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Wemmbu was no stranger to running, as much as he'd hate to admit it.
He’d ran from fights plenty of times, when things had gotten tougher than he expected. Especially ones turned unequal, victory out of reach in hand-to-hand combat, with no aces left up his sleeve. A confrontation gone sideways, wrong and not worth enough to stick around for much longer. Nothing around to keep him chained to the ground, preventing flight. Boundless and free, he ran; to save himself, he believed.
There wasn’t much worry of cowardice in retreating from a fight with no other exit, he’d told himself. Not when it was between that or swift death at the hands of one of his opponents, who would not be as kind as to make it merciful. They never were; not when it was Wemmbu standing in front of them. Even the one act of so-called pity extended to him as he stood in the ruins of his own creation was a mocking display of ridicule. A humiliating performance he was forced to stand and watch, with tiny dust particles leftover from the debris still lingering in the air. It was apparent even the ash brought by explosions wished for his downfall.
He didn’t flee, back then. Not even as the winds brushed against his wings, itching, tempting to soar into the sky, away from the injustice expected of him to handle without a blink. Those same winds that now rushed past him, from one end of the depth of the void to another. Luring and whispering as they ruffled his hair, brushing it across in gentle strokes. What he hadn’t done then, he wouldn’t do now, either — although the circumstances of his inaction differed. What once was a result of unrelenting stubbornness has turned into the product of inability; elytra mangled as it rested on his back, with no way to fix or grab a new one anywhere in sight.
The End was cruel and empty, so he knew. Nothing past the endless rings stretching past the horizon, merely an occasional city to be encountered every hundreds of blocks apart. Wild chorus fruit grew from uneven stone surfaces, its branches curling into twisted shapes, just to mess with the perception of anyone wandering by. Perhaps they’d already been there, walking in infinite circles, or maybe it was an area yet unknown.
It has been a while since the dimension was last seen as barren as in Wemmbu’s distant memory. The Mafia has surely left its mark, still, despite the time that has passed since its fall. Months. It had been months, and there it remained. Cities left robbed, dirt towers still serving for passage between the floating islands for those unfortunate enough to still have to use them. How ironic, for Wemmbu to be the one to end up in such misery.
Forced to flee from a fight he’d never would have expected to be impossible to claim with victory, he’d found himself in a pathetic spot on the outer End islands. It wasn’t the first time he’d been left without resources — there was plenty when he’d been stripped of everything he owned, forced to climb back up. And yet, never had it brought such frustration of having everything right at the end of his fingertips, safely stored in his Ender Chest, just for it to be so, so far away. The power, the resources — all right there for him to reminisce, yet so distant to spark irritation at his own helplessness.
Wemmbu, of all people, was not helpless. The last time he’d been was to never repeat again. He tried not to think of that time, of ruins and dust, and the emperor's mocking voice. It was long past.
Yet, for a moment there, it stung him that he’d rather hear the mocking tone than a gentle one. Of course, the thought disappeared as quickly as it came to be — technically, there wasn’t really anything wrong with Minute’s voice, as far as Wemmbu was concerned. He’d known the man for briefly half an hour, or so, and he hadn’t exactly found a factor that would’ve come off as particularly jarring. Not yet, at least.
“Let’s keep going. It shouldn’t be far from here.”
Minute consistently spoke with a particular tone of kindness, albeit stone cold, carrying a soft hint to itself. It wasn’t care, no — Wemmbu wouldn’t try to reach as far as to make such connection — but even as they fought, both high up in the sky, metal crashing against itself, Minute had not shown frustration. He had to have been annoyed, surely; Wemmbu crashed into his base with full intention to fight just for the sake of it; typical occurrence for them both, he assumed. He couldn’t have been the first to spark conflict with the self-proclaimed guardian of the dimension — although the blurred forecast of a possibility of having been the last, looking at where the fight had brought them, lingered in his mind.
