’t Zam speak in public chat anymore?
Those who asked too many questions were redirected.
Not banned.
Just… reassigned.
To other tasks.
To other wings.
To silence.
And in the heart of the bastion, Flame crossed Spoke for the first time in days.
They didn’t greet each other.
Spoke marked measurements on a wall.
Flame reread a report.
Not a word.
But the air was dense.
There was no coordination.
Just two forces…
Side by side.
No collision.
Not yet.
Above ground, the night fell slowly.
Torches lit up the paved streets.
New players kept arriving.
They settled in.
Some placed chests.
Others offered services.
Most didn’t even know where they were.
But one by one, they stepped inside the Empire.
Even those who claimed independence ended up relying unknowingly on its roads, its maps, its storage.
The Empire was too vast.
Too dense.
Too… inescapable.
It had become a fact.
And in the Forest, far to the east,
Nufuli watched it like a storm closing in.
The world was nearly full.
On the tactical maps pinned to the central walls, the untouched zones were shrinking like drying skin.
With every update, new bases appeared.
New names settled in.
Unofficial borders began to take shape.
To the west, a small group had started building into the cliffs.
They didn’t speak much but their messages were clear:
They didn’t want contact.
Farther north, a strange tower was reported.
Rising straight to y=320.
No associated name.
Just blocks placed with obsessive precision.
The kind of structure that either invites… or warns.
In the End, scouts mentioned a base unreachable without Elytra.
They already called it:
The Third World.
Some said it was a lab.
Others, a trap.
But no one really knew.
And no one ever came back twice.
And then… there was the Forest.
Players in the Empire had begun calling it “the Mist.”
A part of the world swallowed in leaves, where coordinates broke down.
Where compasses spun in circles.
Where Elytras refused to glide.
Everything there felt alive.
Blurred. Moving.
At its center:
Poafa.
Nufuli.
Zam had always said they were neutral.
That their choice to isolate wasn’t rebellion.
And that was true…
At first.
But now?
Every day, the Forest grew.
Above ground. Below.
In the trees. In the caves.
No one knew what they were building.
They sent no envoys.
Attended no meetings.
Explained nothing.
And in the Empire… some began to ask:
— We’re just letting them do this?
— What if they block our routes?
— What if they ally with the End?
Flame never answered those questions.
He just reinforced the patrols.
Spoke, quietly, had redrawn part of the gallery network
realigning access routes,
in case a fast strike became necessary.
And Owenjuice, when asked about the Forest,
lowered his gaze.
He simply murmured:
— They just chose something else. But soon… the world won’t give them that choice anymore.
That night, in the Empire’s central hall, a fire was lit.
Not to celebrate anything.
Just… to breathe.
A rare pause.
Minute and Mane sat by the steps.
They didn’t talk much.
They didn’t need to.
Leo joined them.
Then Reddoons.
Then others.
Not a council.
Not a meeting.
Just players.
Tired.
Because something was coming.
Something everyone felt.
The ground pulsed, sometimes, for no reason.
Chunks lagged more than before.
Mobs moved like they knew.
And atop the observation tower,
MrCube6 stood still,
eyes locked on the horizon.
He said nothing.
But behind him,
an alarm was armed.
The morning was clear.
Too clear.
The sky looked washed. No clouds.
Not a drop of rain in three days.
The wind had stopped.
And still… nothing felt calm.
The Empire’s halls were full.
But no one spoke.
Movements were precise.
Mechanical.
Chests were sorted without comment.
Armor equipped in silence.
Potions brewed with no smile.
Everything was ready.
And that
that was the problem.
Zam walked alone between the walls.
He stopped sometimes.
Not to inspect defenses.
Not to give orders.
Just to look.
A banner.
A player.
A staircase.
He observed what they had built.
And what they now stood to lose.
Spoke was already below,
correcting a strategic line.
A tunnel bend too exposed.
A weak junction.
He left nothing to chance.
Flame, outside, toured the outposts.
He nodded to Twirps.
Checked Dol9hin’s stockpiles.
Exchanged a few words with What_Max, hiding in shadow.
Luckymixx was up on the ramparts, setting traps.
MrCube was calibrating the alarms.
The five generals hadn’t received orders.
They didn’t need any.
They knew.
That day, every player became a cog
in a system too well-oiled to break.
And still
every one of them felt it:
it would break.
Flowtives wasn’t there.
But his torches still marked the paths.
His signs hadn’t moved.
Sometimes, players stopped to read them.
To feel… watched.
Protected.
Minute and Mane didn’t sleep.
From their tower, they looked to the Forest.
To the End.
To the skies.
They knew the enemy might not come today.
But it would come.
Leo reread his notebooks.
Reddoons disappeared and reappeared.
Mapicc verified the stocks in silence.
Owenjuice climbed to the top of the central tower.
He stayed there for hours.
Too long.
Until the sun brushed the hills.
And then
A single line appeared.
White.
No sound.
No alert.
[HARDCORE MODE : ENABLED]
The chat remained silent.
Zam raised his head.
Spoke stopped.
Flame froze.
Owen closed his eyes.
Cube placed his lever.
Twirps tightened his grip.
Reddoons, somewhere, marked the exact time.
Poafa, far away, felt the wind shift.
Nufuli closed a chest… and drew a weapon.
Ferre, in the mountain’s shadow, smiled without a word.
Clown stared at a torch until it flickered.
Wemmbu entered a hall without light.
And somewhere, far beyond the maps…
a silhouette stopped.
And waited.
The world was ready.
But no one really was.
Notes:
The machine is ready. Too ready. Next chapter, the first true consequences begin.
Chapter 3: Poafa and Nufuli
Summary:
The Forest grows. Not as an empire, not as a refuge, but as a choice.
Poafa and Nufuli gather those who refuse the Empire’s rules, weaving silence into strategy.
But as Hardcore mode strikes, even balance must arm itself.
Notes:
This chapter shifts the focus east, into the Forest. I’ve always loved factions that don’t fight for domination, but for survival and freedom and how silence can be louder than any banner. Here, Poafa and Nufuli set the tone: balance against order, roots against walls.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter III – Poafa and Nufuli
The forest says nothing.
But it watches.
For days now, the leaves have been trembling in the distance, as if they were observing the Empire’s walls without ever approaching.
The wind, even when soft, no longer blows eastward.
And when it does, it pulls back immediately, carrying with it a kind of doubt the branches don’t know how to name.
At the heart of the forest stands a tree older than all the others.
Gigantic. Twisted.
Its roots pierce the ground like veins of light.
That’s where it all began.
Poafa and Nufuli are there.
Not on a throne.
Not in a war room.
Sitting in the grass, among ferns, in front of a small, quiet fire no one could see from more than thirty blocks away.
They don’t speak much.
They don’t need to.
— You feel that? murmurs Poafa.
Nufuli slowly nods.
— The air’s changed.
They don’t look toward the Empire.
They’re not fleeing from it, either.
They watched it rise.
Far from them, but not without them.
Poafa turns a stick in the fire.
— It’s growing. Too fast.
Nufuli doesn’t answer.
He stares at the tree, the one in the center.
A long silence.
Then he murmurs:
— So are we.
Nufuli stands. Slowly.
He brushes off his knees. Adjusts his cloak.
— We’ll have to decide, he breathes.
Poafa stays seated.
He watches the flames flicker.
— Decide what?
— Who we let in.
A pause.
— And who we leave out.
The fire crackles.
Around them, the forest breathes.
No walls. No gates.
But every tree stands where it should.
Every stone, every root, every lantern hanging from low branches everything seems… intentional.
But never rigid.
A balance.
Not a border.
And that, precisely, is what unsettles Nufuli.
He feels it.
He doesn’t say it yet, but he knows: what they’re building… draws others.
Poafa stands too.
He grabs a water bucket. Puts out the fire softly.
— We’re not a shelter.
— I know, Nufuli replies.
— And we’re not an empire either.
— Exactly.
They walk together beneath the canopy. No sound.
A few blocks away, a natural waterfall slides between the rocks.
Behind it, a mossy staircase leads to a secondary clearing.
They arrive in silence.
And there… they’re no longer alone.
Every day, the forest grows.
Step by step. Block by block.
But nothing here is square.
The foundations follow no human law.
They wind around roots, curve past trunks, obey the earth.
Poafa draws arcs never angles.
Nufuli watches the heights.
He climbs. He observes. He sketches, in his mind, a temple no one will ever fully see.
They don’t speak much.
But they build constantly.
And what they’re building… has no name.
Not yet.
A clearing.
A tree.
Wider than the others.
Its roots glow not with torches, but lanterns hung in the bark, scattered like stars.
Beneath its branches: an altar.
Not religious.
Just… a center.
A memory.
A point of balance.
The players arrive, slowly.
In twos. In threes. Sometimes alone.
Sharpness, the first to place a bed.
He barely speaks.
But when he trains, everyone watches.
He doesn’t strike.
He corrects.
Coldified joins him soon after.
He doesn’t mine.
Doesn’t build.
He protects.
He knows the woods like no one else.
And when he draws his sword even the wolves step back.
Wallibear arrived by night.
Soaked. Silent.
But carrying a bag full of enchanted books.
Tachy followed, saying nothing.
Then Mixiku.
Then others.
All of them fled something.
Not the Empire, not yet.
But the speed.
The noise.
The overload.
In the Forest of the Holy Spirit, you speak only when needed.
You strike only when necessary.
And you listen… always.
Rumor says Poafa knew the old world.
That Nufuli was one of the first to speak to Zam.
But neither of them confirms it.
And those who ask too many questions find themselves facing thorns, a detour… or silence.
The forest protects itself.
And what it hides grows more precious by the day.
More dangerous, too.
But this isn’t a refuge.
It’s a choice. A statement.
Not joining the Empire doesn’t mean fleeing it.
It means refusing to play by its rules.
Nufuli doesn’t say it often.
But when he does, it lingers:
— We don’t need a banner. Our name is in the leaves.
And he always looks to the distance.
Southward.
Where the walls rise.
Where Flame draws borders.
Where Spoke silences doubt.
Where Zam, already, is more a whisper than a word.
But in the Forest… no one whispers.
They listen.
They arm themselves.
They take root.
Sharpness trains recruits in the shade of the pines.
Coldified tests the traps, the dead angles, the hidden spots.
Tachy strings the ropes.
Mixiku watches the ravines.
Wallibear reads. Always. About history. About weapons. About past mistakes.
No one commands.
But when Poafa speaks, everyone falls silent.
And when Nufuli walks, no one follows… but everyone watches where he goes.
There are nights when the forest breathes harder.
Nights without moon.
Without sound.
You can’t tell the leaves from the shadows.
And yet…
You feel it.
Someone’s coming.
That night, Nufuli is already on the high bridge.
He scans the edges, eyes fixed.
— Two players, he murmurs.
Poafa climbs up too.
No torch. Just silence.
In the distance, two figures approach.
Unmasked. Unarmed.
— Messengers? asks Poafa.
— No. Scouts.
They don’t move.
They wait.
The figures get closer then stop.
They know one more step would be a challenge.
They don’t speak.
They look.
Then they turn back.
The next day, the traps are reinforced.
And beneath the great tree’s roots, a meeting is held.
— They’re testing us, says Sharpness.
— Not yet, Coldified replies. They’re sizing us up.
— I prefer when things are clear, grumbles Tachy.
— Then they will be soon, says Nufuli.
Above ground, nothing moves.
But under the moss, under the ferns… everything activates.
Tunnels are dug beneath the trees.
Iron gates set in the clearings.
Escape routes mapped westward.
And in the heart of the woods, a new kind of room takes shape.
Sealed. Narrow. Carved from living stone.
— It’s not a temple, Wallibear whispers.
— Not an armory either, says Mixiku.
— It’s a seed, murmurs Nufuli.
He speaks little.
But every word matters.
He draws a line in the dust.
A circle. Then a spiral.
— The Empire won’t come tomorrow. But it will come.
Because it believes anything that doesn’t bend… must be corrected.
Silence.
Poafa lowers his gaze.
He understands.
He hoped for peace.
Wanted to believe in it.
But the air has changed.
The balance is broken.
Sharpness looks around.
— If we fall, we fall together. Not one by one.
— We fall standing, Coldified corrects. And if they want to silence us…
He lays a sword on the table.
— …then let them know we’ve learned to scream.
From that night on… everything changes.
The rituals grow quieter.
Lookouts rotate above, hidden in the canopy.
Tunnels are dug beneath the roots not to flee, but to strike.
It’s no longer an open forest.
It’s a consciousness.
A strategy.
A skin growing thicker.
Poafa keeps welcoming newcomers.
Building bridges.
Believing in balance.
But his hands tremble slightly when carving wood.
He knows fear.
Not fear of fighting
Fear of losing what they’ve built.
And deep down…
he already feels it:
What they’re creating here one day, they’ll have to defend it.
Or watch it fall.
Nufuli no longer believes in avoidance.
He starts mapping.
Watches the Empire’s flow.
Notes the pseudonyms.
The positions.
He doesn’t speak.
He prepares.
One night, he climbs to the tallest tree in the valley.
Where the leaves form a perfect green dome.
He stays there for hours.
Scanning the horizon.
And when night falls, he sees the plains.
The Empire’s banners.
The walls.
The towers.
Flame’s patrols.
He doesn’t hate them.
But he refuses them.
And when he comes down, he says only one thing:
— They won’t understand that we just want to be free.
They’ll see our silence… as defiance.
So the Forest adapts.
Sharpness trains fighters beneath the underbrush where swords aren’t enough, where you must feel before you strike.
Coldified, now full netherite, traps the clearings with terrifying precision: pressure plates under moss, invisible hoppers, TNT woven into the trees.
Nothing flashy.
Everything built to surprise.
To endure.
Tachy watches the outskirts.
Mixiku invents a sign language a few gestures, nearly invisible, to communicate silently among the thickets.
A hunted animal’s language.
Every player who enters the Forest is welcomed by Poafa.
Every player who stays… is watched by Nufuli.
No oath.
No uniform.
But everyone quickly understands:
This is no pacifist camp.
It’s a fragile, taut balance
held only by one unspoken rule:
Here, we speak soft.
But we act loud.
A night darker than all others falls over the canopy.
No stars.
No moon.
The wind whistles above, in the high leaves, like a beast you cannot see.
In the Forest, no one truly sleeps.
Some still mine, silently.
Others repair their armor.
Others just… wait.
Because they all know.
Tomorrow, the world changes.
Hardcore mode activates at dawn.
Death becomes absolute.
No second chances.
No respawn.
One mistake… and it’s exile.
Torches are dimmed.
Voices lowered.
Chests are cleaned.
Books too personal are burned.
Retreat plans are hidden.
The living prepare…
like building their own graves.
In a chamber beneath an old oak, Poafa sits alone.
In his hand: an oak sapling.
Not a magical item.
Just… a promise.
A reminder: this world was born from a seed.
And deep down, he still hopes it can bloom again.
— You planning to plant that?
Nufuli’s voice is calm, but rough.
He hasn’t slept.
Poafa doesn’t respond right away.
Then, without looking at him:
— Not yet.
— Because you still believe in tomorrow?
— No.
Because I want something to remain.
After.
Nufuli sits across from him.
The torchlight casts distorted shadows on the stone.
They don’t speak like they used to.
There’s no conflict.
Just… distance.
A silent fracture.
— You think they’ll attack us?
— No, says Poafa.
I think they’ll be afraid.
And I think fear kills more surely than any blade.
A long silence settles.
Then Nufuli lays a map on the table.
Wrinkled.
Ash-stained.
On it the Empire’s roads.
Outposts.
Chokepoints.
Everything dated.
Indexed.
A work of patience.
And of defiance.
— They’ve prepared.
More than we have.
— Then we’ll do things differently.
We’re not here to match them.
We’re here to… resist.
Nufuli nods slowly.
Then, for the first time in a long while, he drops the mask.
— I don’t blame you for still hoping.
But if they come… if it’s them or us…
He pauses.
— …I won’t ask permission.
Poafa says nothing.
He gently closes his hand around the sapling.
— I know.
And in that chamber of living stone,
it’s as if two worldviews had just said goodbye.
One still believes in roots.
The other… is already planting fire.
