Work Text:
The war was finally over, though the word "over" felt too small to describe the silence that now fell on the server. Where there had been an army, there was now only the glittering trail of experience orbs and the scattered remnants of broken armor. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and smoke.
Flame and Wemmbu beat them all, every time Flame was overwhelmed, a strike from above had cleared his path. Against impossible odds, the two "Strongest" had proven exactly why they held those titles, leaving a trail of "Player was slain" messages that stretched into infinity.
They finally killed the last guy together inside of the building behind the statue, the final blow being a synchronized strike that echoed through the hollow halls. Wemmbu’s mace had swung with the weight of a falling star, while Flame’s blade trailed a streak of white-hot embers. As the last puff of smoke vanished, the building felt suddenly too large and too quiet.
And Wemmbu looked out of the building through the big crack they entered in, his chest heaving as he tried to pull air into his scorched lungs. He leaned against the cold stone, his eyes tracing the horizon where the sun was beginning to dip, casting a blood-red hue over the battlefield. The adrenaline was fading.
He started thinking, his mind wandering away from the carnage and back through his own choices. Every decision he had made felt like a domino that had led to this very moment of isolation. He wondered if the path he had walked was the only one available, or if he had simply been too blinded. His thoughts were a tangled web of "what-ifs," spinning faster and faster as he stared at the world.
What would've happened if he had never killed Boomie in the great sea and just took the treasure instead then gave it to Jaden? He could almost feel the spray of the salt water on his face again, Jaden would have received his treasure and his pirates, and a life would have been spared.
Would that suspicious or not be into revealing his identity? the whispers would have surely started much sooner. People knew Wemmbu as a force of nature. To let Boomie walk away would have been a crack in the mask he worked so hard to maintain. It might have sparked a different kind of investigation.
One fueled by curiosity rather than the vengeance that eventually came for him.
Would Boomie keep his mouth shut? Mercy is often mistaken for weakness, and in a world where information is the highest currency, a secret is a weapon waiting to be sold. Even if he had let him live, the weight of what Boomie knew would have been a ticking time bomb. Trust was a rare resource.
Wemmbu had never been rich enough to buy it.
Or would Boomie have snitched on him to Parrot, the one man who seemed to see through every shadow Wemmbu cast? If Boomie had whispered even a fragment of the truth, Parrot would have followed the scent like a bloodhound.
Which wouldn't have mattered anyways since his identity still got exposed by Parrot. The irony tasted like ash in his mouth—all that blood, all that secrecy, and the result was exactly the same. Parrot had been relentless, peeling back the layers of Wemmbu’s deception until there was nothing left but the truth. The effort he had spent faking his new life, the lives he had taken,
It had all been for nothing.
Or back to before it all happened in the first place, back when the air was clearer and his wings felt lighter. His mind drifted further back, He thought of a time when his biggest concern was the wind under his feathers and the heat of the sun. He was just a player, and the simplicity of that life felt like a dream he could no longer reach. He wanted to find the moment where the path diverged, the exact second he chose power over peace.
Back to his fight with Flame for 'The Strongest' title, He remembered the heat radiating off Flame, the way the ground scorched beneath Flame’s feet as they clashed. That title had felt like a crown back then, something worth bleeding for. Now, it felt more like a brand burned into his skin.
It was a mark that invited nothing but bad memories.
If he never would've fought him for that title, the entire trajectory of the server would have shifted. Flame would have remained a rival in spirit but perhaps not an enemy in practice.
They could have existed as two powerful players in parallel.
Then Flame wouldn't have to try and hunt him down like a man possessed. The hunt had been exhausting, a game of cat and mouse. Flame’s pride had been wounded when he lost their fight, and a wounded blaze burns hotter than any other.
Then he wouldn't have to fake his death and hide his identity, living as a ghost in his own world, hidden by a new name. He just wanted to enjoy the server like a normal player. He would've just had a normal day like he always did, waking up without the weight of enemies. A "normal" day felt like a fantasy. To be average would have been a blessing he was too arrogant to appreciate.
Not needing to fight players all the time.
He wanted to be a person again.
Not having others fight him all the time just for the stupid title. It was a title that didn't provide food, or shelter, or true companionship; it only provided a target. He realized now that the "Strongest" was just a word used by the weak to justify their obsession with him.
They didn't see Wemmbu.
They only saw a trophy to be claimed.
How he could've used that time to hang out more with Eggchan, the one person who made the world feel soft. Eggchan was the quiet light in the dark corners of his life, someone who didn't care about titles or strength. They could have spent hours just talking, laughing about things that didn't involve war or betrayal.
How he could've used that time to go back to the farlands and destroy the bed Egg set his spawn as, He wanted to protect him from the cycle of fighting that he was trapped in, to ensure his "home" was actually safe. If he hadn't been so busy being "The Strongest," he could have secured his future properly.