Admittedly, it was his fault. He failed to see through the scheme — but when hasn't he? Each time he turned his back, unguarded and unprotected, it always ended up the same. Like a sword digging into his flesh, even if that pain was something he’d been much more used to. He shouldn’t let his guard down like that again.
Thus it puzzled him, for why Minute seemed to pay no mind to the presence by his side. They drifted together naturally, no word of alliance spoken in the silence between. Just a hand grabbed in the heat of the moment, a pearl thrown into the portal, and a destination hundreds of thousands of blocks out, led by dirt bridges and directed by Minute. That was no alliance. Not when their remaining armor pieces still had dents and scratches from when they fought. Minute was a fool, for trusting Wemmbu wouldn’t try to sabotage him the instant the idea became beneficial enough in his mind; and Wemmbu was a fool all the same, for not grabbing his mace to swing it before Minute got the opportunity to do so himself, dropping this silly facade of peace.
Neither of those strikes came at any point in time.
They were both grounded all the same — that laid undeniable. Unspoken, but undeniable. Treading a fine bridge right above the endless void, a ruthless trap awaiting a single mistake, neither of them made a move against the other. Although Wemmbu knew he was at an advantage if he were to try, Minute’s back turned to him as his eyes scanned what laid ahead, he dismissed the urge every time it resurfaced. Be it because he knew there was a higher goal he should have been worrying about instead, or took pity on Minute for his ignorance and chose to spare his life. He couldn’t have been so calm had he known who Wemmbu was, after all.
He convinced himself it was for the reason of Minute being useful. He wielded his weapons well, style of fighting graceful and refined; truthfully, watching him high up in the sky brought nothing but satisfaction — and all the same on land, he’d noticed. Although bound to the ground, with elytra broken by the hands of Wemmbu himself, Minute carried the same precision and smoothness of his movement. Even the pieces of his armor, presumably just as heavy as any other netherite gear, didn’t brush by its metal, leaving no obnoxious clicking following his steps. A stark contrast to Wemmbu’s own.
He had no idea how Minute managed not to point it out throughout their journey. Were it him, he’d take the first opportunity to take a jab at it, just to get under his skin a little, assert the bitterness still hanging between them. Were it him, he’d make sure it sounded out, that there was something he was clearly superior at. But Minute? Minute didn’t.
Because Minute was a better man than him.
“Do you have any food left?” He asked, turning around just as Wemmbu landed on the cold stone of yet another island, following right behind him. Despite the suspecting look Wemmbu had sent him, Minute’s posture remained relaxed as if what he’d just asked was the most casual question in the world; an exchange between allies, two travellers having been wandering together for ages.
“Yeah, some golden apples,” Wemmbu shrugged, eyes narrowing as he took a glance at all that was left of his current possessions. There was barely as much as half a stack. As much as he didn’t want to reveal the precise state of what he had left in stock, there was no point in trying to fool anyone — it wasn’t enough to sustain another fight. “There’s also, like, chorus fruit all around. Why do you care?”
“Hm,” he heard in response, before Minute reached somewhere into his inventory, looking through it deep in thought. Or so was the assumption, considering his focus on whatever he was staring at; as if completely ignoring the man next to him.
Before Wemmbu got to question his lack of proper elaboration, his patience running thin as he felt the time being wasted away, his hand moved on instinct to catch an enchanted apple chucked in his direction. It wasn’t a careless throw, but the sheer surprise of the motion caused it to almost fall out of his clawed hand. By some miracle, he managed to keep it in his palm.
“Hold on to that,” Minute finally looked up, shifting slightly before crossing his arms on his chest. “It’s not much, I know, but I suppose anything's better than... nothing,” he sighed with dissatisfaction. All in the same exact tone Wemmbu couldn’t pinpoint what he hated about. He wouldn’t even say he hated it, exactly; it was unnerving, in its own strange way. Minute spoke to him as if he were a companion, while that was one of the last words Wemmbu would have used to describe himself as found in that situation.