The sun rises.
But the light warms nothing.
A pale beam filters through the canopy, touches stone still wet with night.
And in the sky, a message appears.
Few words.
But everyone sees it.
[HARDCORE MODE : ENABLED]
It’s official now.
Death has changed shape.
In the Forest of the Holy Spirit, the silence shatters in a single sound:
a dull, metallic thud.
Wallibear just sealed a reinforced hatch.
He said nothing.
He simply understood.
The paths are locked.
The entrances redrawn.
Deep shelters now stand as strongholds.
Above, Coldified installs a network of hidden sensors, wired to redstone emitters.
No words.
Just clicks.
Traps now hide beneath leaves.
Portals are rigged.
Chests loaded with decoys.
At the first intrusion… everything will blow.
Mixiku and Tachy patrol the lower paths.
They don’t speak much.
But their glances cross often.
Not out of fear.
Out of certainty.
If one falls the other continues.
There will be no collapse.
The chain will hold.
And at the center of it all…
the circle tightens.
A sacred clearing, now fortified.
Stone pillars covered in moss.
A fountain, fed by a pure spring.
And beneath it…
a spiral staircase carved into the living rock.
What lies below no one truly knows.
But it’s not a vault.
Not a treasure.
It’s a promise.
One day, they may fall.
But something will survive.
Something older than PvP.
Older than war.
The idea…
of a free world.
In a chamber deep within the Forest, Nufuli steps forward.
Sharpness is already waiting.
His sword lies flat across his knees.
He’s not meditating.
He’s listening.
— Are they ready? asks Nufuli.
— As ready as they’ll ever be, replies Sharp.
But that’s not the real question.
— Then what is?
— You.
Are you ready?
Nufuli looks at him.
No anger.
No pride.
Just… the weight of what he knows.
— I don’t want this war.
— No one does.
— But I’ll build it like I chose it.
Sharpness nods slowly.
— Then I’ll stand with you.
Until the last tree falls.
And at the same moment, atop the highest branch,
Poafa sits.
He stares into the distance.
Toward the Empire’s lands.
He says nothing.
But he feels it.
He knows this war won’t start with an order.
It’ll start with silence.
And when that day comes,
when the Empire advances
the Forest must hold.
Not to win.
But to protect what’s left of humanity.
The lanterns ignite, one by one.
The archers take position.
The rations are distributed.
Each player knows their role.
And deep inside a hollow trunk,
somewhere in the Forest,
a book lies hidden.
One sentence engraved on its cover:
“If we fall, let it be while looking at the sky.”
Notes:
The Forest is no longer just a refuge, it’s a resistance. Next week, the tension between growth and fear will only sharpen.
Updates posted weekly.
Chapter 4: The Black Trident
Summary:
Hardcore mode has begun.
While empires freeze and forests wait, three shadows move.
ClownPierce. FerreMC. Wemmbu.
They build nothing, promise nothing, they strike.
And their first message to the server is written in fire.
Notes:
This chapter shifts the spotlight to The Black Trident: Clown, Ferre, Wemmbu. They don’t raise banners or build walls; they exist only to strike where no one expects. If the Empire and the Forest are systems, the Trident is chaos. This is where Hardcore mode stops being an idea, and becomes blood.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter IV – The Black Trident
No more turning back.
No more second chances.
Every death is final now.
The Empire freezes.
So do the other civilizations.
For a few seconds, the entire server goes silent.
Even the footsteps in the galleries sound slower, heavier
as if everyone, deep down, knew something had just changed.
But for three players…
this is exactly what they were waiting for.
ClownPierce.
FerreMC.
Wemmbu.
Since day one, they’ve stayed apart.
No base. No walls. No banner.
They pledged allegiance to no one.
They carved out underground routes.
Tested armor. Sharpened blades.
They built nothing lasting.
Never slept in the same place twice.
While others built kingdoms…
They prepared for war.
And since day 3, Spoke has known.
He contacted them without telling a soul.
Not to recruit.
Not to spy.
Just… to speak.
They met in a forgotten canyon, somewhere between two corrupted chunks.
Where even the sky seems to hesitate to render.
Spoke didn’t offer them a role.
He gave them a certainty.
— When the world falls… strike. Let the others sort through the ashes.
They didn’t answer.
But they understood.
And since then, they’ve waited.
Silently gearing up.
Testing resistances.
Drawing mental maps through enemy territories.
On day 10…
they strike.
Not against the Empire.
Not against the Forest.
But against those no one would suspect.
The Sky Islands.
A floating civilization, high above the clouds.
Untouchable. Isolated.
Too confident.
The attack happens at night.
No one sees them coming.
In the smoldering ruins of the Sky Islands, the air still reeks of fire.
Scattered wood drifts through the void, particles of enchanted gear falling like cursed snow.
No island remains intact.
Only broken arches.
Looted chests.
Armors strewn across the ocean.
And in the middle of this chaos, three silhouettes sift through the debris.
Clown walks among the beams, sword still hot. Silent.
Ferre flips a block, finds an enchanted book. Skims it. Slides it into an already full shulker.
Wemmbu picks up a helmet. Turns it in his hands.
— Protection III… Respiration II… not bad.
He tosses it into the void.
— But not good enough.
He stops, stares at a scorched pillar from the floating city.
— Can you imagine them building this? These guys thought they were touching the sky.
Farther off, Ferre mutters:
— No totems. Two sharpness IV swords. Three netherite pieces. One Power V bow, no Flame.
Clown bends down over a corpse.
A player’s name just vanished. Forever.
— They died without even understanding.
His voice is mechanical.
— They thought no one would dare.
Wemmbu whistles low.
— They were wrong.
He looks up. The moon is high.
— So. Leave them to their ghosts? Or one last chest?
Ferre closes the final shulker.
— We have what we need.
Clown’s already looking to the sky.
— Let’s go.
They launch.
Three elytras slicing through the wind. No words. No battle cries.
Just a sharp whistle.
Their base is far. Invisible. Buried between cliffs and spikes.
No banner. No name.
Just a staircase of raw stone, covered in moss, dug into a ravine.
They land in silence.
Ferre shuts the redstone trapdoor.
Clown drops the shulkers on the central table.
Wemmbu collapses onto a pile of blocks.
— Okay. Status report?
Ferre unpacks the items, sorting by rarity. He tosses useless bows into lava.
— Three worth keeping. A chestplate, a book, and this sword.
He hands it over. Clown snatches it. Tests it.
Wemmbu raises an eyebrow.
— If you don’t give me at least one loot, I swear I’m going on strike.
Clown raises a brow.
— You only know three crafts and need us to enchant your underpants. Relax.
Ferre doesn’t smile, but he glances up.
Wemmbu chuckles.
— I might not be funny, but at least I’m useful.
Clown replies dryly.
— You’re the least funny clown I know.
Silence. Then Wemmbu grins.
— I’m keeping that one. Solid burn.
The fire crackles.
Not a happy mood.
But… alive.
Ferre finishes the sorting.
— Tonight was easy. Next time won’t be.
Clown nods.
— The Motherland.
No one speaks.
But everyone knows.
That one will be tougher.
Better guarded.
But more important.
Wemmbu gets up, picks up the Mace.
— Then we sleep later.
The Motherland’s towers catch the moonlight. Wind batters the obsidian walls.
Below, three shadows crawl along the rocks.
Ferre grips his enchanted axe.
Clown adjusts his helmet.
Wemmbu finally wields the Mace.
No words.
Inside, a dozen players train.
Two in diamond. The rest in iron.
Redstone traps trigger at every step.
But it’s not a base.
It’s a test.
Clown blinks. Two players exit the watchtower.
He doesn’t speak. He veers left.
Ferre follows.
Wemmbu stays back.
The first enemy drops without a sound.
Backstabbed.
Second: pearl, angle, axe.
Dead.
But a third, farther off, yells:
— They’re here! West contact!
Chaos erupts.
Arrows. TNT. Walls crumbling.
Clown sprints through a glass hallway, dodges three traps, bursts through a shattered wall.
He finds two players reloading bows.
He doesn’t slow.
First: beheaded.
Second tries to retreat. Gets trampled by Wemmbu.
Ferre emerges from below, through a maintenance tunnel.
He raises a weakness potion. Throws it.
— Clear.
They push toward the throne room.
Three enemies hold the line.
One shouts:
— They’re just three! Let’s trap them!
Mistake.
Wemmbu charges.
A leap. A blow.
The Mace crushes the ground.
And the player behind it.
The others back off. One falls into a trap dug by Clown.
The other flees through the galleries… right into Ferre.
One axe swing. Critical hit.
Silence.
The fire dies in the halls.
Traps disarmed.
The Motherland… is gone.
Not burned.
Not erased.
But broken.
Chests burst open.
Items strewn.
Corpses silent.
The survivors?
Gone.
Rain begins to fall.
Light.
But enough to wash away the blood.
Not the silence.
And yet…
three silhouettes walk the ruins.
Clown. Ferre. Wemmbu.
Footsteps silent.
No one speaks.
Clown scans chests methodically.
Ferre searches the lower floors.
Wemmbu fiddles with disabled traps, triggering them for the satisfying click of redstone.
They don’t loot everything.
They select.
Ferre takes books: strategies, maps, logs.
Clown only keeps totems, potions, a few player heads
which he later tosses into the void.
Wemmbu picks up a scorched banner. Stares at it.
Then plants it atop a pile of rubble.
— Symbolic, right?
Ferre says nothing.
Clown, not looking up, mutters:
— Still not funny.
Wemmbu bursts out laughing.
— And yet, you’re still smiling.
He flicks a diamond into the lava like a coin into a fountain.
All around, only ghosts remain.
A civilization wiped.
Disconnected names.
Erased tags.
Three still standing.
No celebration.
Just sorting.
Then they leave.
No backward glance.
The world stays eerily quiet.
No alert.
No chat message.
No announcement.
But everyone saw the deaths.
Everyone saw the names.
FerreMC. ClownPierce. Wemmbu.
They fly low, through abandoned forests.
Their elytras cut the air silently.
Rain still follows light, almost respectful.
They don’t talk.
Not yet.
At the edge of an old swamp, they stop.
A portal. Two neat chests. A disarmed trap.
And a trapdoor, sunk in the ground.
They descend, no light.
Their base is invisible from the outside.
Buried deep.
Reinforced with obsidian, pistons, fake blocks.
A HQ without comfort.
But everything optimized.
Clown tosses potions into labeled barrels.
Wemmbu sorts loot by rarity, burning anything “average.”
Ferre sets aside books, plans, especially… redstone notebooks from the Motherland.
— Those guys knew how to trap a base, he murmurs.
He sits at the anvil.
Begins fusing enchantments.
Precise. Focused.
Clown walks to the cartography table.
Unfolds a map.
Strikes through a region.
— One less.
Wemmbu lounges on a hay block, boots muddy.
Gnaws a golden apple.
— Didn’t even need to swing tonight. Almost disappointing.
He chuckles.
Clown stares blankly.
— We’re not here for your amusement.
— Maybe. But if you want me to be useful, let me have some fun.
Ferre glances up.
— You’ll get your shot. The other base had better defenses.
Silence.
Clown opens a shulker.
Lays out the preserved loot:
Level V books. Netherite chestplates. Power bows. Rare totems.
Everything finds its place.
— You see their faces? Wemmbu asks, standing.
— Thought the girl would cry. The one with the pink name.
Ferre slams a chest shut.
— We’re not here for that.
— I know. But I remember faces. Important, that. The ones who come back later… with TNT strapped to their backs.
He slaps the trapdoor shut.
Sits beside the anvil.
— So. When are we seeing him?
Ferre checks the wall clock.
— He’s not coming. We’re going to him.
Silence.
Clown closes the map. Grabs an ender pearl.
— Let’s move.
They look at each other.
A brief nod.
No more words.
They resurface.
Destination: The Empire.
Destination: Spoke.
The sun is high. Noon, maybe.
But inside the chamber, it’s dark.
No banners. No chairs.
Just a table.
And Spoke.
He’s already there.
Not waiting.
Just knowing.
Ferre walks in first. Silent.
Sets a shulker on the table.
Clown follows, arms crossed.
Eyes scanning the room.
Wemmbu trails behind, chewing a golden carrot.
— Place is ugly as hell.
Spoke doesn’t react.
Opens the shulker.
Inside: not the rarest loot.
Just the most… significant.
A folded banner.
An enchanted book.
A shattered bedpiece.
He closes it softly.
Looks up.
— You could’ve kept everything.
Ferre meets his gaze.
— This isn’t flattery.
It’s a reminder.
Silence.
Spoke straightens.
Walks around the table, slow, measured.
— The Motherland was a logical target. Too high. Too proud. Too stable.
Clown raises an eyebrow.
— And the Islands? Logical too?
— Strategically, yes. They hovered over you. Dominated. Believed they were safe.
Wemmbu stretches, loud.
— So? We earned our promotion yet?
Spoke stops cold.
— You’ll never be promoted.
Silence.
Ferre breaks it.
— What do you want, Spoke?
He stares.
— For you to stay unpredictable. Stay dangerous. But never… assimilated.
Clown steps forward.
— You want us as weapons.
— You are weapons.
I just want the others to forget how sharp.
He lays down a map.
A remote base.
Nothing strategic.
Nothing flashy.
— That’s for later. Not now.
Ferre watches. Says nothing.
Clown stares at Spoke.
— And if we refuse?
Spoke meets his gaze.
— Then you’ll strike alone.
And sooner or later… the Empire will stop you.
Wemmbu finishes his carrot. Spits crumbs to the floor.
— Is that a threat?
— No. It’s respect.
You’re dangerous.
But not immortal.
Ferre slams the shulker shut.
— We’re not here for glory.
Clown:
— Nor ranks.
Wemmbu:
— Least of all meetings.
They turn to leave.
Ferre glances back.
— When we strike… we strike our way.
Spoke nods.
— I wouldn’t expect less.
The door shuts.
And in the darkness, Spoke stands alone.
He looks at the map.
Draws a red line.
Then whispers:
— Three weapons.
No master.
But for now…
they’re ours.
Notes:
Thank you for reading. Four chapters in, and the tension is at its highest. Next week, everything shifts.
Chapter 5: The Destruction of a Sacred Place
Summary:
The Forest stands no longer.
Fire consumes roots and branches, lanterns dim, and Poafa falls in silence.
The Empire plants its banner, but the Black Trident never even moved.
Notes:
Five chapters in. Thank you for reading and for following this story week after week. The tension is at its peak now: this chapter is the Forest’s fall, a turning point that changes everything.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter V – The Destruction of a Sacred Place
The world is silent now.
Up in the cliffs overlooking the eastern valley, imperial soldiers lie flat in the tall grass. No sound. No movement.
Only gleaming armor beneath camouflage capes.
And in their hands, the sharpest blades on the server.
Below them… the Forest.
The last sanctuary of the free world.
An organic maze. Roots thick as pillars. Leaves shaped like domes. Suspended bridges between trunks.
Lanterns in the trees. Berry fields. Symbols carved into bark.
Nothing looks like a base.
And yet, you can feel it’s protected.
— Is that really it? Leo whispers.
His helmet itches. He takes it off.
His eyes search between the trees.
There are no visible soldiers.
But he feels the watchers.
Next to him, FlameFrags rises.
No camouflage on him.
Just polished, reinforced netherite armor that intimidates without a word.
He hands a scroll to MinuteTech.
A map of the terrain.
Every arrow marked by hand.
Every weak spot identified.
— South bastion, swamp zone. Soil’s too soft. They couldn’t fortify.
He doesn’t speak louder than necessary.
And still, everyone hears him.
— Tai, you breach. Minute, force the undergrounds. Leo, with me. Flowtives is already moving.
No one questions it.
One by one, the players leave the ridge.
At the rear, more names follow: TaiMC tightens his chestplate. Leo sharpens his blade. Minute primes his redstone clocks.
Every step is measured.
Every breath accounted for.
They’re not here to talk.
They’re here to plant a flag.
A bit further, in a hollow of terrain, Flame pauses.
He looks toward the heart of the Forest.
Squints.
And without turning to the others, he mutters:
— We tear the bark. We strike the core. We leave nothing to grow back.
Then he walks.
