Chapter Text
“Are you sure this is going to work?” A hushed voice asked incredulously.
“Gosh, Ken, do you ever shut up?” Wato huffed before continuing his tracks.
Clownpierce watched from the side, completely uninterested in the two's bickering. He was only in this dimension for one reason and one reason only. Complete his part of the deal.
The soul soil under his feet isn't exactly uncomfortable, but clingy enough to be annoying. He wanted to get out of this weird dimension fast.
The air around them felt warm and cold at the same time, colors blended into browns and reds that didn’t quite belong to any sky Wato recognized. The dimension felt alive in the most uncomfortable way, as if it were aware of their presence and deeply displeased by it. Countless voices screamed, wailed, and tried to connect with them while they traversed the soul desert. Whispers brushed past their ears, fragments of voices that didn’t belong to any one person, overlapping and dissolving before they could be understood.
Kenadian slowed his steps, hand tightening around the strap of the elytra on his back. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, lowering his voice despite there being no obvious entities or anyone in sight, “this place feels… wrong. What if the thing doesn’t even exist anymore?”
“It exists,” Clownpierce finally butted into the conversation, more sharply than he intended. He stopped, boots sinking slightly into the soul soil before he wrenched them free with an irritated jerk. “We are going to find that structure, like it or not.”
Wato snorted softly, almost sounding amused. “Looks like someone finally decided to break their silence.”
Clown shot him a look. “We need to get this over with.”
“That so?” Kennnadian remarked sarcastically, though there was no venom in his tone. “I thought these types of dimensions were your thing.”
Clown decided not to pay them attention any longer.
After what felt like hours, but could’ve been minutes, a huge circular structure that almost resembled a summoning ritual. Many cages hung around it, filled with what seemed like human bones. The voices faded, replaced by an eerie silence.
Kenadian swallowed. “That’s… that’s it, isn’t it?”
Wato nodded slowly, chest tightening. “The revival chamber.”
Clownpierce’s steps slowed, his posture stiffening even more as he looked at the gold block at the center. For the first time since entering the dimension, they’ve finally found their goal. He rolled his shoulders once, as if settling a weight he’d been carrying for far longer than this journey.
“Well,” he said quietly, “guess this is where my part comes in.”
Wato glanced at him, suspicion and unease twisting together. “You never told us what exactly your deal with him was.”
Truth be told, the only reason the three of them were together in the first place was obligation. A promise carved too deep to ignore. They had made a deal with someone of power. They got what they wanted, and in return, they needed to revive someone—someone powerful enough that refusing now would trigger consequences far worse than death. The bond they’d made wasn’t just verbal; it was etched into their souls, a binding contract that would recoil violently the moment any of them tried to back out.
Kenadian had been assigned to the group as enforcement, not leadership. He was there to make sure no one hesitated when the time came. His eyes roamed around the area, though he still kept a careful amount of distance from the Nether King. He didn’t trust Clownpierce, never had. The only consoling thing about their whole predicament was the promise of breaking free from the contract and the fact at least he was with Wato, someone he actually knew.
Wato, on the other hand, had been chosen as their lead for one simple reason: he had the map. The only known surviving guide to the revival chamber, stolen from someone who didn’t get to live long enough to even notice it missing.
And then there was Clownpierce. Clownpierce was the guide—not through terrain, but through death.
Because out of the three of them, he had the most direct kill count.
The revival block demanded payment. Souls, willingly or otherwise, fed into it like fuel. And Clownpierce, with blood permanently staining his hands and a ledger of lives too long to count, was the only one who could meet that requirement without hesitation. The chamber recognized death the most, probably the only thing it was accustomed to.
They still lingered around the entrance, still hesitant to even step in, afraid of triggering something—someone, anyone.
Kenadian swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice barely carried. “Why did I get so greedy…” he muttered, more to himself than to the others.
Wato let out a slow breath, fingers flexing at his side as he tried to steady himself. “Guess we shouldn’t have made sketchy deals with sketchy people, huh…” he chuckled humorlessly.
Clownpierce only hummed, then, carefully, he was the first one to take a step inside the circle. He climbed up the stairs before reaching the gold block. It was surprisingly warm for someone stuck in place, surrounded by souls. With a quick and smooth motion, he drew a small dagger from his cloak.
Kenadian and Wato watched as Clownpierce dragged the blade across his palm. Blood welled instantly, dark and vivid, spilling from his hand and dripping onto the gold block below. Their breaths hitched watching the whole scene. The glow flared chaotically in response to the blood, symbols rearranging themselves into a pattern that made everyone’s stomach drop.
“You asked what my deal was,” Clownpierce said at last, voice low, stripped of its usual mockery. “I was asked to bring him back. No matter the cost.”
A straight, blinding white light shot upward, tearing through the sky like a blade. The force of it sent all three stumbling back. Then came the sound, thousands of footsteps echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once, layered over the frantic pounding of drums that seemed to originate from the block’s very core.
Kenadian froze, every instinct screaming at him to run. The air dropped in temperature so suddenly. It was cold. Really cold. He needed to get out. He needed to escape. Something had gone wrong. Or right. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that something had happened.
He spared a glance at Wato beside him, but the guy was just as stunned as he was. Clownpierce then ender pearled between them.
All of them drew out their swords and totems. They didn’t verbalize it, but it was clear that all of them were taken aback. And as if obeying an unseen command, the drums ceased. The footsteps vanished. The chamber fell deathly still, leaving only the sound of their ragged breathing and the violent pounding of their own hearts echoing in their ears.
A loud, mocking laugh bounced through the pillar walls. All of them stilled, the sound of it way too unnerving, almost having something like underlying hysteria about it, cracked at the edges, like it had been bottled up for far too long.
Wato’s grip tightened until his knuckles burned white. Kenadian felt his stomach drop, dread curling familiar in his chest. Clownpierce’s eyes darted around; the light was still there, preventing them from seeing anything around it clearly. He popped multiple potions on the ground.
The laugh stopped. “Well,” a voice rang out, hoarse with amusement and something far more unhinged beneath it, “took you long enough.”
The glow dimmed just enough for them to see his face, eyes alight, smile stretched too wide, exhaustion and madness ever so present in his features.
Wifies had woken up.