They weren’t companions. They weren’t allies. Not even enemies, nor rivals. They were nothing. Two very different people brought into the same unfortunate place at the same unfortunate time, forced to coexist in each other’s vicinity. Neither willing to be where they were, albeit one concealing it way better than the other could see — Minute kept calm about the person he’d found himself with, going on about it as if that same person hadn’t just stood against him. It was bound to quickly become infuriating.
This couldn’t have kept on going forever. All this time Wemmbu was itching to point it out, finally came to fruition.
“Dude, you know that we’re not, like, allies, right?” He frowned, the apple still laying in his hand as if it was a danger that must have been watched at any cost lest it cause harm. Slight discomfort fluttered in his chest as he held it out, almost accusatory towards Minute of something he wouldn’t know of. This couldn’t have been just a mere act of kindness; not on this server. Not to Wemmbu.
To his own surprise — astonishing in itself, considering he’d predicted exactly what the reaction would have been, Minute raised an eyebrow as if he hadn’t expected such a question at all.
“Are we not?” He asked in response, a hint of amusement accompanying his voice. Clearly, he must’ve been way more of a fool than Wemmbu initially assumed of him; oblivious even to the sole fact there wasn’t anything that tied them together. Uncaring of the knowledge, be it subconscious or not, that Wemmbu will not pledge his loyalty to him by any means, and their weapons will likely clash once again the very moment they get the opportunity to restock.
“I mean, bro, do you seriously think I’ll let you go without finishing off that fight?” He insisted, stubborn in his conviction. Above everything else, he’d initially arrived to the End chasing the thrill of the fight. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Meanwhile, Minute’s amusement has spread as to put a smile on his face. Wemmbu hated it; especially so with the way he saw no mockery within the deep, white void of his eyes. He looked like a father tired of his child’s strange antics, instead of the stranger he was supposed to be. Again; Wemmbu hated it.
“Of course not,” he received in response. How infuriating, for Minute to still pretend he was a few steps ahead of him at any given time. “I’d never expect that of you.”
Before Wemmbu could reaffirm his statement, proving himself correct, Minute quickly added on.
“This doesn’t make us allies any less.”
Pointed out as if the most obvious thing in the world, it felt as if poking fun at Wemmbu for his ignorance at the need to have it sound out loud — yet, again, with none of the ridicule he’d grown used to. It wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t an attempt to patronise him, treating him as if fragile and unable to understand. Just a statement, simple in design, monotone in sound.
He couldn’t have left it lingering, stuck in the cold air digging needles into his skin.
“Right, right,” he rolled his eyes, sarcastic tone giving way to annoyance. “Keep your allies close and your enemies closer, or whatever they say. Wait until they stab you in the back, grab whatever loot’s left, and run,” he listed, spine straightening up to rival Minute’s height. “You seem awfully convinced I won’t do just that.”
Minute chuckled in response. He chuckled, following the threat Wemmbu had just extended to him; a lighthearted gesture, proving just how dismissive he was of the knight beside him. Were it, instead of Minute, that emperor Wemmbu had once stood by, these words would have been the nail to his coffin; a confirmation of betrayal sure to come, no loyalty left in his heart. Such was the way of alliances on the server, no permanence embedded within as they crumbled with just a few words.
Meanwhile Minute over there paid it no mind.
“You haven’t yet. That’s proof enough.”
What an idiotic train of thought. To blindly put trust in Wemmbu, of all people, known for the chaos and destruction he brought anywhere he went. Wemmbu, capable of turning against him at any moment. Wemmbu, with no lasting companionship — except for one, constant and grounding.
Wemmbu was not someone who would stick by his side. The instant they took care of that traitorous group of reckless players, the point of Wemmbu’s mace would mark Minute as a target once again. And there the fight would be driven onward, dragging on and on until one stood victorious.