Without stopping.
Straight into the woods.
The Forest knew.
Long before dawn.
Before sunlight brushed the leaves, a strange wind had risen. Warm. Dry.
Carrying the scent of scorched stone and trampled grass.
Wallibear had roused the towers. Coldified vanished into the tunnels.
Sharpness had stayed up all night.
He hadn’t moved.
In the heights, the watchers didn’t need spyglasses.
The torches behind them dimmed. The sound of blades sharpening echoed through the galleries.
And at the horizon… nothing.
Just silence.
But silence is the greatest warning.
In a chamber carved beneath a sacred grove, Nufuli stared at the map. Every pixel stood for a trunk, a stump, a hidden path.
And now… some were fading.
— Beacons are falling.
Poafa raised her eyes.
She understood.
No further words needed.
She stepped forward, placed a hand on the bark of the great central tree.
— They’ve begun.
Around them, the Forest had gathered.
Mixiku finished tying his arrows. Tachy drew retreat paths. Wallibear helped the youngest climb to the upper platforms.
No panic.
But everyone felt it the end of an age.
And in the shadows… a whispered question:
— What if the Trident joined them?
A chill passed through.
No answer.
But in their eyes, fear. Not of death.
Of being erased.
Of being betrayed by the world itself.
Sharpness spat into the dirt.
— Doesn’t matter. Let them come. Clown, Ferre, Wemmbu, Empire or not, I’ll be waiting.
But even he, that old warrior…
had tightened his grip on his blade.
The sky is heavy. A layer of gray clouds presses down on the canopy.
In the distance, the plains lie still. But deep in the Empire’s tunnels, footsteps echo. Orders barked. Weapons polished one last time.
FlameFrags suits up slowly, methodically.
His cape tied. His helmet locked.
He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
— We move.
That’s all he says.
Behind him, TaiMC seals his armor. Leo checks his potions. Flowtives adjusts his recon gear.
MinuteTech doesn’t speak.
He’s already rigged two traps along the path.
Not for the enemy.
For what they haven’t understood yet.
Together, they leave the capital.
No scouts. No warning.
The Empire doesn’t come to negotiate.
Far off, between the trees, the Forest of the Holy Spirit still breathes.
A barrier of enchanted leaves blocks the way. A field of sacred lanterns flickers in the breeze. Coldified reinforced them. Mixiku watches from a tower. Wallibear walks silently. Sharpness sharpens his sword in the dark.
No one has slept since the hardcore announcement.
But the enemy hadn’t struck.
Until this morning.
An arrow pierces the sky.
And within moments fire falls.
Flame never gave the order.
He prepared it.
The plan is simple: surround, isolate, disarm.
Tai leads the western flank. Neutralizes the sentries. Cuts the channels.
Leo pushes from the north, opening a corridor in the canopy.
Minute places an explosive at the sanctuary’s core.
He doesn’t know if it’ll blow. He doesn’t care.
He’s there to unbalance.
Flame enters alone from the south.
A column of fire rises behind him.
The ground burns.
The roots weep.
And in the echo of flame… Poafa stands.
— Stop.
Flame halts, for a second.
His armor crackles.
— Too late.
He raises his axe.
He does not step back.
The clash is brutal.
Flames erupt.
Leaves scatter.
A light bursts between them.
Not an explosion, a prayer.
But it’s not enough.
Poafa falls.
No scream.
Just silence.
A white halo shatters on the ground.
Her axe remains buried in the dirt, untouched.
Nufuli is not there.
Some say he fled north, wounded. Others believe he’d already left the Forest. That he’d felt the end coming.
Sharpness gathers the last defenders. Coldified tries to trap the western tunnel entrance, but Tai bypasses it. Wallibear stalls Leo but retreats alone. Cornered, he vanishes into the roots.
Flowtives watches.
He didn’t fight.
He fought.
But without passion.
He disarmed a post. Disabled two traps. Covered Minute.
But something cracked in him.
When the great branches fall… he doesn’t move.
He looks at the ashes. The torn grass. A shattered bow in the dirt.
He whispers, to no one:
— It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Behind him, Flame gives the order to raise the banner.
Minute gazes up at the central tower.
Empty.
And Leo, wordless, slips away into the smoke-covered woods.
The Forest didn’t surrender.
It was uprooted.
And no one knows what’s worse.
The battle is over.
Only members remain.
The ground is scorched. Grass still smolders. Where the central tree once stood, there’s only a crater, damp, littered with burned shavings.
Lanterns hang from dead branches.
They no longer shine.
They melt into the ash.
Flowtives walks slowly. He says nothing. He looks.
A half-burnt book lies in the mud. He picks it up without thinking.
The first pages are gone.
The rest is scribbled, trembling.
A prayer to the light. A vow to protect.
One phrase, still legible:
“Do not answer violence. Answer with balance.”
He closes the book.
Around him no one.
Flame has already left.
Tai carried off the weapons.
Leo checks the tunnels.
Minute rebuilds a path to the south.
Flowtives stays behind.
He sits against a smoking stump. The air is acrid. The wood groans beneath the coals.
He looks at his hands.
Shaking.
No blood. No burns. Just a dirt that won’t come off.
He speaks to himself, low:
— We didn’t kill an outpost.
He swallows. Looks around.
— We killed… something alive.
He doesn’t know if it’s a thought. Or a regret.
Maybe neither.
Maybe just that sense of having crossed an invisible line.
He looks at the imperial banner, planted atop the ruins.
Red. Straight. Solid.
He looks away.
In the silence of the woods, a quiet fear rises.
Not of war.
Not of death.
Something subtler.
The fear of no longer knowing what you’re fighting for.
Flowtives gets up.
He says nothing.
But as he leaves the Forest…
he doesn’t take back his sword.
And he doesn’t meet Flame’s eyes.
The Forest has fallen.
The news spreads fast.
Too fast.
No official announcement. No speech.
Just whispers, passed from player to player.
Twisted, confused, but always ominous.
— They burned everything.
— Even the lanterns.
— Poafa’s dead.
— Nufuli’s gone.
No one says victory.
Even in the Empire’s corridors, the word is avoided.
Zam says nothing.
Owen watches him in silence.
Spoke writes slowly, without looking up.
Underground, Reddoons dispatches scouts.
Leo doesn’t return to the core for two days.
Tai checks the maps, recalculates the lines.
And Flame… resumes training.
As if nothing happened.
But the eyes have changed.
War is no longer theoretical.
It has a taste. A sound. A smell.
And above all… a cost.
Some newer recruits start to wonder.
Not aloud.
Just a little more silence in the main hall.
A little less cheer when someone says “mission.”
Because what the Empire doesn’t say…
everyone knows.
This wasn’t an attack.
It was a demonstration.
And what scares people most…
is not that Flame led the assault.
Or that the traps were disarmed.
Or that the generals didn’t make a single mistake.
It’s something else.
Something heavier.
The fact that the Black Trident wasn’t there.
Clown. Ferre. Wemmbu.
None of them participated in the Forest’s destruction.
They weren’t needed.
And for the other civilizations…
that’s more terrifying than if they had been in the front lines.
Because if the Empire can wipe out a place like the Forest
without even using its deadliest weapons…
Then what do the rest have?
Stone walls?
Fragile alliances?
Hope that the fire burns elsewhere?
Some whisper it already:
— If the Trident moves… we’re dead.
And in the skies, every black silhouette becomes a bad omen.
Notes:
One sanctuary is gone. The others are waiting. Next chapter, the world learns that the Empire doesn’t conquer. It annihilates.
Chapter 6: Annihilation
Summary:
The Empire stops negotiating and starts erasing.
The Sky Coalition falls from the clouds without a single shot fired, and the Third World. The server’s last hidden sanctuary faces the same fate.
Flame commands, Zam approves, and Spoke watches the cost mount in silence.
Notes:
The waiting is over: the Empire no longer conquers, it annihilates.
In this chapter the war stops being about territory or alliances. It becomes a demonstration of absolute power, carried out without banners or speeches.
Thank you for every read, kudos, and comment; your support keeps this story alive week after week.
Take a breath before you start: the fall of the sky is only the beginning.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter VI – Annihilation
The world has been in hardcore mode for days.
And yet… it’s not death that strikes. It’s the waiting.
Players build, mine, train.
But their gaze has changed.
Every move is measured. Every silence weighs heavy. Every mistake can kill.
High up, a few scattered groups still hide.
They don’t provoke.
They don’t attack.
But they don’t obey either.
In the shadows, the Empire reads their silence as a statement.
And decides it’s time to act.
At the center, the capital pulses like a mechanical heart.
The flow is constant. Orders fall. The walls still rise.
FlameFrags has retreated to a personal bastion, a stone room without ornaments, where he receives reports.
MinuteTech helps calibrate the weapon systems.
MrCube6 optimizes the turrets.
Leo, silent, coordinates fallback plans.
Reddoons traces routes. That’s all he does. But he does it well.
And Spoke…
Spoke is still there. But no one looks at him anymore.
He listens. He takes notes.
But no one asks for them.
Zam, meanwhile, stands more and more alone.
He gives speeches in the name of security.
He speaks of unification, of stability, of vision.
But the Empire no longer listens to words.
It follows direction.
And that direction, today, points to the sky.
The first target has been chosen.
The Sky Coalition.
A civilization born from a dream.
Suspended islands, built high above, far from conflict.
No aggression. No alliances. No strategic interest.
But they refused the Empire’s invitation.
And for Flame, that was enough.
— Everything that floats without anchors will eventually fall.
He says it without hatred.
Just as a fact.
And while orders circulate…
the Empire’s channels flood with activity.
Two divisions are mobilized.
The strike is ready.
Not to retaliate.
Not to answer.
But to strike.
To strike the skies.
They had watched them float.
From the ground, the Sky Coalition looked like fireflies hanging in the air.
A string of islands, carved in white stone, supported by obsidian pillars and levitation generators.
It was said they had never mined the ground.
Never dug beneath their feet.
They lived in the heights. Built in the clouds.
They dreamed… far from everything.
But to the Empire, that dream had become a threat.
The plan was simple.
And terrifying.
Don’t climb.
Don’t negotiate.
Make it fall.
Flame orchestrated it all.
The engineers MinuteTech and Cube studied the generators, mapped the energy columns, pinpointed weak spots.
Leo organized the rotations.
Reddoons drew the attack paths.
The chosen day was nothing special.
There had been no insult. No provocation.
Just one line in a command ledger.
A mission.
At dawn, the troops moved.
But they didn’t look up.
They dug.
Beneath the islands, through the mountain, between stone veins, Flame’s teams disabled the pillars.
They placed TNT at regular intervals, each charge connected to a secondary redstone line, coded to avoid accidents.
It was precise. Slow. Surgical.
No arrow fired.
No sound.
And above, in the sky, the Coalition was preparing a banquet.
It was their founding anniversary.
They hung lanterns. Set cakes on tables.
They laughed.
When the generators detonated, no one understood.
The tremors were brief.
The structures wobbled.
Then, like a house of cards… they fell.
One island collapsed. Then another.
Wood caught fire. Glass shattered. Quartz slabs crashed into the valleys.
Some jumped.
Others died without realizing.
But those who survived… saw.
They saw the torches on the ground.
The trenches.
The Empire’s emblems carved into the rock.
They understood.
And that’s when Flame gave the second order:
Say nothing.
No speech.
No claim.
Only silence.
A silence more violent than any banner.
Hours later, the Sky Coalition wandered the plains.
Some hid.
Others walked without aim.
Their skins covered in dust. Their items scattered.
They no longer spoke.
And when the Empire sent emissaries, they didn’t have the strength to run.
— You may stay, said Owenjuice. The ZamEmpire will take you in. We won’t ask anything… except obedience.
— You’ll get food, added Reddoons. And armor.
They didn’t threaten.
They promised.
And the Coalition, broken, lowered their eyes.
They didn’t live on an island.
Nor in a forest.
Not even in the Overworld.
They lived elsewhere.
The Third World wasn’t a faction.
It was a rumor.
A hidden network in the End, withdrawn in its own laws, its own circles.
They were never seen in chat.
You didn’t bump into them in hubs.
Only whispers of their name.
They built libraries.
Machines.
Obsidian sanctuaries.
They held the server’s secrets.
And refused to share any.
When Flame proposed the assault, some hesitated.
— Too risky, said Cube.
— Too unstable, muttered Leo.
— Too pointless, added Spoke without much conviction.
But the vote was clear.
Zam didn’t raise his voice.
He simply said:
— This world no longer tolerates blind spots.
And the order fell.
Strike.
Entry was difficult.
Portals had been disguised.
Traps laid in the End spawn’s void.
But the troops advanced.
They descended obsidian corridors, passed altars, enchanted barriers.
Silence was absolute.
No players in sight.
But the books were there.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Scattered on tables, in chests, embedded in walls.
Research. Experiments.
No one knew exactly what on.
— If you don’t understand what you’re destroying, whispered Spoke…
then you have no idea what you’ve become.
But no one answered.
MinuteTech shut the exits.
MrCube disabled the anchors.
Flowtives secured the corridors.
And Flame… set the pace.
Room by room.
Section by section.
They didn’t kill.
They erased.
Void bridges collapsed.
Portals were sealed.
Books tossed into the abyss.
When the Third World players teleported back, they recognized nothing.
Some fled.
Others tried to resist.
But it was too late.
The heart of their capital, an octagonal hall lined with emeralds was turned into an imperial bastion.
Pillars rebuilt.
Flags raised.
Zam didn’t celebrate.
He watched.
Then left.
A few hours later, in a forgotten capital tunnel, Flowtives ran into Spoke.
He stopped.
— They hadn’t attacked anyone.
Spoke barely looked up.
— No.
— They were just trying. To understand. To discover.
Silence.
— And yet they fell.
Spoke didn’t answer.
But his eyes said enough.
Flowtives kept walking.
Slower.
He didn’t know what disturbed him.
The order?
The fire?
The logic?
No.
It was what he could no longer justify.
And what he was beginning to understand.
There were no more enemies.
Only excuses.
The war moved forward.
And Spoke… stepped back.
He hadn’t left the Empire.
Hadn’t run.
But he was no longer there.
He no longer attended meetings.
He no longer joined briefings.
They still mentioned his name out of habit. But no one truly listened.
He spent his days in tunnels.
Reading maps.
Redrawing access points.
Watching comings and goings.
He said nothing.
He took notes.
One day, Leo came to him.
He hesitated, then whispered:
— You should talk to Zam.
Spoke replied without turning:
— And tell him what? That fire burns?
Leo didn’t know how to answer.
Within the Empire’s walls, everything looked solid.
But in the air… something tensed.
Zam stood firm.
Flame, relentless.
Cube, silent.
Minute and Mane, efficient.
But the looks were changing.
Less confident.
Less clear.
And Owen, too, grew more distant.
Spoke, alone in the depths, scribbled a sentence in a notebook.
One that kept coming back.
Over and over.
“When an Empire stops listening to its architects… it’s because it no longer needs to build.”
He closed the book.
And in the silence of the gallery…
he wondered if it was already too late.
Notes:
Thank you all for reading and for every comment, kudos, and quiet theory. Your support keeps this world alive.
The Empire may have conquered the skies, but victory breeds a different kind of loss, one no battle can win.
Next week the story turns inward: founders fade, loyalties fray, and a single forgotten name begins to echo through the server.
Remember this silence. It’s the sound of power starting to forget itself.
Chapter 7: Forgotten
Summary:
Power forgets faster than men.
Spoke sits among the High Council like an empty chair while Flame and the generals drive the Empire forward without him.
Owenjuice watches in silence, loyalty fraying, and far beyond the capital Flowtives follows a rumor long buried. A name the Empire declared dead: Nufuli.
Whispers of Nufara spread, and the cracks inside the Empire widen.
Notes:
This chapter slows the march of war to show what victory leaves behind: founders ignored, allies forgotten, and a quiet rebellion born in silence.
Read closely; sometimes the smallest names carry the loudest echoes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter VII – The Forgotten
He’s there. Every day.
He climbs the steps. Walks through the corridors. Passes under the arches of the High Council. Sits in the same seat. And no one says a word.