He would have torn the world apart to make his spawn point was a place of peace, not a vulnerability.
And speaking of Egg.
How would Egg react when he hears the news of him killing a thousand players?
Would he look at him with pride?
Or would he see a monster he no longer recognized?
The thought of his fear hurt worse than any wound he had received in the battle.
He wondered if Egg would still want to stand by a man whose wings were soaked in the blood of a thousand souls.
Then he checks his inventory, his fingers trembling as he hovers over his hotbar. Instead of having totems, there was only empty space. He had burned through them, popping totem after totem as the players swarmed him.
But he was out of borrowed time.
And his wings were probably not gonna be usable, hanging limp and tattered behind him like broken sails. The feathers were scorched by Flame’s proximity and torn by the arrows during the fight. He tried to flex the muscles in his back, but only a grinding ache responded to his command.
He then slowly turns to Flame, his movements heavy and deliberate in the dim light of the building. Flame was a silhouette of glowing embers and cooling ash, his blaze-half still radiating a low, pulsing heat. The silence between them was thick.
Wemmbu looked at the man, seeing him clearly for perhaps the first time.
They were both broken.
Both exhausted.
Remembering how badly Flame wanted a rematch to get that stupid title he regretted taking away. He could see it in the way Flame held himself, the tension in his shoulders that screamed of unfinished business.
Wemmbu knew that Flame wouldn't feel like a winner until he saw Wemmbu fall at his own hand.
Wemmbu spoke for the first time after the fight, his voice raspy and thin, barely carrying over the sound of the wind. The words felt heavy in his mouth, like stones he had been carrying for far too long.
He didn't yell.
He didn't boast.
He simply let the truth out into the air.
Not because he was defeated.
Not because he was done.
Wemmbu spoke for the first time after the fight, his voice sounding like dry parchment rubbing together. "You're still thinking about it, aren't you?" he asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his bruised lips.
He let the silence hang for a moment.
"I know that look in your eyes, Flame,” Wemmbu continued, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.
He spoke of the title as if it were a curse he was tired of carrying.
A burden he was ready to pass on to anyone strong enough to bear it.
"It’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn't it? To stand where I stand and see the world from the top of the mountain. You think it’s a prize, Flame, but it’s just a target painted on your chest that never goes away," he said, his eyes darkening with a bitter edge. He wanted Flame to understand that being 'The Strongest' didn't mean you were powerful; it just meant you were the most hunted man alive. "I’m offering you the world, but I’m also warning you—the view from the top is nothing but blood."
Which made Flame look up immediately at him. He had been looking at the ground, perhaps contemplating his own exhaustion or the state of his gear, but now his entire focus was locked on Wemmbu "What are you talking about, Wemmbu?" Flame rasped, his own voice thick with confusion and a growing sense of dread. The sudden shift in Wemmbu’s demeanor caught him off guard, stopping him in his tracks before he could do anything else. Before he could burn both the Mace and Elytra, Wemmbu gave him—items he held with a mix of gratitude and resentment.
Wemmbu slowly walked up to him, ignoring the blistering heat that radiated from the Flame’s skin. "Look at me, Flame. Really look at me," Wemmbu whispered.
He needed Flame to see the sincerity in his gaze.
Making sure that Flame knew he was being serious this time.
"I’m not lying to you, not this time," he said, his voice cracking slightly as the walls he built around himself finally crumbled.
Wemmbu had spent so long lying that the truth felt like a foreign language, His wings stayed folded and broken, his head stayed level, and his heart beat with a steady, resigned rhythm. He was stripping himself of his defenses.
Then he said the words.
"You can be the strongest, I don't want it anymore. I mean, it didn't fit me in the first place." The confession poured out of him like water from a broken dam, honest, raw, and devastatingly quiet.
He admitted his weakness.
His fatigue.
Flame watched him, speechless, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.
That made Flame shocked, his jaw tightening as the fire around his wrists sputtered and died down to a low, flickering simmer. "You... you're just giving it up?" Flame asked, his voice barely a whisper as his brain struggled to process the reality of the situation.
He had spent months imagining how he would take the title back, but he never imagined it being handed to him as a burden. He expected a real duel where he would stand over a defeated Wemmbu in glory.
To have it handed to him out of pure exhaustion felt like a hollow victory
Wemmbu continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a soft murmur that barely escaped his lips into the cold night air. He looked toward the horizon, his eyes softening as he thought of the one person who still saw him as a friend.
"There's one more thing," he murmured, the light of the setting sun catching the dark feathers of his wings. "Actually, can you do me a little favor too?" he asked, the request sounding more like a plea. "I can't be there for him anymore, and I don't think I have the strength left to try," Wemmbu admitted, his eyes glassing over with unshed tears.
He was asking his rival for help.
He looked like a man saying a final goodbye to the only world he knew.