“Alright bro, you’re just— …Whatever, forget it. Let’s move on,” Wemmbu sighed, abandoning the initial intention to carelessly throw some insult towards the man, seeing as he was still watching him with a mildly amused look.
With one, last, frustrated gaze sent Minute’s way, he dropped the enchanted apple into an empty slot in his inventory, and moved past him to continue the journey amongst infinite endstone, armor clicking into the rhythm of impatient steps. Despite not having spared a second to look back, just to check if Minute would keep on following, the soft sound of another pair of metal boots accompanying his own was telling enough. He didn’t care enough to complain, hence tolerating his proximity a bit longer. At least until it was safe to resume the fight.
—
The islands stretched far and vast, the painting of their form still as cold and unwelcoming as earlier. Just a bunch of harsh rocks of endstone cut from the void beyond. Regardless of the direction one would take, they would end up all the same; North, South, East and West, alongside all their in-betweens, were foreign concepts within this barren land, distant stars of the Overworld gone from the sky. Navigating the way in such conditions was an exhausting, impossible task.
Wemmbu’s sense of direction had become skewed by the time he passed by the fourth looted End City. At that point, it hadn’t even mattered where his steps were taking him — as long as he moved forward. Any stop on the way was a mere waste of time, he knew.
And yet, he stopped. Multiple times. Once by a city. Twice to collect chorus fruit, which — albeit disgusting in taste — served for a decent enough source of nutrition. Thrice to stare into the void, and patiently await it to stare back. It hadn’t graced him with its gaze as much as for a second; not when he sat at the island’s edge, eyes drilled into the darkness below, seeking, constantly seeking out a glimpse of a star, or a nebula far away. He could’ve sworn he’d seen those before — purple clouds with shining glitter sprinkled on top, just barely distinguishable from the light illumination of the endstone's reflected glow.
“Are you waiting for something?” The void whispered.
“There’s still a long road ahead.” The void nagged.
All in its familiar, monotone voice.
Had only Wemmbu had a way to get his elytra mended into usability, he’d jump off the ledge without a second thought, knowing the void would do him no harm. He’d spread his wings, up until that point hanging loose behind him, useless without the metallic support, and give in to its call without worry. It had never wronged him. Never betrayed. Never would, and never will, as long as he hadn’t gotten past the fine line of its borders.
“Actually, not that long of a road at all. There should be something over there, if you care to focus.” The void mused, voice gradually getting closer.
Then, the void patted him on the shoulder.
Wemmbu jumped in surprise, shoulders immediately tensing upon the touch; even if it retracted as fast as it appeared. Having turned his head in the direction so quickly he could almost have snapped his neck, he was only met with Minute’s understanding eyes, instead of a danger he’d been expecting. Right; all this time he hadn’t been travelling in solitude.
“Pay attention, Wemmbu,” the void scolded, in Minute’s voice, as he reached a hand out towards him. Seemingly, it wasn’t the void itself speaking to him — just Minute himself. Minute, whose voice sounded identical to what Wemmbu had been used to hearing from nothingness; that’s what was so unnerving about it all this time.
It took less than seconds for him to get up from where he’d been sitting, brushing the dust off the remains of his once pristine armor, trying to appear less than guilty as he faced the other. There hadn’t been any guilt in his heart before — why did he have to try to conceal something that wasn’t even there?
“Hey. Are you all good to keep going?” He heard after a while, following the brief moment of silence which arose between the two of them. It’d made him come to the realization that Minute had not yet moved from where he stood — why the hell was he still there? Hadn’t he anything better to do?
“Shouldn’t you be worrying for yourself instead?” Wemmbu raised an eyebrow, tone accidentally turning out softer than he’d intended for it to. Having quickly cleared his throat, he made an attempt to follow through with the initial bitterness he’d had in mind; he wasn’t used to his words reflecting any sort of care. “If you’re so desperate to move forward, you can leave anytime if you want! Actually— you should leave. Like, what are we doing? What are we doing here, bro?”