Spoke is still a member. Officially. Still one of the founders. Still the one who laid the first roads, drew the first maps, placed the first foundations of the Imperial power. But in the chamber, gazes slide over him as if he were just an empty chair.
The discussions move fast. Flame proposes, Reddoons confirms, Cube follows through. Zam no longer corrects anything. Minute and Leo nod. The Council turns. Without him.
Sometimes he tries. A question. A doubt. A word.
— What if we waited for their move?
— Too late, says Flame.
— But we could avoid
— You can’t avoid fear, Reddoons cuts.
And that’s it. His voice vanishes. Swept away like a breath.
He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t leave the room. He stays. Until the end. Out of respect. Out of clarity. Maybe out of pride.
But each day, he walks down the steps of power a little more alone.
He observes the walls. The ones he helped build. The rhythm of the guards. The signs updated without him. The military, logistical, and diplomatic organization which no longer includes him.
The hallways no longer bear his name. They move forward without him. As if the page had been turned without being read.
He crosses Flame in a corridor. He tries a word. Nothing. Flame doesn’t even stop.
Reddoons avoids him. Out of caution. Or calculation.
Leo lowers his gaze. Minute looks away.
And Zam… Zam looks at him. But says nothing.
The days go by.
Spoke drifts away from the Council, but no one notices that he no longer speaks.
He is there. Present. But faded.
A political ghost.
So he starts writing again.
Not in official books.
In notebooks.
Emergency plans.
Escape maps.
Lists of names he will no longer speak.
And in a deep room, in silence, he lights a torch.
He no longer prepares the Empire.
He prepares what’s left… after.
He’s still there too.
Not in battles. Not in major decisions. But there, just behind Zam.
Owenjuice has never left the Empire.
He has never criticized it.
He has never betrayed.
But lately, his silence is no longer a stance. It’s a consequence.
At first, he still attended the meetings. Attentively. Loyally. He asked the right questions, sought compromise, rebalanced tensions.
But slowly, his name slipped to the bottom of the invitation lists.
Then disappeared.
No one excluded him. Not officially. There was no vote. No attack.
Just a lack of invitation.
An unprepared chair.
A word no longer requested.
So Owen stays where he can.
In the corridors. Close to the central hall.
Close to Zam.
Always within reach.
But never consulted.
Zam didn’t push him away.
But he didn’t hold him back either.
Between them, there is no longer a dialogue.
Only that look. That look Zam sometimes casts in his direction. A heavy, tired look. As if he sees in Owen the part of himself he had to sacrifice.
And Owen keeps going. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t break.
But he feels it.
He sees the Empire move on… without needing him.
No more missions are assigned to him.
No more messages sent his way.
He has become, without realizing it, a witness of a past no one wants to reread.
So he fades in turn.
He walks alone.
He notes what he can. He listens to what remains.
And sometimes, in the evening, he descends into an empty wing of the palace, sits on a slab, and looks at the sky through a broken window.
He tells himself power forgets faster than men.
And that soon, he’ll be nothing more than a username in the logs of a massive server.
But he won’t leave.
Not yet.
As long as Zam is there, Owen will stay.
Not for the Empire.
But for what it once was.
He wasn’t there at the beginning.
He wasn’t one of the founders, nor one of the key names in the Empire’s rise.
He arrived later. Quiet. Observant. Skilled.
At first, he truly believed in what they were building.
An organized world. A stable hierarchy. Resources distributed.
He had joined the Empire not out of fear, but out of choice.
Because he preferred order to chaos.
Method over violence.
He was given a role.
Not prestigious. Not central. But useful.
He knew the caves. He knew how to optimize paths, secure tunnels.
A technical soldier, reliable, respected.
Never loud. Never front and center.
But always there when needed.
That’s why the fall of the Forest of the Holy Spirit hit him differently.
It wasn’t his mission. He didn’t take part. But he had read the reports.
And he had seen the images.
The burned trees. The overturned chests. The charred moss, the trampled sacred books.
And that name, over and over, in the death logs: Poafa.
He knew that username.
Not personally. But like one knows a legend.
Poafa was one of the few respected across all civilizations.
A diplomat. A builder.
Not a fighter.
Flowtives stared at that line of text for a long time:
FlameFrags killed Poafa.
He reread it. Several times.
He thought about the Forest. What it represented.
An idea, more than a nation. A memory of spawn.
And the Empire had crushed it.
Without hesitation.
Without discussion.
Like a target.
Since then, something broke in him.
He keeps digging. Fulfilling orders.
But his paths take longer. His responses come slower.
He sometimes takes useless detours. Stops at mountaintops, just to watch the plains.
He doesn’t speak.
But in his silences, a certainty grows.
What they’re doing isn’t building anymore.
It’s erasing.
One day, he stops in front of a forgotten sign, at the border of an old abandoned stronghold.
The letters are half erased.
But he recognizes a few: Nufuli.
He stands there for a long time.
Then he whispers to himself:
— He’s not dead.
And he leaves.
He doesn’t yet know what he’ll do.
But he knows one thing:
He won’t fight for forgetting.
He told no one.
He took nothing of value. Just what was needed to survive. A few blocks, some food, a compass.
His inventory was empty, like his mind.
No plan. No alliance.
Just a direction. Far from the center. Far from the map.
He left at night.
No speech. No farewell.
Some saw him in passing, but none understood.
They thought he was on a mission. No one distrusted Flowtives.
He went through the swamps. Then through the plains.
He skirted the old cliffs, where the Empire no longer places torches.
No one builds there anymore.
The chunks are old, the blocks uneven.
It’s as if the world itself had been forgotten.
One evening, he stopped in front of a lost valley.
An ancient crater.
Behind it, a chain of black mountains.
He sat.
And he waited.
No one knows if he found what he was looking for.
Some say he stumbled upon a ruined base, dug deep into the rock.
Others claim he crossed paths with a hooded figure.
No one can confirm. No one knows.
But a few days later, in the farthest corners of the server, a name started circulating again.
A name thought to be extinct.
Nufuli.
And with it… a new word.
Nufara.
Some describe it as a base. Others, as a sanctuary.
It appears on no official map. No Imperial player has found its entrance.
But the rumor grows.
And those who doubt, who flee, who seek something else…
begin to speak of it like a legend.
A refuge.
A last hope.
The Circle, upon hearing the name, says nothing.
But Spoke pauses for a beat, when he reads it.
The Empire does not react.
Officially, Nufuli is dead. Gone with the Forest.
But in the shadows… something stirs.
Notes:
Thank you all for reading and for every kudo, comment, and quiet theory. Your support keeps this story alive each week.
The Council may ignore Spoke and Owen, but the server itself has not forgotten.
Far from the capital, new names begin to surface, and a different kind of beginning waits in the dark.
Next chapter, fresh players arrive and an idea older than the Empire takes its first breath.
The Circle is only the start.
Chapter 8: The Foundation
Summary:
New players appear on the server, wandering through an untouched landscape before discovering the vast, ordered sprawl of the ZamEmpire.
Drawn beneath its surface, they find a hidden network where quiet alliances are forged and the first stones of a parallel world are laid.
Notes:
With this chapter we leave the prologue behind and open Act II.
The first arc showed the Empire’s rise and the fractures already forming inside it; now the story widens.
Fresh arrivals shift the balance, old names begin to move in the shadows, and the long conflict enters its next phase.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter VIII – The Foundation
A flash.
Then another.
Two successive spawns in the harsh light of a still-virgin world.
A plain stretched out before them, vast and silent, without structure, without roads, without a name. The sun was high. Leaves rustled in the distance. And Parrot, already, was jumping on a dirt block, laughing.
— Brooo let’s gooo! New server, new world, I’m so hyped! What do we do? Rush the Nether or just chill?
Wifies, calmer, collecting some wood.
— Chill man, chill. There’s not even a village in sight, relax. Let’s at least try not to starve on Day 1, alright?
They laughed. They had nothing. No gear, no goal. Just two light hearts in a vast world.
They talked about building a base together, a small discreet spot, no leaders, no drama.
Parrot dreamed of their own rules, peaceful farming, a server where they’d do things their way.
And all around them, the grass danced softly in the wind.
The day was slowly fading behind the hills. A golden light flooded the plain, casting a soft, almost unreal tint over the blocks. Parrot walked ahead, his inventory already cluttered with wood, a few berries, and two makeshift axes. Wifies, a bit farther back, was managing the chests, set against the hillside beneath their rudimentary shelter.
They talked about everything. The biome, the sky, the caves they’d spotted down below. They still laughed a little. Not loudly. But sincerely.
They were alone in this world. And for now, it was perfect.
A rustle. Light. Too precise to be a sheep or a wolf.
Wifies looked up first.
A silhouette stood against the light, at the top of a hill. Netherite helmet. No weapon drawn. Just… a presence.
He didn’t come down right away. He watched them first. For a long time. Without a word.
Then he approached.
By reflex, Parrot stepped back one block.
— Yo, the player said calmly. You guys new?
His voice was steady, almost tired.
— Definitely, Parrot replied after a second’s pause. We just spawned. There’s… not much around here.
The player nodded slowly. He seemed to weigh each of his words.
— There are people. Just not here. If you’re looking for something solid, something structured… there’s the ZamEmpire. That’s usually where everything converges.
Wifies, still farther back, crossed his arms.
— And you? You from there?
The man shrugged vaguely.
— I’ve been there. Stayed a long time. It’s clean. Well run. But it’s… particular.
— Particular how? asked Parrot.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at their camp, modest but organized. The slightly misaligned torches. The wooden chest. The small furnace.
— Not a bad place to start out. You’ll see for yourselves. Just… don’t stay too visible at night.
He turned away, ready to leave. His boots already sliding silently over the dirt.
Parrot took a step toward him.
— What’s your name?
He stopped. A quarter of a second. Then answered, without turning around:
— Flowtives.
And before they could ask anything else, he vanished into the trees.
Silence.
Parrot looked at Wifies. Wifies was staring at the spot where Flowtives had disappeared.
No trace of his passage. Not even a particle. Nothing.
— So… Empire? Parrot offered, trying to shake off the tension.
Wifies took a moment before answering. Then muttered:
— Empire.
The sun had almost vanished. And in the sky, the first stars had just appeared like so many unanswered questions.
They walked for two days.
Through forests and hills, following the sun and a few half-erased signs, guided more by instinct than logic. Parrot had crafted a boat to cross a river. Wifies complained about creepers.
The tone was still light, but something had changed since Flowtives. A quieter tension. A waiting.
Then, on the morning of the third day, it appeared.
Massive.
A light stone wall, ten blocks high, stretched toward the horizon. Square black obsidian towers marked the corners. Banners in red and gold fluttered in the wind. And at the top of the main gate, a name carved in stone:
ZAMEMPIRE.
Parrot stood still for a few seconds.
— Dude… that’s gigantic.
Wifies gave a low whistle.
— What is this madness… it’s not a city, it’s a whole server by itself.
They passed through the gates slowly. No one stopped them. No guards. Just a silence… orderly.
Their eyes wandered over the architecture. Geometric buildings, perfectly aligned. Impeccable redstone paths on the ground, lined with lanterns. Iron golems patrolled in regular rhythm, never crossing paths. Players passed by, well-geared some in full netherite, others in simpler clothes. None of them spoke. Not a single one greeted them.
Parrot glanced at a stall. A villager perfectly placed, stuck in an optimized corner. A wall of signs showed exchange rates, with numerical columns. Everything was… precise. To the millimeter.
— Feels like a factory, he murmured.
— Or a sanctuary, replied Wifies. I don’t know if it’s creepy or fascinating.
They kept walking without a real goal. Just guided by the main road, almost pulled in. They passed under a monumental arch, then along a canal bordered by tinted glass. And finally, in a darker alley, away from the perfect order, a figure stepped away from the wall.
A person. No armor. Just a presence and a natural charisma.
A username: Spoke.
He didn’t move right away. He watched them, as if he’d been expecting them.
Then his voice rose. Calm. Sharp.
— You’re not from here.
Parrot nearly jumped. He hadn’t expected to be approached. He glanced around quickly, but it was just the three of them in the alley.
— We just arrived, he replied. We’re… looking for somewhere to settle.
Spoke took a step toward them. No sudden move. No threat. Just a measured slowness.
— Spawn is behind you. The Empire is ahead. And in between… are those who hesitate.
Wifies frowned.
— What’s that supposed to mean?
A silence. Then a faint smile.
— Nothing important. I just watch the newcomers. Some pass through. Others stay. And a few… are searching.
He paused. His gaze moved between them. Then he added, almost in a whisper:
— You seem like the searching kind.
Parrot exchanged a look with Wifies. There was nothing aggressive in that voice. But it carried something heavier. Something larger.
— Who are you, exactly? asked Wifies.
— Spoke.
Then he slowly turned his head toward an even narrower alley, further downhill. A flight of stairs. A flickering light. An unknown path.
— Come. I’ve got a quiet place. No guards. No noise. Just a few ideas.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He started down.
Parrot hesitated for half a second. Then muttered to himself:
— I feel like this is gonna get weird.
Wifies replied with a dry little laugh:
— Bro. If we die, I want it known that this was your idea.
And they followed him.
They descended in silence.
The steps, carved directly into the stone, curved slowly toward the lower levels of the city. From time to time, a torch in the wall cast long shadows on the blocks, but darkness remained dominant. The sounds of the surface world faded little by little. No more golems. No more villagers. No more structure.
Just them.
At the end of the corridor, a wooden door. Simple. No sign, no decoration. Spoke placed his hand on it, opened it gently, wordless. A soft warmth escaped from inside. Not lava-warmth hearth-warmth.
They entered.
The room was modest. A single chamber carved into the rock, but perfectly tidy. Chests neatly aligned. Smooth slabs. A fire crackled in a corner, encased behind glass. On the walls, a few frames a map, a compass, a feather.
And two players.
The first was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. He wore incomplete iron armor, battered but functional. He stared at them without moving.
The second, seated at a rough wooden table, was writing in a book. When they entered, he looked up, raised an eyebrow, then gave a slight smile.
Spoke closed the door behind them.
— This is Parrot and Wifies. They just arrived, he said simply.
He pointed to the two others.
— Leo. Mapicc.
Neither of them said hello. Leo simply nodded. Mapicc calmly closed his book and set down his quill.
A silence settled over the room. Not awkward. Not tense either. Just… dense.
Then Mapicc broke it.
— I imagine you’ve got questions.
Wifies shrugged with a short laugh.
— Bro… yeah, kind of. Like… what is this place? Are we in a basement or some secret hideout?
Mapicc smiled, without replying.
Parrot, meanwhile, was observing everything. The floor details, the chest types, the fire layout, every block. Nothing was random. It was a place that had been thought through. Not just built.
Spoke moved to a crafting table and grabbed a map, unfolding it on the table.
— Here, everyone has their place. A house. A garden. A chest. And a responsibility.
Wifies stepped closer, intrigued.
— Is this a community or a cult, your thing?
— Neither. Just another way to live here.
Leo spoke for the first time, his voice deep and steady.
— As long as you don’t cause problems, no one comes looking. But you’ve gotta know what you want. No room for tourists.
Parrot nodded slowly.
— And… the army? Flame’s army, I mean. Are they watching this?
Leo smirked.
— They watch everything. Except what they don’t understand.
Spoke turned the map toward them. The district was drawn with care. Tunnels, galleries, side corridors. Coded markers. Symbols only they could read.
— You can stay here, he said. Settle in. Take your time. When you’re ready, we’ll go mining together. And after that… we’ll talk about the rest.
Wifies looked at Parrot. He looked like a kid in a forbidden library.
— I’m not sure if this is creepy or genius.
— Both, replied Parrot. And that’s fine by me.
The next morning the air was colder than the day before.
A faint mist hovered over the heights of ZamEmpire, yet no one seemed to notice. The streets were already busy. Players in armor glided from one building to another, swift and precise. No chatter. No exchange. The Empire functioned like a clock.
But in a forgotten corner of the city, five silhouettes gathered in the shadows.
Spoke. Mapicc. Leo. Parrot. Wifies.
No announcement. No written orders. Just a meeting point, marked by a tilted torch and a cracked slab.
Spoke looked up.
— It starts down here.