That made Flame look at him again, his brow furrowing as an uneasy feeling began to pool in his stomach like lead. "Wemmbu, what are you saying? You're acting like this is the end," Flame said, his voice rising in pitch as panic began to set in.
He didn't like the tone in Wemmbu’s voice.
It sounded too much like finality.
Too much like a suicide note spoken aloud.
He wanted to reach out and grab Wemmbu by the shoulder.
To tell him to stop talking like he was already a ghost.
He watched Wemmbu’s hands.
Seeing the way they shook as they reached for his maces.
Wemmbu then gives them to him, pressing the heavy, cold metal into Flame’s startled and trembling hands. "Take them. I don't want to hold them ever again," Wemmbu whispered, his fingers lingering on the cold iron for just a second before letting go.
Flame gripped the handles.
He felt the residual energy of the enchantments humming against his palms like a heartbeat.
He looked from the maces to Wemmbu’s face, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic rhythm.
"Please give these to Egg for me, and maybe take care of him too... or well, tell him to take care of himself at least."
"Wemmbu, no... you can give them to him yourself! We can go find him right now!" Flame argued, his voice cracking with a desperate need to fix whatever was breaking.
This time Wemmbu's voice was slightly lower, "Tell him I'm sorry," he whispered, so softly that Flame almost didn't hear it over the whistling wind.
He was fading.
He looked at Flame one last time.
A look of weary gratitude passed between them before he turned away.
He slowly turned and walked towards the hole from the wall.
His silhouette cut a jagged, broken shape against the blood-red sky.
"Wemmbu! Stop!" Flame yelled
But his feet felt like they were rooted to the ground as he watched him move.
His movements were fluid but slow, like a man walking in a dream he was finally ready to wake up from and leave behind.
He didn't look back at the Flame.
He walked toward the edge with a purpose that was both terrifying and hauntingly beautiful to behold.
Then he jumps off.
There was no hesitation in his stride.
No second thoughts to hold him back.
Just a single step into the cold, empty air.
He plummeted to the ground.
The world would never see him again.
The height was immense.
The ground below a distant blur of craters.
Fire.
Ruins of a thousand players.
It was a leap of faith into a void he had spent his whole life trying to outrun.
Now he was embracing it.
It made Flame panic, the heat in his chest exploding into a frantic roar as the reality of the situation finally shattered his shock. "WEMMBU!" he screamed, He dropped the maces, the heavy metal clattering loudly against the stone floor as he lunged forward with everything he had. His heart skipped beats
He couldn't process the "why" yet.
He could only focus on the "no"
He can’t let his rival end it like this.
He ran towards him, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked stone as he reached the jagged ledge of the building. He peered over the edge, his eyes searching for his rival. The wind whipped his hair and smoke stung his eyes,
He didn't blink
His sight locked onto the falling figure.
The terrifying speed at which Wemmbu was meeting the earth.
His breath hitched in his throat.
A prayer forming in a mind that had never known how to pray before.
Then he saw Wemmbu spreading his wings, making him sigh in relief, Flame felt his knees go weak, the tension leaving his body.
But the relief he felt was short-lived.
The wings didn't catch the wind.
They didn't flap to halt the momentum of the fall.
They buckled.
The tattered membranes and broken quills unable to hold the weight of the man attached to them.
They were decorative now.
Wemmbu wasn't flying.
He was just falling with more grace than he had a moment before.
One wing bent at an unnatural, sickening angle, the feathers stripping away and spinning into the air.
Wemmbu looked up
His eyes met Flame’s face for one final second as he continued his descent.
There was no fear in his face.
Only acceptance of the ground rising up to meet him.
He knew he was broken beyond repair.
He was finally letting the world take back the pieces it had given him.
Panicking more, Flame decided to jump, equipping the elytra Wemmbu gave him.
He threw himself down, the elytra catching the wind with a sharp, violent snap that nearly dislocated his shoulders. He tucked his arms in, aiming himself toward the shadow falling below him.
He was a streak of orange fire chasing a falling star into the deep, dark heart of the night.
Flame managed to grab Wemmbu, his arms wrapping around his chest in an embrace. The impact was jarring, the wings of the elytra groaning and sparking under the sudden double weight of two grown men.
He pulled Wemmbu close to his chest.
He felt the tattered, cold feathers brush against his skin like the leaves of a dead tree.
He tried to fire his rockets, tried to pull up with every ounce of his strength.
The momentum was too great.
He held on anyway.
Refusing to let his rival.
His ally.
His friend.
He can't let him meet the earth alone.
Covering his body with his, Flame acted as a final shield against the inevitable and crushing impact of the ground.
He rotated them in the air, putting his own back toward the earth.
He wanted to be the one to take the brunt of the world’s cruelty.
To protect the man who had given up everything.
As they hit the ground.
The fire went out.
The wings stopped fluttering.
And the "Strongest" lay still in the cold, red dirt.
FlameFrags was doomed to fall
FlameFrags left the game