He chose not to notice the way Minute’s expression slightly fell, shoulders stiffening, as if running back a memory he really did not wish to relive. He tried not to let it show, clearly — just like Wemmbu himself. For just a blink, the guilt stung again; perhaps he did feel a tiny bit of pity for the guy, considering he hadn’t really intended to make this uncomfortable for either of them. And yet, he wouldn’t apologise. Not when it had already been said. Apologising had never exactly been embedded into his lifestyle — what done once was done forever.
“...I don’t mind waiting,” Minute hummed after yet another pause. Maybe he’d been waiting for Wemmbu to say something more — something that ultimately never came to be. “And I’m not too eager to leave you all by yourself. At least not until we get an opportunity to restock. It sh—”
“Are you even hearing yourself?” Wemmbu cut him off — rudely, although he could hardly bring himself to care for manners at the moment. “You know the moment I get that restock—”
“I know,” this time the turn was Minute’s to cut him off, as he turned to the side as to not have to face Wemmbu as he spoke, “I know. You’ll keep fighting. If that’s what it must be, feel free to act on it. I cannot stop you from walking into a losing battle, but I will not forfeit this dimension either. Still, I hope you can understand where I’m coming from.”
Wemmbu didn’t; not really. On one hand, Minute explained it simply — he believed himself superior in skill, enough so that his victory would’ve been guaranteed. He clearly did not want Wemmbu disturbing his peace. On the other hand, he wasn’t willing to leave him alone. Instead, he’d taken active measures to help him, knowing he was to turn against him the instant he got what he needed.
“Were it up to me, I’d actually try to convince you not to ruin this,” he continued, “but I can tell any effort made for that cause is futile.”
As much as Wemmbu had used to believe this to be true, at the time of hearing such statement he was… not quite sure of it anymore. The sense of guilt resurfaced, yet this time for a clear reason he didn’t want to acknowledge, yet did so anyway: had Minute wanted him dead, he would’ve already acted on it. Equally so, had Wemmbu wanted Minute dead, he would have done the same. The opportunity had been right in front of him — back on that bridge, as well as the many bridges that came after, when he hadn’t done a thing. Similarly, when he sat on the edge of the island, just as vulnerable to a mere push forward — even then, what Minute did was reach a hand out, extending as an offering of support. A hand Wemmbu did not take.
“So what, you’re just going to help me take you down?” He argued, although significantly lacking the bite he’d previously tried to upkeep. A thousand concepts materializing all at once, running around his head and trying to make justification of the situation without accepting the label of an ally, irritating to the point he didn’t particularly want to keep arguing with them anymore.
He’d never been one to pick and choose who to trust. Not when he served the emperor. Not when he’d gone hunting for a glimpse of diamond trimmed armor. Not even when he jumped into the End portal merely hours before.
And where had they all brought him?
Straight to failure.
Unfortunately, the earlier decision to distrust Minute as to not end up hurting and betrayed crumbled as quickly as it had been made. What a shame Wemmbu’s never been good at holding grudges.
“Not at all. I’m going to help you get back to the portal,” his previous question carried on, having Minute grace it with a response despite the fact he really didn’t need to engage. “What you do from there on is your choice.”
Wemmbu’s eyes narrowed as they turned away, shifting focus to anything that wasn’t Minute beside him. Despite what the man had said earlier, the subtle attempts to change his mind were still there; clearly, they’d both been just as stubborn — although one willing to stand his ground a bit more openly, while the other relied on gentle hints to convey the message.
With every passing second Wemmbu was losing more and more will to grab his mace and swing it in the other's direction. Purely because he felt bad about his own insistence on keeping him at a distance; then again, perhaps if he hadn’t just gone through a betrayal of an equally short-term alliance, he would have accompanied Minute without a second thought. It was nothing but forced animosity.