He set a lever against a wall. A passage opened slowly with the deep hum of pistons. Behind it, a rough stone staircase plunged into darkness.
They went down without a word.
The main gallery was already ancient. Hand-carved. Supported by dark wooden beams. The walls were still rough, but some segments bore marks: stone frames, a neatly placed chest, torches at regular intervals.
Parrot kicked at an abandoned rail.
— Looks like an old community mine. How old is it?
Mapicc, walking ahead, answered without turning.
— Before the Empire. Before the regions were even divided. This is where it all started, they say.
Leo scanned each corridor with a military eye. He placed discreet markers, etched an X at intersections, counted the torches. Wifies stayed close to Parrot, curious but vigilant.
They stopped at a small natural crossroads. A widened chamber, walls carved down to bare rock. In the center: a furnace. Three chests. A cracked anvil.
Spoke put his pickaxe down.
— This is where we forge.
Parrot raised an eyebrow.
— Isn’t that… symbolic, like a phrase?
Mapicc gave a subtle smile.
— Not as much as you’d think.
They began to mine. Not quickly. Not for loot. Just to… advance. To carve space. To build, block by block, a place they alone would know.
Wifies smelted iron. Parrot lined up blocks. Leo listened for sounds, a skeleton in a deeper cave, no doubt. Spoke marked a line on the ground, heading south.
— Have you always been part of the Empire? asked Parrot suddenly, as he placed a slab.
Silence. Then Spoke answered, without looking up.
— I was there on the first day. With Zam. We laid the foundations. We believed in a civilization. A real one.
He stood straight. His eyes fixed on the wall ahead.
— But very quickly, power made its choices. And the builders… we were forgotten.
Mapicc added calmly:
— We became useless cogs. Invisible. So Spoke gathered us. Not for revenge. To rebuild.
Leo struck a gravel wall. The dust fell in silence.
— And also a bit for revenge, let’s be honest.
Wifies put down his pickaxe. He looked around slowly. Then spoke quietly.
— So what do you want? To take their place?
Spoke stared at him for a moment.
— No. To be ready when their place empties.
Parrot, crouched on a slab, looked up.
— And you think we… could be part of that?
Silence. Then Spoke replied, without hesitation.
— I wouldn’t have brought you down here if I didn’t think so.
Night had fallen.
Outside, ZamEmpire glowed with a thousand torches. FlameFrags’ guards patrolled the ramparts in silence, armor gleaming, gazes straight ahead. Trade had stopped. Villagers were quiet. The city slept. But deep below, beneath the stone, five players kept watch.
In the house carved into the cliff, the hearth fire still burned behind the glass.
The same room as the first night. The same table. But nothing was the same.
Spoke stood upright. He said nothing. He stared at the wall map, where several zones were circled in red. Marked roads. Mapped tunnels. Noted weak points.
Mapicc sat with arms crossed, focused. Leo crafted an arrowhead. Parrot and Wifies sat down. No one spoke. Silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. They were used to it.
Then Spoke moved toward the table and placed an object.
An enchanted book. Purple cover. No label.
He placed it carefully.
— What we’re founding tonight… this isn’t a faction, he said. Nor an army. Nor a band of rebels.
He looked up.
— It’s an answer.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t seek drama. Every word was straight, measured, precise.
Parrot stared at the book for a moment, then slowly nodded.
— I don’t know where this will go. But I want to be here if it changes things.
Mapicc pointed at the map with a finger.
— The Empire rests on roads that I built myself. They believe they own them. They don’t know… I can shut them down.
Leo finally laid down his arrow.
— I just want them to pay. Those who ignored us. Who spat on us. And those who will come next.
Wifies took a moment. He looked everyone in the eyes.
— Then let’s do it. But not like them. We stay who we are. United. Fair. Not tyrants in the making.
Silence.
Spoke approached the book, pushed it gently toward the center of the table.
— Place your hand. One by one. No witness. No written vow.
He looked at them.
— Just you. Me. And what we’re going to build.
They did it.
No visual effect. No enchantment. No lightning. Nothing but a suspended moment in the warm darkness of this cave-carved room.
The book didn’t react. But they did.
The Circle was born.
A few days passed. Maybe a week. Time was now measured differently. Not by day and night cycles, but by progress. Blocks mined. Chests filled. Paths laid.
Beneath Spoke’s house, a corridor had been opened. Narrow at first, unmarked, directionless. Then, gradually, it was reinforced. Widened. Lit. Beams supported the stone. Torches marked the way. Signs appeared, naming zones, destinations, levels.
They didn’t call it that yet.
But Alpha had been born.
Parrot mapped plans by hand. At first improvisational, but soon the galleries took shape. He had the instinct for structure, the logic of terrain. Leo secured the entrances. Wifies tested access points and placed markers, guiding newcomers. Mapicc managed resources. Spoke… spoke little. He came, looked, adjusted a detail, and left. He knew exactly where they were going.
No one said it aloud, but they all felt it.
Something was being built. Not just a base. Not a hideout.
A structure.
A system.
A parallel world.
The Empire above continued its course. Nothing seemed to shake it. Soldiers patrolled. Markets hummed. Records filled.
But somewhere beneath their feet, in a nameless tunnel, five players moved in silence, each carrying a torch, each carrying a role.
The final block was placed.
The first tunnel was complete.
No one spoke.
But in Spoke’s eyes, one thing was clear:
They had just begun.
Notes:
Next week we find out whether the Circle keeps spreading its quiet network or risks discovery by the Empire itself.
The tension is only climbing, and Alpha’s first tunnels are just the beginning.Thank you all for helping this story reach 400 hits. And for every kudos and comment along the way.
We’re closing in on the 500-hit mark, something I never imagined when this started.
Your support means more than I can say.See you next Sunday. <3
Chapter 9: Conterpower
Summary:
In the shadows beneath the Empire, Alpha grows not as a fortress, but as something far more dangerous: an idea.
New faces join its ranks, old loyalties fracture, and power begins to shift.
As the Circle consolidates, the Empire above tightens its grip.
Whispers of rebellion spread, but so does the fear of discovery.
And deep below, one question lingers. How long can you hide a revolution before it starts shaping the world itself?
Notes:
We’re entering one of the heaviest turns in the story so far.
Alpha grows stronger, but so does the Empire’s control and the balance is starting to crack.
This chapter marks the beginning of the Purge, and the real test of what the Circle stands for.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter IX – Counterpower
Alpha wasn’t a base.
It was a breath.
A refuge carved into stone, beneath the ruins of a fortress the Empire had long forgotten. No towers, no banners. Only a web of tunnels stretching like a scar.
Parrot spent his nights digging corridors, block after block. He had never learned how to build, but the walls spoke for him. Every gallery won was a form of revenge, every torch planted a promise.
At his side, Wifies. Always moving, always a word ready to ease the heavy air of the tunnels. He joked, reassured, encouraged. But behind the smiles was that fixed gaze, that tension that never left him.
Leo built his own guard. Not an official army, but an invisible militia, loyal only to the Circle. Soldiers that did not exist in imperial records, but whose steel rang truer than that of the barracks.
Tai was colder, sharper. Measuring, calculating, already sketching escape routes and fallback lines. A field strategist, speaking little but seeing far.
Mapicc observed everything. His parallel routes began crossing each other, diverting the Empire’s wealth without a single steward daring to admit they understood. A ghost merchant.
And then JumperWho, a more recent arrival, but already essential. She didn’t have Wifies’ spark nor Leo’s authority, but she kept the accounts, distributed the work, organized survival with a rigor that demanded respect.
Behind them, other faces emerged from the dust of the corridors.
Rekrap, quiet, but always volunteering for the thankless jobs.
Woogiex, reserved, but reliable.
Pangi, who still found ways to laugh even when the chests were empty.
And Spongs, insufferable at times, loud always, but whose sheer presence kept the silence from becoming unbearable.
Alpha lived.
Not as a military base. Not yet as a city.
Like an anthill patient, industrious, ready to burst.
The tunnels of Alpha vibrated. Not only with the sound of pickaxes, but with voices, with laughter, with muffled arguments. It was no longer a hideout. It was a small underground city.
Parrot put away his tools, his hands covered in dust. Mapicc came up behind him, arms full of chests.
— You’re digging straight at least? he asked, glancing over.
Parrot lifted his head, a tired smile.
— Straight’s relative. As long as it holds…
Leo, passing behind them, sighed.
— It won’t hold if you keep going like that. Here.
He snatched the half-crumpled plan and spread it flat with a sharp gesture.
Farther away, Mugm and BadBoyHalo were training with iron swords. Their blows rang too hard, too fast in the corridor. Leo joined them instantly.
— You call this a guard? he growled, blocking one of Mugm’s strikes.
— We call it style, Mugm laughed.
BBH added, more serious:
— Tell him, we’re not playing around here.
Leo stared at him for a moment, then gave a rare smile.
— Not bad. You two, you’ll stick close to me.
In one corner, Wifies was chatting with Spongs, who was complaining again about being given the worst room.
— You think that’s a coincidence? Wifies laughed.
— Of course it’s not, Spongs protested. It’s Mapicc. I know him, he hates me.
Without lifting his eyes from his maps, Mapicc replied:
— I didn’t even hear you.
— That’s exactly what I mean, Spongs grumbled.
Rekrap suddenly appeared behind them, wearing a ridiculous leather chestplate.
— Look at me, I’m the new marshal! he shouted, marching like a clumsy soldier.
Laughter rippled through the gallery. Even Tai, usually impassive, cracked the faintest smile.
Jumper walked past, notebook in hand.
— You emptied the potion chest again?
Rekrap raised his hands, mock innocent.
— Me? Never.
— Then it’s Pangi, Jumper said without even looking up.
The sound of shattering glass in the next corridor confirmed it.
Amidst the noise, Wifies paused a moment. He watched the others Mapicc bent over his maps, Leo correcting Mugm and BBH, Tai silent, always observing, Jumper imposing order without seeming to, Pangi swearing as he picked up potions, Rekrap and Spongs bickering.
He smiled.
Alpha wasn’t just a base anymore.
It was a family.
Three faces always stood out in that family: Mapicc, Leo, and Tai.
They were seen walking side by side in the corridors, sitting at the same tables, sharing the same bread. No need for speeches, just a nod, a gesture, a look was enough.
One evening, near the treasure room, Mapicc unrolled a scribbled map.
— These routes if the Empire starts watching them, we lose everything.
Leo leaned in at once, a grin tugging at his lips.
— Then we’ll take them before they do.
Tai crossed his arms, faintly amused.
— Always in a rush… but he’s right. We’ll be there. The three of us.
A brief laugh escaped them, echoing against the stone.
Then, without even thinking about it, their hands all rested on the map at the same time, as though sealing an invisible pact.
They didn’t need an oath.
They already knew.
In Alpha, everyone had their role.
The three of them were the pillars.
Three faces always stood out in that family: Mapicc, Leo, and Tai.
They were seen walking side by side in the corridors, sitting at the same tables, sharing the same bread. No need for speeches just a nod, a gesture, a look was enough.
One evening, near the treasure room, Mapicc unrolled a scribbled map.
— These routes if the Empire starts watching them, we lose everything.
Leo leaned in at once, a grin tugging at his lips.
— Then we’ll take them before they do.
Tai crossed his arms, faintly amused.
— Always in a rush… but he’s right. We’ll be there. The three of us.
A brief laugh escaped them, echoing against the stone.
Then, without even thinking about it, their hands all rested on the map at the same time, as though sealing an invisible pact.
They didn’t need an oath.
They already knew.
In Alpha, everyone had their role.
The three of them were the pillars.
In Alpha, the air grew heavier.
The conversations that usually scattered around the tables drew tighter. Spoke leaned forward, speaking low.
— We need to clean house. You know it as well as I do.
Leo frowned, Mapicc stayed silent. Parrot played with a stone, looking as if he wasn’t listening but not missing a word. Wifies, meanwhile, kept his eyes fixed on Spoke.
— Tonight, Spoke continued, the Empire will believe the order came from above. That it’s logical. But it begins here.
A silence.
Then he added, almost in a whisper:
— We organize. They execute.
No one answered. But all understood.
Zam had summoned his own.
Not the army. Not the stewards. Only the highest.
Thirteen voices who, with his, carried the Empire.
Fourteen seats, strictly ordered around the stone table.
Flame, the marshal, and his five generals: Twirps, Dol9hin, What_Max, Luckymixx, MrCube6.
Reddoons, ever closer to the throne.
Owen, a respected veteran, quiet but constant.
The Black Trident, reduced to two Wemmbu and Clown now sitting as equals among the rest.
And Spoke. The quiet eye, the rare word, the adviser always heard but never quoted.
No empty seat.
No trace.
Ferre had not been replaced. He had been erased.
When Zam entered, the hall fell silent in a single breath.
He did not sit right away.
He slowly walked around the table, his fingers brushing the polished wood, his eyes lingering on each face. One by one.
As though weighing their loyalty.
Then he sat, alone at the head.
And the Council began.
Zam laid both hands on the table.
The silence was total. Only the crackle of torches filled the air.
— The Empire has grown, he said slowly. Too fast. Too wide. The foundations still hold, but they are cracking.
His gaze swept the room. Flame, straight-backed, impassive. Reddoons, focused, ready to record every word. The generals, each in their own way: Twirps with restless impatience, Dol9hin still as a shadow, What_Max vanishing beneath his hood, Luckymixx almost smiling, MrCube6 staring at the table as though already calculating the outcome.
Across from them, Wemmbu and Clown exchanged a quick glance. Owen sat stiff, hands folded. Spoke did not move.
Zam continued:
— Some links are loosening. Some soldiers no longer follow. Some commanders doubt. And the Empire does not need doubt.
A pause. The air grew denser.
— So we will purge.
A single word. Cold. Sharp.
The Purge.
Reddoons nodded, as if the decision were obvious. Flame didn’t flinch.
But Clown grimaced. Wemmbu drew in a breath, ready to speak, then stopped himself.
Zam unrolled a parchment and placed it before him. No one saw what was written.
— A list has been drawn. Names have been chosen.
He didn’t pass the parchment. He didn’t read from it.
He didn’t need to.
— Those who slow us. Those who contest. Those still clinging to an Empire that no longer exists.
His eyes landed on Owen.
Owen held his gaze, but his fingers tightened slightly. He knew.
Zam concluded:
— We have no enemies outside. Then we must protect ourselves from within.
Zam unfolded the parchment. His voice did not waver.
— First name. Ferre.
A heavy silence. Then a crash Clown’s fist slammed onto the table.
— Ferre?! You dare?!
He shot to his feet, fury carved into his face. His eyes darted from Zam to the others, searching for support.
— You talk about purifying the Empire, and you start by erasing the ones who built it! Ferre wasn’t a burden, he was a pillar! And you think we’ll just let you tear our own away from us?!
Wemmbu stood too, grabbing his arm, trying to calm him.
— Clown… I understand. I do. But not now. Not like this.
Clown ripped free, rage burning in his pupils. He turned toward Owen and Spoke.
— And you?! You know what it’s like to be cast aside. You’ve lived through a purge before. Open your eyes, damn it!
Owen froze, lips pressed tight, unable to respond. His gaze had dropped. Spoke, however, didn’t look away at least, not immediately. But he said nothing. At last, his eyes slid down to the table, cold, sealed.
Clown let out a bitter laugh.
— There it is. Silence. Always silence.
Zam sat unmoving, unblinking. Flame rose slowly, raised a hand.
Minute and Mane circled the table.
No swords drawn. No shouting.
Only hands firm, unyielding grabbing, holding.
Clown struggled, trembling with rage, but no blades were unsheathed. Wemmbu stepped in front of him, gripping his collar, whispering with a broken voice:
— Enough. We gain nothing this way.
Clown’s breath came ragged, eyes still locked on Zam. Then on Owen. Then on Spoke.
Nothing. Not a word.
So Wemmbu took him by the collar, dragged him forward, repeating:
— Enough. Nothing to win here.
Flame didn’t hurry. His generals stayed at his back. Minute and Mane pressed Clown toward the door. He resisted for a heartbeat, shaking with fury but his shouts died in the silence of the chamber.
The door opened. Shut with a hard echo.
And the council continued.
As if nothing had happened.