Despite everything, Minute was right; they were allies. And yet, there was no way Wemmbu would admit his wrongs so easily; never out loud, never so quickly. A shrug was all he could muster, followed by shuffling of endstone under his shoe as he tensed his body, already thinking to continue moving forward. Minute seemed to catch on immediately, allowing himself for a soft, yet unamused chuckle before turning his back to Wemmbu in order to lead the way once again.
—
The harsh edges of endstone bricks were far more forgiving than the purpur blocks wrapped in pillars around the End City’s structure. Smooth, polished material made purely to look pristine had never been too useful when it came to climbing its side, so Wemmbu knew. It was hence he was not particularly fond of any action surrounding the cities; not when he hadn’t a functioning elytra at hand. The purpur had often turned traitorous, deceptive beauty claiming more than intended — only then could one see through the mesmerizing violet hue, realizing it to be dull and nauseating to look at.
Wemmbu was all too familiar with it.
Minute, meanwhile, did not seem to mind at all.
“I’m starting to think we might not find anything here,” he started, sword still in hand as he swiftly made a jump from one platform to another. “The higher we get, the less we see.”
“Less of what? Shulkers?” Wemmbu barely huffed out a laugh, voice dismissive of the observation, although knowing it had a point. The higher floors felt terribly bare in comparison to what they’ve come across downstairs. “We’ve probably killed them all. I mean, there had to have been, like, at least a dozen, right? No wonder they’re gone.”
“Hm,” Minute hummed, turning to look out the tinted window at the opposite side of the room. Perhaps it was agreement, expressed in his strange MinuteTech way, or disappointment at Wemmbu’s lack of deeper consideration. Either way, Wemmbu was left to speculate.
Over the short period of time which had passed since he chose to start considering Minute a temporary ally — even if reliable, and capable, and really worth having by his side — he still hadn’t stepped back from keeping a close eye on his mannerisms. Albeit those were, admittedly, an enigma. His style, his gestures, the way he held his weapons. His occasional tendency to cut an exchange with a simple “hm”, forever left not elaborated upon, as Wemmbu wasn’t particularly eager to inquire. Well, eager he was — rather unwilling to search for a way to bring it back up.
“So like what, have we done all that for nothing?” He carried on, despite Minute’s clear lack of attention reserved just for him. Yet, the simple question seemed to have done the trick to get it back.
“Possibly,” Minute shrugged, as if the time spent climbing up the floors in the buildings was something to freely be discarded. “Though, I wouldn’t exclude the chance of the chest still being there just yet. Maybe whoever came through here before us had no use in breaking it.”
“Right, right. Because the people on this server are known for their generosity and not making life all the more difficult for everyone else,” with an overly dramatic roll of his eyes, Wemmbu began to trail after Minute who in the meantime started heading up another staircase.
“You’re one of those people,” was what he received in response, alongside a mildly amused look briefly pointed his way.
Of course he was. Had he not been included in the equation, neither of them would have been standing where they were; on a deserted End island, tens of thousands blocks out, seeking out a place that hadn’t yet been robbed by either the Mafia or some other group; or individual, perhaps, like Wemmbu himself had once done.
“Alright bro, whatever you say,” he chuckled, at last getting out of the god forsaken staircase. The consistent disaster of their design was starting to spark frustration after the third, or fourth climb up in one, single city. “But as far as I’m aware, I’m not the one locking down an entire dimension.”
“It’s for the greater good,” Minute hummed, already rummaging through the chests in the corners. All empty, of course, with the Ender Chest nowhere to be found. “You saw what happened out there.”
“To be fair, that’s also kind of your fault.”
“How is it my fault?” His eyes narrowed, expression puzzled, as if he hadn’t expected Wemmbu to throw an accusation straight away.
“Well, you know, if you weren’t guarding the portal I wouldn’t have gotten word of it. So, I wouldn't have been there to fight you. And those guys wouldn’t get their opportunity to summon the dragon,” he listed, fingers raised to emphasise the point he was trying to make.
Minute did not appear to be very fond of it.
“Had I not been there, there would’ve been nothing to stop them in the first place,” he crossed his arms, visibly not encouraging Wemmbu to go on further.
“Or, maybe at least they wouldn’t have gotten the idea.”
“And you believe there would be no others to come up with it instead?”
That was a point Wemmbu couldn’t argue with.
“You said so yourself: people around this server aren’t kind, nor generous. If not for them, there would be someone else. That’s just the natural course of things,” Minute sighed, his posture finally relaxing. “I’m doing this for the sake of everyone who doesn’t deserve to face such terror.”
Right. Of course. Moral righteousness remained still above all.
“...Sure. You keep telling yourself that. Now, let’s get out of here and find a city with an actual Ender Chest so that we can kill those guys once and for good,” Wemmbu turned back to the staircase, tail flicking in impatience as he waited for Minute to follow. Despite the opportunity to leave all on his own constantly shining somewhere in his mind, he still waited.
“Send them back. Not kill,” Minute corrected, tone demanding no argument to be made against it.
That was a part Wemmbu failed to comprehend. The persistent aversion to killing people Minute consistently displayed each time it got brought up. He wasn’t much of a pacifist, the demon thought, considering the lack of hesitation to fight when the necessity arose. Although, admittedly, Wemmbu wasn’t all too familiar with pacifism, so perhaps he was one after all. Ultimately, all he seemed to wish for was peace in the End dimension — any confrontation was sparked by those who came to disturb it; though, again, that was on him for guarding the gateway so strictly as to cause rebellion.
“Nah, I think I’m good with killing,” Wemmbu grinned. It went unnoticed by Minute, who still followed behind him as they descended down the stairs. “The more we get rid of, the better. Less cases like this in the future, or whatever. More peace, anyhow.”
“You don’t actually care for peace,” Minute pointed out. “You—”
“Yeah, you’re right, it's not really my thing,” he admitted, aiming to get the other by surprise. “I’m more for, like, justice.”
After a few seconds of silence, Minute sighed with disappointment. Disappointment, directed straight at Wemmbu, so similar to what he was used to hearing from his mentor months before.
“Your justice means as much as your peace,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut. “You serve no cause other than your own benefit.”
Wemmbu stopped, right at the edge of the step. The idea of fighting Minute right there and then, regardless of the broken elytra and incomplete armor, blinked back into existence before dissolving just as quickly. It wasn’t because Minute was wrong, or accusatory — but because he wasn’t.
“Alright, whatever,” he huffed, jumping down the steps again. “You don’t get to say that when you’re no better.”
Before Minute could protest against his statement, Wemmbu swiftly turned around to face him, staring into his eyes from a couple steps below.
“You wouldn’t be holding that mace if you were.”
Nobody wielding a mace on this server could have had no blood on their hands.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Minute’s eyes narrowed into a frown, hand hovering over his inventory bar right where the weapon laid. Perhaps that was the moment he’d finally break his own rule to kill Wemmbu, once and for all; there was nothing to stop him, when he had the higher ground.
“You don’t get a mace without spilling blood. Say, which diamond trim have you killed to get it?”
Minute stayed silent.
“We both know there’s no other way to get one anymore. It’s a kill or be killed world — and the sole fact you’re standing here with it means you chose to kill. Seems you’re not as loyal to your rules as you preach, after a—”
“I was the diamond trim.”
Wemmbu’s mouth snapped shut.
“I was the diamond trim I killed, Wemmbu,” Minute repeated, as if it hadn’t sounded out right the first time around.
The silence that followed stretched uncomfortably into awkwardness. From this point on, neither of them could dismiss it with a sigh to keep moving; the confession stayed hanging in the air, waiting to be acknowledged.
“So, that means you’ve killed plenty others,” Wemmbu cut the tension.
“I have.”