The hall slowly returned to calm. Zam, unshaken, resumed the reading.
Other names followed. Secondary officers. Garrison captains. Figures no one defended.
One after another, spoken aloud, recorded, erased.
No more outbursts. No interruptions. Only the resigned silence that trailed each condemnation.
The council dragged on until the list was done.
Then they all rose, as though nothing unusual had occurred.
Later that night, Spoke left Alpha.
He found Clown and Wemmbu in a forgotten gallery, a relic from the first days.
The three of them spoke for a long time, in hushed voices.
Their words were never reported.
The next day, in Alpha’s shadows, Spoke rejoined the Circle.
No speeches were needed: all already knew.
The Purge had begun.
Zam’s words were only a façade.
The true impulse had started here.
No names spoken aloud.
None needed.
They understood, in silence, that the day had marked a step forward.
A step too far, perhaps.
Alpha smelled of warm stone and iron fresh from the forge. Torches dripped honey-colored light over open shulkers, and the muffled hammer of anvils echoed from the northern wing.
— Hand me the tools, Leo, Mapicc muttered without looking up.
Leo passed him the key with mechanical precision, his other hand still arranging a chest down to the pixel. He wasn’t chatty, just precise. Every few seconds his eyes flicked to the hallway, listening for footsteps approaching, fading.
Tai slid into the room with a grin, already half on comms:
— Trap test in three minutes. I want to see if your “passive security” survives one hit from Mace.
— It’s not “passive,” it’s “invisible,” Mapicc corrected, smirk tugging at his mouth. Big difference.
— Invisible, right. Like your golden apples stash that’s been vanishing for two days, Tai shot back, casually pressing a pressure plate just to watch it click.
Leo’s mouth twitched the faint smile he saved only for them. He plucked the plate up with two fingers, stashed it, and said flatly:
— Not now. You’ll wake all of Alpha.
— That’s the point. If it alerts Alpha, it’ll alert anyone else too, right?
— Not us, Mapicc cut in. We choose when it rings.
Tai raised his hands theatrically.
— Fine. Mister Shadow Manager.
Jumper appeared in the doorway, notebook clutched to her chest, slightly out of breath.
— OK, potion count’s done. Two stacks of speed, one and a half of fire… and someone forgot to label the boxes.
— That was me, Mapicc admitted, already moving to help her. Bad night. I’ll punish myself by sorting redstone.
— Cruel punishment, she smiled, settling in at the table as if she’d always belonged there. She sorted, labeled, stacked. Leo passed her a shield without a word; she tested it, tapped it twice, nodded. Everything flowed.
Wifies had dropped by earlier with bread before vanishing again, mumbling about fixing an “access.” No one asked; lately he seemed to exist in dotted lines, always reappearing with a grin that smoothed over the gaps.
— You’re not listening, Tai nudged Mapicc with an elbow. If we want to keep an edge, we need to practice the shift. I spearhead, Leo follows, you anchor. Basic stuff.
— Basic, Mapicc echoed, sticking an “ingots/sorting” label in place. And if the spearhead forgets to ping?
— I never ping late, bro.
Leo’s voice was quiet, measured:
— You ping fast. Not always “on time.”
A second’s silence. Then Tai barked a laugh.
— That’s what I like. He barely speaks, but when he does it hits dead center.
— That’s why we kept him, Mapicc replied, half-serious, half-teasing.
— You’re the brain. He’s the metronome. Me? I’m the bat.
— Not a compliment. But I’ll take it, said Leo.
They’d edged close without noticing, shoulders brushing, movements syncing without collision. Jumper caught the glance, smiled quietly: they had their own shorthand, a little machine that Alpha watched and copied.
Mugm dashed past, breathing hard, eyes flicking to the table:
— Sparring later? I need to smash something.
— Smash a rock first, Tai snapped. Sparring’s after food.
— Yes sir, Mugm grinned, already gone.
From the hall, BadBoyHalo tossed a casual language that made Mapicc grin. Alpha was alive.
— Parrot? Leo asked softly.
— East tunnels with Spoke, Jumper answered. Something about “flow” and “corridor resonance.” He said he’d drop by after rotation.
— Of course, Tai muttered. When there’s lifting, he vanishes.
— He lifts, Mapicc said. Plans. They’re heavy, you know.
Tai rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched.
They ate right there: bread, berries, a pot of soup Jumper had somehow conjured. Leo split the bread into equal parts, an old habit. Mapicc slid a speed potion to Tai before he even asked. Tai clicked his tongue, caught off guard:
— Stop reading my mind.
— Just your inventory, Mapicc shot back.
— Worse.
Footsteps. Parrot appeared, hair tousled, eyes bright. Spoke followed, two paces back, hands empty, gaze swallowing the room.
— You got a minute? Parrot blurted, no greeting.
— You’ve got thirty, Leo replied.
Parrot unrolled a scrawled map. A line, two notes, a neat circle to the east. He tapped it.
— Alpha holds. But Alpha’s choking. Noise, heat, traffic. We need a second heart. Not an annex. A mirror.
— Duplicate? Mapicc leaned in, already hooked.
— Displace, Spoke said low. Alpha stays the lungs. We build elsewhere as the brain. Two systems. Interlocked. But offset.
Tai tapped the line.
— And the road?
— Discrete, Parrot said. Long. Straight. Not a panic tunnel, a breathing corridor.
— When? Leo asked.
— Tomorrow, Spoke answered, like it was already settled.
Silence not resistance, not triumph. Just that moment when an idea becomes real by the way everyone straightens. Jumper was already jotting notes. Mapicc recalculated his stockpiles. Tai’s grin sharpened at the thought of carving a new path. Leo cut the last of the bread, set half into Parrot’s bag.
— Then we go, he said.
Parrot blinked, surprised at the ease of agreement, then nodded quickly.
— We go.
Spoke barely moved, but Alpha itself seemed to tilt a degree.
— What do we call it? Jumper asked, notebook raised.
Mapicc spoke first, without thinking:
— Gamma.
Tai snapped his fingers.
— Good. Hits hard.
Wifies reappeared in the doorway, dust on his arms, breath uneven. His gaze swept the table, the plan, Spoke. His grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.
— What’d I miss?
Jumper passed him the notes without comment. Wifies skimmed, lifted his eyes to the trio. Tai gave him a nod; Leo held his stare; Mapicc tapped the map’s corner in invitation. He stepped closer, anchored himself between them like before, and this time his laugh rang true.
— Gamma, huh? Fine. We build.
Spoke stepped back. Parrot rolled up the map.
And Alpha, without realizing it, had just taken its first breath with two lungs.
Notes:
We’re only five hits away from 500.
That number might not seem like much, but for a story that started quietly, it means the world. Thank you for reading, for every kudos, every comment, and every person who’s followed Alpha’s path this far.
Next week, Gamma rises.
Parrot leads the way. But can the Circle stay hidden forever?
Chapter 10: Gamma
Summary:
A new base rises beneath the stone.
While the Empire strengthens its grip, Parrot digs in silence far from Alpha, far from the noise.
What he builds is more than a shelter: it’s a new heartbeat for the Circle.
But every secret has its shadow.
Notes:
Gamma begins.
After Alpha’s growth and the Empire’s tightening control, Parrot takes the risk of building something new, something hidden, something alive.
What starts as a simple refuge might become the Circle’s turning point… or its first fracture.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter X – Gamma
Parrot left Alpha without a word. No excuses, no need to warn anyone. A pickaxe, a few blocks, some torches, a bit of food. Nothing else.
The tunnel stretched ahead of him, narrow, silent. His footsteps echoed against raw stone. Every torch he placed pushed the shadows back a little further, but behind him darkness swallowed the light just as quickly, as if erasing his trail.
— Farther… always farther, he muttered to himself.
He had been walking alone for what felt like hours. No voices, no laughter, no Leo cracking jokes, no Mapicc improvising, no Tai shouting too loud. Just the sound of his boots and his own breath. An unusual silence. Almost heavy.
At last he stopped in front of what looked like an ordinary wall. Just another slab of rock. But to him, this was it. The starting point.
He placed a torch, drew in a long breath, and raised his pickaxe.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The sound echoed through the gallery. The first blocks crumbled.
— A hallway… then a floor… then two… three… he murmured between swings.
He talked to himself. Not because he had something to say, but because the silence was too wide.
— The top for the entrance. Below, the farm. And lower still… our rooms.
He paused, smirked faintly.
— “Our.” Like we’re already here.
And he kept going. Swing after swing. Stone fell, steady, monotonous. His arms ached but he didn’t stop. To break the monotony, he began humming a nonsense tune, throwing in words at random.
— Here… the hall. Wide, tall… big enough to breathe. Not like Alpha.
Another swing.
— Down here, the farm. Carrots, wheat… we’ll last for months.
Another swing.
— And deeper… the place we’ll sleep. Where we’ll finally… breathe.
Time stretched. He lost track of how long he had been digging. His hands trembled a little, his shoulders burned, but he kept at it. Because what he was carving into the stone was more than a base: it was an idea.
When at last he set down a torch to look over the cleared space, he stood still. Before him there was only raw emptiness, jagged walls, debris on the floor. But in his mind, Gamma already existed.
And for the first time in a long while, he caught himself smiling alone in the dark.
Parrot descended to the second level. The bare walls still smelled of raw stone. Here, there would be no war room, no hidden passage: only a farm. The place that, more than anything, would make Gamma self-sufficient, cut off from the world.
He planted a few torches, then pulled out his water buckets. Soon the floor was marked with furrows. The smell of damp soil filled the room, an odd mix of cavern and artificial field. Parrot worked without pause, tilling, laying blocks, stretching long lines of dark earth.
— Wheat here… carrots there, he murmured to himself.
The silence grew heavy. To chase it away, he started humming. His movements lightened, his steps found a rhythm. Soon his voice echoed off the stone:
— “My chest is hurting, my feet can’t fall out of bed…”
He shifted a block, straightened the soil.
— “I don’t know where to go, so I’ll lay here instead…”
He moved slowly, his voice bouncing across the walls. The more he sang, the lighter his gestures became.
— “With my symptoms, symptoms of sorrow and dread… They all said it would fade, but again and again…”
He looked up, set another torch, and without restraint let out the refrain:
— “I love, I love… I love, I love, I love… I love, I love, I love…”
He didn’t notice the silhouettes that had slipped in behind him.
— “I loooove 🤣🤣🤣 !” Leo bellowed, arms raised like an opera singer.
Parrot spun around, nearly dropping his water bucket.
Mapicc had already joined in, his voice low and mocking:
— “I love, I love…”
Leo doubled over laughing. Parrot rolled his eyes, but couldn’t hold back a smile. And when the refrain circled back, all three of them shouted it together, off-key, raw, and full of energy:
— “I love, I love, I love! I love, I love, I love!”
The bare walls of Gamma suddenly turned into an improvised concert hall, filled with echoes and laughter.
The laughter took a while to fade. When it finally did, Leo wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
— Bro, you sing worse than Pentar and Yungwillx.
— You haven’t even heard them, Parrot shot back.
— Don’t need to, Leo smirked. I can imagine.
Mapicc dropped another dirt block in place. He didn’t laugh as loudly as Leo, but the curve of his lips betrayed the same camaraderie.
They went back to work side by side. The farm began to take shape. Row after row, lines of wheat and carrots stretched across the soil. Parrot moved quickly, precise; Leo worked more clumsily, and Mapicc quietly fixed the mistakes.
— See? It’s starting to look like something, Parrot said, stepping back to take it all in.
Leo shrugged.
— As long as we’ve got food, I call that a win.
Mapicc finished planting the last seeds and stood upright.
— We’ve done our part. We should head back to Alpha before they start wondering where we are.
Parrot nodded.
— Yeah. Thanks for coming.
Leo slapped his shoulder.
— Of course, man. No way we’d let you farm all this alone.
When Leo and Mapicc left, silence settled again.
Parrot lingered, smoothing the furrows they had worked together. The echo of their laughter still floated in the air, a warmth he wished had lasted longer. But the tunnel swallowed them, and soon there was only the steady rhythm of his hoe in the dirt.
Hours passed like that, measured by the lines he planted.
Torches straightened, soil dampened, first crops sprouting. Sometimes he stopped, hands on his knees, to watch the progress.
It looked like something.
It almost looked… alive.
He straightened, looking around. The torches glowed with a warm light, cutting the vast room into bands of shadow and gold. The space seemed huge, too huge for him alone. A void he tried to fill with every block of dirt he placed.
He went back to work, whistling idly. His voice rose, caught the walls, and faded.
Then a sharp sound echoed behind him. Footsteps.
Parrot turned.
Wifies had just appeared at the end of the hallway. Thin silhouette, hesitant steps. He paused, as if wondering whether to enter at all. Then he took another step forward.
— You found the way, Parrot said with a crooked smile.
Wifies shrugged.
— Let’s say I needed some air… and I wanted to see what you’ve been up to.
His eyes swept over the freshly turned rows of soil, the neat lines where carrots and wheat had just been planted.
— You put in effort, he whispered. Looks almost like… a real refuge.
Parrot chuckled softly.
— That’s the point, right? If we’re stuck here for a while, might as well make it feel like something.
Wifies walked a little further, brushing his hand along the rough walls. His gaze lingered on the farm.
— You think we can really hold out here? That this will be enough?
— Why not? Parrot answered without looking up, busy setting another torch. With carrots, wheat… It feeds everyone. Don’t need more than that.
A silence stretched. Wifies kept staring, like he was waiting for a deeper answer, a certainty he knew wouldn’t come.
— Yeah… don’t need more than that, he echoed, but his voice shook a little.
Parrot frowned, standing up straighter.
— You okay?
Wifies forced a smile, too quick.
— Don’t worry about it. I just wanted to know if… you ever wonder about all this too.
— All what?
— The Empire. The decisions. What we’re actually building.
Parrot blinked, caught off guard.
— Honestly? I place blocks. I dig. I sing to kill the silence. That’s already enough.
He grinned, but Wifies didn’t. His eyes drifted back to the farm, thoughtful, heavy. He seemed about to say more.
But footsteps echoed down the hall.
Leo burst in, cheerful, hands laced behind his head like nothing in the world was wrong.
— Yo! Cozy place you’ve got here! Planning to work without me or what?
Wifies startled slightly, then swallowed his words. He looked away, almost embarrassed.
— Forget it, he murmured, as if the conversation had never happened.
Parrot, still puzzled, nodded faintly. Leo noticed nothing. He was already crouching by the crops, grinning as he tapped Parrot’s shoulder.
The fragile silence between Parrot and Wifies vanished instantly, swept aside by Leo’s energy filling the room.
— Well, now that you’re here, you might as well help. Even you, Wifies. No point just standing there get your hands in the dirt, Parrot teased.
Leo raised his arms as if to defend himself.
— Me? No no no. I came to supervise, not to turn into a farmer.
Wifies allowed a faint smirk.
— You’d make a decent farmer though.
— Hey! Leo cried, mock-offended. You’re against me too?
Parrot shook his head, amused.
— Come on, quit whining. One row each, then you can brag Gamma thrives thanks to you.
Leo groaned but eventually grabbed a hoe.
— Ugh… fine. But if I end up stuck here hoeing carrots for life…
— Carrots and wheat, Parrot corrected with a laugh. No potatoes.
Their laughter carried, and the work picked up again. Side by side, they stretched the rows, sowed seeds, poured buckets of water. Slowly, the farm took shape.
When at last the soil was set and the crops lined neatly, Parrot leaned his tool against the wall.
— Done.
They exchanged a silent look, acknowledging the effort. Then Leo clapped his hands, breaking the moment.
— Alright, enough farmer roleplay. Time to head back.
Wifies nodded. Together, he and Leo vanished down the tunnel to Alpha, their voices fading into echoes.
Parrot stayed behind a moment, alone with the rows of earth. He touched the smooth furrow of dirt, exhaling slowly.
Gamma was alive now.
Still, there was more to do.
He slipped into another corridor branching off from the farm, where he had prepared something in secret. Hidden behind uneven stone, a flint and steel waited. He struck it, and violet fire roared to life.
The portal blazed.
Parrot stepped through.
On the other side: a mountain. Massive, hollow, as if handed to him by sheer luck. No endless wandering, no wasted hours an ideal spot right there.
He hid the portal, walled it up, and began carving tunnels into the mountain’s core. The plan was simple: disguise it as stone, fill it with traps. Piglins poured in, gold piled in chests. A machine, beating quietly in the Nether.
When it was ready, Parrot brushed the dust from his hands, a faint smile on his lips. Destiny or chance, it didn’t matter. The mountain was his ally now.
He sealed the passage and stepped back through, returning to Gamma.
There, he finished the -1 floor: smoothing the walls, setting a grand hall at the center. A table of dark stone, five chairs heavy and solid. Torches set in careful symmetry, pillars rising from the floor, simple but dignified.
It wasn’t ornate, but it carried weight. A place meant for gathering, for decisions.
Parrot stood still for a while, hands still dusty, gazing at the hall that now existed where there had been only raw rock. Then he sent his messages.
One to Leo.
One to Mapicc.
One to Wifies.
Even one to Spoke.
Leo arrived first, bounding like it was an adventure. Mapicc followed, more composed but with a spark in his eyes. Wifies slipped in quietly, as though unsure if he should be there.
Spoke’s reply was just two words: Later. Alone.
So the four descended together.
The -3 level opened into a circular chamber, raw stone but already outlined. In the middle, a crude little lounge: four wooden chairs and a table still dusted with stone chips. Three hallways branched off, each leading to a chamber bare, gray, yet waiting.
Parrot stepped forward, leaning on the table as the others looked around.
Leo spun on his heels, arms wide.
— Okayyy… not exactly cozy, but I can see the potential!
Mapicc nodded, faint smile tugging his lips.
— At least it’s organized. We just pick our corners and start.
Wifies said nothing, only studying the walls, the floor, then glancing at Parrot as if searching for the purpose behind this new layer of Gamma.
The air smelled of freshly cut stone. It was silent, but beneath the silence, something new was beginning.
The rooms slowly took shape. The hallway echoed with steady sounds, blocks placed, doors tested, chests thudding shut.
Mapicc, focused, stepped back to admire his wall.
— Mine’s clearly going to be the best, he declared confidently.
Leo burst out laughing behind him.
— Bro, you haven’t even finished your ceiling.
— Detail. It’s about the vibe.
Parrot rolled his eyes from the corner.
— Yeah, the vibe of someone placing blocks at random. You need an architect or a therapist?
— Both, Mapicc shot back instantly.
Laughter rippled through the chamber. Wifies, quieter, placed his last block and murmured:
— Honestly, it’s getting cozy. At this rate we’ll start fighting over whose room looks best.
A brief silence then Mapicc suddenly belted out in a fake dramatic voice:
— I love, I love, I love…
Parrot dropped a block mid-placement.
— No. No no no, you’re not starting that again.
— Of course I am, Mapicc grinned. Admit it, it’s your anthem now.
Leo jumped in, laughing:
— Hold up, if we’re singing, let’s sing for real.
He sucked in a breath, then bellowed with mock-gravity:
— Fall for the restless… Gambler…
His voice echoed off the raw stone. He sang it so seriously that Mapicc doubled over, nearly dropping his blocks.
— Dude… you’re ridiculous. But fine, let’s go!
He joined in, voice purposefully too loud:
— Stone heart, there no reviving… life from long agooo!
Parrot leaned on his pickaxe, groaning.
— Oh no… don’t you dare.
Too late.
Leo threw his arms up, booming:
— Big bets, a full house, surrounds ’em…
Mapicc followed, comically off-key:
— Let’s give you a peek… through my quartzite bravadooo!
Their voices clashed, raw and chaotic, but full of energy. Parrot gave in, laughing, and began pounding a beat on the stone wall with his fists.
Then, unexpectedly, a fourth voice slid in Wifies. Softer, almost shy, but on-key.
— A smile on my face as I’m… stuck in this role…
For half a heartbeat, silence fell. Surprised by how right it sounded.
Then Leo and Mapicc screamed louder, dragging him along.
All together, wildly out of sync but alive, they roared:
— I’ll win or I’ll lose it all! Come try your hand, are you up to my challenge!
— AAA! Lucky meee!
The stone chamber vibrated with their voices. Blocks stacked in rhythm, walls rising with the melody.
When the last echo faded, laughter exploded.
— That was atrocious, wheezed Mapicc, doubled over.
— You’re just jealous, Leo puffed his chest. Literal golden pipes right here.
— Rusted gold, Parrot cackled.
Wifies only shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
— Honestly… it wasn’t that bad.
— Wait, you’re serious?! Mapicc shouted. You want us to do it again?
— No. Absolutely not, Parrot cut in, raising his hands. Once is enough. Otherwise Gamma collapses before it’s finished.
More laughter, then tools clinked again. Rooms took form: chests stacked, lanterns hung, decorations scattered, each space becoming personal.
Hours later, they had each carved out their corners. Leo plastered paintings across his walls. Mapicc wired pointless redstone contraptions “for the aesthetic.” Parrot set his bed neatly with a chest at its foot. Wifies adjusted lanterns until the light fell just right.
Then footsteps.
Spoke entered the hall, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes swept across the rooms, then he nodded once.
— Not bad, he said quietly. Keep at it.
He paused, then added:
— As for the rest… I’ll handle it. Once I’m done, I’ll call you. We’ll need to talk.
No further explanation. He turned and disappeared into one of the corridors.
A weight lingered in the silence he left behind.
Leo exhaled.
— Guess that’s our cue to pack it up.
One by one, they gathered their tools and slipped back toward Alpha.
When they emerged, the familiar warmth of torches and wood filled the air. Voices echoed through the base, lively and bright. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed.
But for them, it had.
Tai spotted them the instant they stepped into the hall.
— There you are! he shouted, eyes wide with curiosity. You’ve been gone half the day I was starting to think you’d tunneled straight into the void!
He clapped Leo on the shoulder.
— Well? How’d it go?
— Smooth, Leo grinned. Should’ve seen it we built something actually clean.
— “Clean,” Mapicc muttered. If by that you mean my room’s the best, then yeah.
Tai burst out laughing.
— You’re impossible, man. Always flexing.
— Because I’m right, Mapicc shot back, already glancing at Parrot for backup.
Parrot only shrugged, smiling faintly.
The cheer in the hall dimmed when another presence appeared.
Spoke.
He approached with steady steps, gaze moving over each of them like he was counting.
When he stopped, silence followed naturally.
— Good, he said evenly. You’re all here.
A pause. Then, firmly:
— We’re going down. -1.
No room for questions.
They exchanged glances, then followed him down the stone steps into Alpha’s depths.
The air thickened with each level.
Something was beginning.
The meeting was brief. Almost mechanical.
In the -1 chamber of Alpha, Spoke stood at the center, arms crossed, his voice steady and unyielding:
— We can’t take chances. Each of us will dig a tunnel. A safe way out. No one talks about it, no one uses it… unless everything collapses.
No arguments followed. Only nods, heavy silence. Then, one by one, they dispersed each heading to their own quarters, tools already in hand.
Before long, only Parrot and Wifies remained.
Parrot hesitated, then asked quietly:
— Do you already know where you’ll make yours?
Wifies didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gestured for Parrot to follow. In his room, behind a chest he had slid aside, a narrow opening yawned an unfinished tunnel stretching into darkness.
— It’s nothing yet, Wifies murmured. But… it’s mine.
He turned, serious, his gaze locking onto Parrot’s.
— You don’t tell anyone. Okay?
Parrot nodded without hesitation. Then, with a faint smirk, he added:
— Your turn. Come.
He led Wifies across the hall into his own room. At the back wall, hidden behind a rough patch of stone, another passage twisted away narrow, torchlight flickering along its uneven walls.
Parrot’s voice dropped low.
— This one doesn’t exist either.
He met Wifies’s eyes, calm but firm.
— It stays between us.
Silence. Then Wifies allowed the faintest smile to slip through small, but real.
— Our little secret.
They exchanged a brief nod. No more words.
Then each returned to their room, leaving only the echo of their promise lingering in Gamma’s stone halls.
Notes:
Gamma breathes but the server doesn’t.
Next chapter, the silence cracks. An emerald shadow moves, an invitation lands where no one should reach, and the Empire names a new hunter-duo while the Circle waits in the dark.
Who makes the first mistake?Thank you for 500 hits and 20 kudos and for every comment you’ve left along the way. Your support keeps this story alive.
See you next Sunday. <3
Chapter 11
Summary:
The Empire stirs while Alpha tightens.
A silent threat moves unseen and for the first time, Zam answers a call that could change everything.
Notes:
Tensions keep rising on both sides.
This chapter introduces The Eclipse Duo, and the Emerald two elements that will reshape the balance between the Circle and the Empire.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XI – The Fracture
Alpha was still alive.
The machines were running. The furnaces were roaring. New torches were replacing the old ones. In the south wing, Leo was reinforcing the defenses. In the east, Tai was mapping escape routes. Parrot was studying paths to the surface. Jumper hadn’t returned in two days but that was normal.
Nothing seemed amiss.
And yet, something was tightening.
Not an event. Not a shout. Just a silence a little too long in the council room. One fewer word here and there. A tension with no name.
Some players passed through corridors more quickly. Others lingered in front of the chests, checking the books.
No mistrust. Not yet.
Just… vigilance. Instinctive.
Spoke said nothing. Mapicc observed. Leo forged. Tai calculated.
Jumper, she, was running across the world.
But it’s when you think you’re invincible that the enemy hits the hardest.
And while the Circle organized a revolt, a silhouette was moving. Invisible. Untraceable.
A netherite armor.
A green reflection, almost organic. Emerald.
More than a shadow.
A traitor.
Someone, for reasons still unknown, was working in the shadows to bring down the Circle. To bring down Spoke. And his Mafia.
Within the Empire’s lair, this invisible player was retracing the underground tunnels built by the Circle. He knew every twist. Every flaw. He advanced, fast, silently.
Then, one day, he stopped.
A room.
Not just any room.
The Imperial chamber.
PrinceZam was not there.
So the player placed a chest. Opened a book. Wrote a single line:
Come to [coordinates]. If you fear me, come with Wemmbu and Clown.
No signature. No seal. No sound.
He closed the chest.
And disappeared.
Not enough to launch an investigation.
Not enough to file a report.
But one day, far from Alpha, this Imperial chest was opened.
Zam closed the lid slowly.
Then, as if nothing happened, he returned to the administrative center.
And in Alpha, everything continued as before.
The room was small. Too small for an empire.
And yet, this was where Zam had summoned the five players he deemed indispensable. No grand table. No fanfare. Just six chairs, a chest on the floor, and a torch on a bare stone wall.
Wemmbu entered first, silent. Clown followed, irritated. FlameFrags was already there, with that serious air, his gaze burning with contained anger. MinuteTech and ManePear arrived together, without a word, like two opposite reflections. Their skins formed an almost perfect contrast. They had never stood out. Yet, in the shadows, they had seen everything.
Zam closed the door behind him.
— Thanks for coming.
No one answered.
He knelt, slowly opened the chest, and took out the book. He placed it in the center.
Silence stretched on.
— He placed it in my own chamber. No one saw him enter. No pseudo. No noise. Just… a chest. And this.
Flame approached, read aloud:
— Come to [coordinates], and if fear me, come with Wemmbu and Clown.
Clown laughed, joyless.
— Now we get threatening letters like dinner invitations?
Wemmbu remained frozen.
— He knows our names. He knows your quarters. He knows where to strike.
Zam nodded slowly.
— This is not a threat. It’s a request.
— A request for what? spat Flame. Negotiations? After what we endured? The sabotages, the desertions, Ferre, all that?
MinuteTech looked up.
— What if it isn’t a saboteur? What if it’s someone… from the inside?
Silence fell.
— Maybe a trap, admitted Zam. Maybe a diversion. But this player entered a place where no one should have. And he’s not asking for an attack. He’s asking for contact.
ManePear spoke for the first time. His voice was measured, calm.
— He knows we will react. He’s testing our reflexes. He wants to see who you will send.
Zam turned toward the two opposing silhouettes.
— And I summoned you for another reason.
MinuteTech and ManePear straightened.
— The Empire has lost too much time. The Black Trident is no more. It’s time to create something new. Something precise, efficient. More than soldiers.
He stepped forward.
— A duality. A balance.
He pointed to both.
— From today, you’re TED. The Eclipse Duo. Shadow and light. Sun and Moon.
Clown frowned.
— We hand that to them? Not to the High Command?
Wemmbu closed his eyes.
— They’re the only ones still able to track a target, understand it, and defeat it.
Zam nodded.
— And if this invisible player returns… I want it to be you two who find him. Not to capture him.
He paused.
— To understand what he truly wants.
Flame ground his teeth.
— And if he wants the Empire’s downfall?
Zam slowly turned to him.
— Then let him come tell us face to face.
With that, the meeting ended.
But in the shadows, TED was already taking shape.
Two players. Two paths. One mission: track the invisible.
Silence returned, stifling.
MinuteTech and ManePear had stepped back, like statues. Clown and Wemmbu barely looked at each other. Flame stayed standing, tense, jaw clenched.
He broke the silence with a harsh voice:
— So what now? You go with them? With Clown, with Wemmbu? Or with your nice new duo?
Zam leaned against the wall, gaze lost in the flickering torch.
— I will go, yes. I want to understand what’s behind this message. This is not an order. It’s a bet. And I take it.
He slowly raised his hand.
— TED, you stay here. You do not leave Imperial territory until I return. Your mission is not mine. Yours is to guard the chamber. Guard the Empire. Guard everything we built. If anything happens to Flame, or the arsenal, you respond without delay.
MinuteTech nodded slowly. ManePear folded his arms, serious.
— We’ll hold.
Zam turned to Flame.
— And you, continue what you are already doing. But keep an eye on the recruits. And another on the disappearances.
Flame growled.
— You mean the traitors.
— I mean… those who fall silent too much. Those we no longer quite see. You know better than me suspicious silences.
Flame clenched his fist.
— The purge should’ve cleaned that up.
Zam averted his eyes.
— It only hid the real problem.
Heavy silence descended.
— We thought we struck the centers of rebellion. We just opened cracks. There are movements we don’t understand, absences we can’t justify. I thought I weakened our enemies. I may have weakened our foundations.
He stared long at the book on the table.
— This invisible player is not afraid. He knows us. He’s testing us.
Clown stood up.
— Then why go?
Zam replied without hesitation.
— Because if I don’t go to him… he will come to us.
And this time, he won’t warn.
The war chamber emptied slowly.
Flame left first, his armor echoing in the marble silence. He greeted no one. ManePear and MinuteTech followed slowly but with same resolve. Their mission was clear. Protect the chamber. Protect the Empire.
Wemmbu and Clown paused a moment. They watched Zam, as if trying to guess what would follow.
Zam was standing alone.
— I will write you, he said simply. Once I’ve dealt with a… detail.
They nodded without question. Then they too disappeared.
And Zam remained alone.
He didn’t return to his quarters. He didn’t go to archives or tactical center. He took a secondary passage, discreet, one he rarely used. At the end of a narrow corridor, he opened a small stone door. A quiet chamber carved in silence.
A bed, a shelf. And a chair.
It was Owen’s room.
He sat down, quietly. The torches were dim, almost dying. On the shelf, some neatly arranged books. None had a title.
Zam waited.
The sound of his own breath felt harsh. He straightened. Walked around the room. Let his finger graze a worn stone slab. He sat down again.
The minutes passed. Slow. Strangely heavy.
No one came.
The longer the seconds went by, the more doubt crept in. Not doubt about Owen. No. But a broader, vaguer doubt. The Empire itself suddenly felt… fragile.
When the door finally opened, he almost jumped.
Owen entered, step calm. He wasn’t in a hurry. He was never in a hurry.
He softly closed the door, then stood facing Zam.
No words.
Zam stood, then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
— I almost thought you wouldn’t come.
Dawn inclined his head.
— I knew you would wait.
Long, dense silence.
Zam looked at the nearest torch, then back to Owen.
— The purge… it didn’t have the effect I hoped. I thought everything would be simpler. More readable. And now… now I must go meet a ghost who signs his books with emerald. And I don’t even know if it’s a trap, or an offering.