“And you’re trying to just… discard that. You’re chasing some stupid moral superiority over me, even though you’re genuinely no better,” he bit. “All that denial for what’s clearly the best way to get these people out of our business, and for nothing.”
“Am I not allowed to wish to repent for what I have done?” Minute finally raised his eyes from where they were glued looking at the floor down below.
“Dude— be serious. What does that bring you?” Wemmbu scoffed, leaning against the nearby wall. “You’ve done it already. No amount of guilt will change that, so might as well add a couple more to the count.”
“That defeats the point of repenting,” he sighed. “I used to regret it then just as I regret it now. But you’re right, with one thing: you and I are alike.”
Wemmbu raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.
“And because of that, I believe you have the capacity to change all the same.”
“Alright, we’re not doing this anymore,” he shook his head, jumping a few last steps and finally landing on the ground, getting some distance from where the other lagged behind. Minute was a fool to put any trust in him, just like he’d recognised at the beginning. “You can keep your… stupid moral high ground, or whatever it is.”
It was only after he heard footsteps landing right by him — for which he waited nonetheless — did Minute speak again.
“Maybe reflecting on your actions every once in a while would be nice.”
“Oh, yeah, sure, how about you reflect on yours?” Wemmbu’s annoyance still shone through his tone, even though he made an attempt to conceal it. “Going around claiming to have abandoned the ways of the mafia — because that’s what you’re doing — then turning to fight at any opportunity.”
“Fighting is not the same as killing,” Minute pointed out, rightfully so. “Violence is the only common tongue of this server, I’m well aware. As much as I’d want peace, there’s no point; but if I can at the very least let them go free after experiencing defeat, that’s enough. Perhaps they’ll learn something from it.”
“So you’re willing to spill their blood and crush their bones as long as they remain alive?” Wemmbu scoffed.
“Yes,” he answered, with no hesitation. “Yes, I am.”
What a ridiculous concept. Albeit Wemmbu knew that even when left hurt and bleeding, typically betrayed on top of it all, he’d always rather cling onto life in any way he could, than surrender to death.
He didn’t say another word, for he truly didn’t have much to defend himself left. It appeared Minute was… correct, somewhat, even if Wemmbu was soon to ignore whatever he’d been saying in order to do his own thing. He wasn’t one not to use his weapons and skill to the full potential; not when he’d worked so hard to get where he was.
Having made sure Minute would still follow him, he headed out back in the direction they’d been following as they passed through the End City. It’s been hours at that point, and they were still yet to find one completely empty, despite having wandered as far as almost a hundred thousand blocks out. It was exhausting. And yet, they both still had hope to come across just a single opportunity.
“You know,” Minute’s voice broke the silence, startling Wemmbu just a little. “You’re right to say guilt is not enough.”
“Oh, really?” Wemmbu hummed, softly. Something of an instinct told him to keep quiet and not to poke at his companion for a little while.
“Hm,” he got in response again, although this time sounding much more agreeable, rather than bland. Just as he thought that would be yet another end of a hardly started conversation, Minute spoke up again. “The memory doesn’t leave regardless of how much time has passed. Neither does the feeling.”
That Wemmbu couldn’t argue with, for he knew it was true. He still felt it, himself — spines fracturing as his mace slammed against them, bodies vanishing into thin air right after. It wasn’t really thrill, which he would usually ascribe it to; the haunting was a fault of something else, following like a loyal shadow wherever he went.
“Here, take this,” Wemmbu stopped just as another enchanted golden apple was thrown his way, barely making the catch. “And don’t get drunk on violence,” Minute added quickly after, with something of a friendly smile.
“Well, that’s kind of my whole thing,” the demon shrugged, yet a spring of energy returned to his steps. “Can’t really take that from me, can you?”
Minute sighed, although the smile hadn’t left his face. Even if neither of them chose to address it, somewhere in–between the lines it lingered unspoken — a faint sense of peace, hidden in each other’s presence.
None of Wemmbu’s weapons were to rise against Minute that day.