Owen remained still.
— Sometimes, the most dangerous things are those that ask for nothing.
Zam closed his eyes.
— Do you think I made a mistake?
— No, answered Owen. You followed your logic. But sometimes logic leads to a dead end. Or a diversion.
Zam clenched his fists. Then released.
— You’ve known me from the start. I’ve always trusted you. But today… even that scares me.
He paused. A strange warmth rose in him. Not anger. Not fear either. Just… a deep fatigue.
— I will go. I will respond to the invitation.
Owen nodded.
— Then you must go as a man. Not as Emperor.
Zam stepped toward him.
— And if I don’t come back?
Dawn held his gaze.
— Then I will ensure the Empire holds. Or falls with honor.
Zam smiled a pale, broken smile.
— You’ve always known the right words. Maybe more than me.
Then he left the room.
And Owen remained there. Alone. In the semi-darkness.
He heard footsteps fading.
The corridor’s silence settled instantly, heavy, almost sticky. He stayed still a moment. The Empire felt immense, too big for his shoulders, yet too narrow for what he held. He inhaled deeply. Then he walked.
He met no one.
No one must see him leave.
At the bottom of the north staircase, two figures awaited.
Wemmbu, upright, weapon ready. ClownPierce, tense, helmet under his arm.
— Ready? asked Clown.
Zam nodded.
— Ready.
They left in silence, stepping through the great eastern rift, and flew wordlessly, their elytra slicing through the wind.
The sky was clear. Too clear.
The coordinates led them far beyond the outposts, beyond even the old Empire borders.
A wooded biome, ravaged by time. Ancient dead trees. Crevasses. A forgotten terrain.
They flew for a long time.
The rain had stopped, but clouds still covered the skies. The wind whistled between the peaks, and the land seemed… desolate. Even the chunks looked damaged. As if nobody had loaded this zone for weeks. An empty moor. Dead.
And yet, the coordinates were clear.
Zam landed first.
At his feet, a strange hill, almost artificial, deformed by clumsy earth blocks. And there, in the center, a hand‑dug rectangular opening plunged into the ground like a scar. Stairs, sharp, perfectly symmetrical, led down into the darkness.
Clown stepped back instinctively.
— This isn’t a tunnel made by an average player. No one in the Empire digs like this.
Wemmbu stepped forward carefully.
— Reinforced floor, two blocks thick. And look at the framing.
Obsidian blocks formed a silent portal around the entrance.
Zam approached without a word.
— He’s waiting for us.
Clown looked up.
— Maybe it’s trapped.
— Of course it’s trapped, grumbled Wemmbu. The question is: do we jump in anyway?
Silence.
Then Clown exploded.
— No but wait, are we serious? We get a book placed like a threat, we follow coords in the dead of night, we find an obsidian temple that appears out of nowhere and you want us to just go in?!
Zam answered without raising his voice.
— If we don’t go in, we stay blind. And I need to know.
Wemmbu added:
— Wait buddy, need to know what? That someone Sneaked into your room to place a book in your personal chest? Because the answer is yes. And that should be enough to make any sane leader retreat.
— I’m not a leader, said Zam. I’m a guarantor. And what I guarantee… is that this kind of shadow, if ignored, comes back later. Worse.
Clown stepped closer.
— And if it’s a trap? If you die down there? What do we do, then?
Zam stared at him, for a long time.
Then answered calmly:
— You continue. And you remember that I chose to die by taking responsibility. Not by watching from afar.
Wemmbu crossed his arms.
— You’re paranoid, Zam. You can’t even look us in the eye anymore. Do you realize what you’re saying?
— I say I can’t trust anyone anymore, he murmured. And that’s not an accusation. It’s a fact.
Another silence.
Heavy.
Then Zam descended the first steps.
Clown and Wemmbu hesitated.
Then they joined him.
The staircase sank into the rock.
The walls were covered with obsidian.
Not a natural block. All placed by hand. Slowly. Deliberately.
The torch Zam held flickered in the underground breeze. But the descent continued.
And at the end… a room.
Square. Empty.
In the center, a single smooth stone block.
And on this block, a button.
Above, a sign.
Press to see me.
Clown stifled a curse.
— We’re clearing out of here.
Zam didn’t move.
— It’s a theater, whispered Wemmbu. We’re the extras. He planned it all. So… what now, buddy?
Clown snapped:
— Seriously! We press it, boom, we end up in a clip on Twitter with dramatic music and red arrows!
Zam raised his hand.
— We’re already here. We can’t back down now.
He placed his fingers on the button.
Clown retreated. Wemmbu prepared his shield.
And Zam pressed.
The room was silent.
The circle was complete. Seven seats. Seven shadows.
And two guests behind Spoke, Tai and Jumper.
No one moved.
Spoke held a book.
He opened it.
And read aloud.
— The emerald has moved.
Silence. Then Parrot.
— What’s that now? Another riddle? You talk like we’re following a ghost.
— Maybe we are, breathed Leo.
Tai stepped closer to Spoke.
— You mean… someone in the Empire?
Spoke closed the book.
— Not ‘in’. At the top.
They all looked at each other.
Wifies shrugged, mocking.
— You found another way to make this all dramatic. Who is this ‘emerald’? A green guy glowing in the dark?
— Yeah, added Jumper. Because at this point, we’re losing the thread. You got info or a poem?
Spoke remained calm. He stood up.
— I got confirmation. An old hypothesis. Someone has moved. Not just switched sides… He revealed himself.
Parrot leaned in.
— You mean… that player, the one we called ‘the ghost’, ‘the shadow’, the one who disappears and reappears in the reports… it’s him?
— It’s the emerald, confirmed Spoke. And he just showed himself to Zam.
A long silence. Mapicc stopped writing.
Wifies raised an eyebrow, more focused.
— So you’re saying someone betrayed us?
— No, replied Spoke, without even looking at him. Someone joined them. But that’s not what worries me.
— Then what? launched Tai.
— What worries me is that Zam… accepted the invitation.
Wifies stood from his chair.
— Are you kidding?
— He left. With two others. I don’t know what they’ll find. But they will go.
Leo finally spoke:
— And us? What do we do?
Spoke stared at the circle. One by one. Faces. Voices. Sighs.
— We wait.
— And if it’s a trap?
— Then they won’t come back.
Wifies sighed long.
— You’re serious, there? You just want to… wait?
Spoke finally placed the book on the table. And murmured:
— Because from now on… he’s the one playing.
No one asked who.
No one dared say the name.
Because deep down, everyone understood.
The green silhouette.
The nameless player.
The emerald.
Zam pressed the button.
A mechanical sound.
A slight hiss of air, as if a room had sealed shut.
Then, in a corner of the room, a wall started trembling.
A hidden passage opened. Slowly. Precisely.
And from the shadows… a player emerged.
Full netherite.
With green reflections. Almost like emerald.
No tag. No pseudo.
Just… a presence. Calm. Motionless.
Wemmbu lifted his axe, but Zam signaled him not to move.
The silhouette walked forward.
No running. No fear.
Step by step. Straight. Regular.
Then he spoke.
But the voice was strange. Filtered. Deep.
Like an echo. A modifier.
— You came. It’s rare Empires listen.
Zam frowned.
— Who are you?
— That’s not important. Not yet.
Clown stepped forward a block. Suspicious.
— We didn’t come to talk to a ghost skin.
— And yet… you’re listening.
Zam studied the armor’s contours.
Patterns. Almost symbolic details.
A black shield. A circle at the center.
He hesitated.
— That symbol… what is it?
— A truth you don’t know yet.
A heavy silence fell.
Then the silhouette extended a book.
— This is not a threat. This is not a betrayal.
It’s an opportunity.
Zam didn’t move.
Wemmbu intervened.
— You expect us to read this like it’s nothing? Give us your name.
— My name is just a name.
But what you will read can save you.
Zam took the book. Slowly.
He opened it. Read. Two lines only.
Nothing more.
He lifted his eyes.
The silhouette slowly raised an arm.
A crisp sound.
The snap of a fishing rod cast into a dark corner.
And, in the blink, an Ender pearl activated teleportation.
A flash.
A sound.
A void.
The unknown had vanished.
Clown recoiled a block.
— He was here. Right here!
Zam, silent, closed the book.
His face remained stone. He said nothing. Showed nothing.
But something, inside him, had shifted.
When Zam returned to his room, the window was ajar.
He didn’t remember it that way. But he said nothing.
On the table, laid straight at the center, a book.
No signature. No dust.
Only a few words, traced with a steady hand:
— I will contact you again. When the time comes.
To destroy the enemy.
Zam gently closed the volume.
Then he gazed out, beyond the walls of Alpha.
The wind blew hard that day.
Notes:
Something is shifting.
Lines once clear are beginning to blur, and silence is no longer a sign of peace.
Whispers spread of shadows, of betrayal, of choices that can’t be undone.
Next week, the Circle faces what comes after doubt.
Chapter 12: Destruction
Summary:
Alpha is under attack.
The Empire strikes without warning, and the Circle is forced to flee as their home collapses.
Losses begin.
Notes:
The silence has broken.
The Empire finally made its move and Alpha will not survive the day.Who can still be saved?
Who won’t make it out?Let’s find out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Chapter XII – Destruction
The wind howled that day.
Dawn had not yet broken.
But Marshal Flame’s troops were already in place.
A war.
Annihilation.
It would all happen today.
MrCube6 had sent an army of machines to bombard a base known as Alpha.
An unnamed source called the Emerald had contacted Emperor Zam.
It claimed to know Alpha inside and out.
In the High Council chamber that green shadow worked, planning the strike for weeks with the Marshal and his generals.
Only a handful were present.
Five names: Emperor Zam, Reddoons, Owen, FlameFrags, the Emerald.
One name was missing: Spoke.
Leader of a group sworn to destroy the Empire and with it the server’s fragile peace.
The group had a name: the Circle.
Its leaders were SpokeIsHere, ParrotX2, Wifies, Leow0ok, Mapicc, _Tai, JumperWho.
They were among the best fighters alive.
Eliminating them was the priority.
Neutralize them and no counter-attack would come, even if the mission faltered.
The ten deadliest combatants: Tai, Mugm, Peentar, Mapicc, ParrotX2, Leow0ok, BadBoyHalo, Sharooh, SpokeIsHere, JumperWho.
Moments later Alpha.
Alpha still half-slept.
Spoke had just returned from Gamma, after a night spent there.
He was uneasy.
He rarely spoke.
For days Alpha had been silent.
The tension thickened by the hour.
Each member kept to a corner, trying to calm a fear no one could name.
One name whispered again and again: the Emerald.
A shadow.
A traitor.
Fear.
Doubt.
The Empire had managed to plant suspicion inside a Circle once unbreakable.
Brotherhood frayed.
Time.
It was only a matter of time.
Spoke knew it.
He felt it too, but showed nothing.
He was lost in thought as always.
until something ripped him back.
An explosion.
A crack.
The walls shook.
Then the floor.
First a faint shiver, then a brutal jolt that rattled every gallery.
Shouts tangled with detonations.
Leo, Mapicc, and Tai burst from a southern corridor.
Not a word.
The noise said everything.
Alpha was dying beneath MrCube6’s rain of TNT.
The north wing blew apart.
Entire galleries collapsed.
Chests shattered Parrot could only watch.
Water from the farms poured into the lower tunnels.
Chaos took shape.
The base they thought eternal split block by block.
Farther on, the enemy advanced.
Imperials, led by Flame, his generals, and the Emerald, surged through side tunnels with icy precision.
Wemmbu, ClownPierce, MinuteTech, and ManePear hunted the most dangerous members one by one.
Alpha had become a hunting ground.
The place that once felt like home was now a tomb.
Their tomb.
Mapicc, Leo, and Tai fled toward the south wing.
Mapicc stopped short.
— Mapicc, keep moving! What are you doing? Tai shouted, already breathless.
— No. I have to grab supplies. The void chest is right there.
Tai and Leo halted, staring at him a few blocks back.
— That’s suicide, Mapicc. Our lives matter more than a stash of items, Leo snapped.
— Leo… you don’t understand.
He paused.
— You have no idea how long it took me to gather all of it.
— But…
Leo exhaled, words failing.
— Leo, I have to. I have nothing else without—
— You’re out of your mind… Why? The Empire is on top of us!
— What? If you can’t handle it, leave.
Leo turned to Tai.
— Say something, I’m begging you.
Tai stayed silent.
Leo faced Mapicc again, but said nothing.
Mapicc was already moving.
He had won the argument without another word.
Leo and Tai followed.
— I knew you’d make the right choice, Mapicc said with a quick grin.
— Relax, we’re not dying today.
Leo knew the truth: the three of them together could match almost anyone.
Shields up, swords ready, they reached the storage hall a vast chamber built by Parrot, Leo, and Mapicc himself.
Mapicc stepped through first, smiling, humming a tune every one of them knew.
— I love… I love… I lo—
An orange blur dropped from the ceiling.
A single strike.
ManePear.
Mapicc was dead. Banned from the server in an instant before Leo or Tai could even lift a blade.
Mane straightened, turning toward Leo with a slow, deliberate smile.
Predator’s calm.
Tai lunged, shouting words Leo couldn’t even hear.
Leo’s gaze locked on the scattered loot Mapicc’s gear spread across the stone.
He couldn’t move.
He trembled.
With rage? With terror?
He didn’t know.
Sound dulled.
The world blurred.
A flash of emptiness swallowed him.
Mapicc…
— Leo! Leo! Leo!
Tai’s voice cut through the haze.
He was fighting Mane alone now.
— Are you going to stand there forever? We either kill him or we die!
He was right.
If they stayed, they would end like Mapicc.
But in the next corridors other voices echoed Wemmbu, Dol9hin, YungWill closing in fast.
Tai broke for the south.
Mane slashed at Leo, who jolted to life and followed.
The orange shadow lost them in Alpha’s twisting tunnels.
A labyrinth of stone and smoke.
Leo and Tai split without realizing it.
The passages forked, turned back on themselves.
Tai dug into a wall, sealing each block behind him to hide his trail.
He ran until the echoes faded.
and stumbled into survivors: Sharooh, Spongs, and Pangi.
— Tai? Y-you’re still alive? Pangi asked, stunned.
— Guess so, Tai said, catching his breath.
— We’re meeting Jumper in the south-east wing, Sharooh said evenly.
— She sent word to regroup. But… where are Leo and Mapicc?
Tai gave no answer.
None was needed.
Leo wandered, aimless.
He no longer searched, no longer called out.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Time itself seemed to stall.
He had lost Mapicc.
Tai was gone too.
The tunnels of Alpha stretched on, endless and cold.
— Tai… where are you…
A whisper cut through the silence.
— Leo?
He froze. Looked around. No one.
He held his breath. What if it was an enemy?
— Leo… it’s Parrot. Behind you.
Leo turned.
Parrot stood there, straight-backed.
Beside him was Spoke, silent as stone.
— Leo, are you okay? You look… off. Not like yourself. said Spoke.
Leo said nothing.
The last face he’d seen alive was already dead.
Fear.
Suspicion.
The memory of Mapicc’s fall burned behind his eyes.
Parrot spoke again, carefully.
— We need to move. Gamma’s ready.
Leo swallowed hard. Words wouldn’t come.
But he stepped forward.
Spoke said nothing he rarely did.
Only when it mattered.
Calm. Unshaken.
The three of them set off together, deeper into the stone, toward the hidden base called Gamma.
Notes:
Doubt has now entered the Circle.
One betrayal is all it takes to turn survival into suspicion.
Everyone is alive… until they are not.
And trust is dying faster than Alpha ever did.Next week…
Gamma was built to save them.
But some exits lead straight into the dark.See you next Sunday.
Skifi on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 07:48PM UTC
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Possibilis23 on Chapter 1 Sun 24 Aug 2025 08:05PM UTC
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Skifi on Chapter 2 Thu 28 Aug 2025 09:24PM UTC
Last Edited Thu 28 Aug 2025 09:25PM UTC
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Skifi on Chapter 3 Tue 02 Sep 2025 01:29PM UTC
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Skifi on Chapter 5 Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:45AM UTC
Last Edited Mon 08 Sep 2025 01:45AM UTC
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