Chapter Text
Wemmbu lay there, his back pressed against the cold, jagged stone of the crater ledge. Every breath felt like swallowing glass. Blood was everywhere—dripping from his nose, soaking through his clothes, and pooling under his limbs. He could feel his life leaking out onto the dirt.
Flame stood over him, looking down with a mix of adrenaline and arrogance. Through the ringing in his left ear, Wemmbu heard him speak. The words barely made sense, drifting in one side and out the other as his vision blurred.
"That's it?" Flame asked.
Wemmbu's voice was a weak mumble. "Mhm.. yeah."
"You don't care anymore?" Flame pressed, his tone a bit frustrated. "Or do you just finally realize that it wasn't close? And that you don't stand a chance?"
The insults were meant to sting, but Wemmbu didn't flinch. He stayed oddly still, his body heavy and broken. He knew Flame needed to hear certain words to finally walk away. He forced his cracked lips to move.
"I-I guess not. I guess you're the strongest."
Flame stopped. He looked baffled, like he hadn't expected Wemmbu to just give up. He blinked, shifting his weight. "I mean like—"
"Yeah," Wemmbu cut him off, wanting the silence more than the win.
Flame cleared his throat, regaining his stride. "Just remember that.. skill always beats power. So next time you try and fight me, just remember I'm more skilled than you, bro, so.. just don't even step up."
As Flame kept rambling, Wemmbu actually started to laugh. It was a wet, painful sound. He stopped listening to the specific words, the sound of Flame’s voice becoming nothing more than background noise. He just stared at the sky, praying for the guy to shut up and go away.
Finally, Wemmbu looked at him one last time. "You can be more skilled than me, that's fine."
...
Wemmbu didn't move. He just stood there, leaning his weight against the rough stone wall while the blood continued to soak into the ground.
A few minutes ago, he had thought about the surface. He imagined the cold, gushing water of the river up there and how good it would feel to wash the red away and clear his head. But the thought passed as quickly as it came. He was just too tired.
He was tired of holding his side to stop the bleeding. He was tired of the effort it would take to fly out of this hole. Even breathing felt like a chore he didn't want to finish.
"Does it really take that long?" Wemmbu muttered to himself. He let out a weak, dry chuckle that hurt his chest.
He fumbled with his belt, checking his inventory to see if he had anything left—a potion, a rocket, maybe a ender pearl. His fingers brushed against something hard and flat.
A sign.
That was it. No gapples, no healing. Just a piece of wood. With a slow, shaky breath, he leaned over and pressed the sign into the stone right at his feet.
I can't believe I'm talking to myself
I couldn't take it anymore, I'm sorry
Thank you for being here with me in the end
If anyone finds this
Bring it to Eggchan
Wemmbu moved with a slow, heavy rhythm, his hands shaking as he pulled out the raw materials he had left. Even with the blood slicking his palms, his muscle memory took over. He put together a crafting bench, the wood clicking into place with a hollow sound that echoed in the quiet crater.
A few seconds later, he finished a chest. He set it down on the uneven stone, the lid creaking as he flipped it open.
One by one, he started emptying his pockets. He tucked away his valuables—things he wouldn't need where he was going, or things he just didn't want Flame to get his hands on. He worked quietly, his breathing shallow and ragged, until the inventory was almost empty.
But then he stopped. One thing stayed in his hands, heavy and familiar.
Gambit.
He stared down at it, his fingers curling around it one last time. It felt different now—colder, or maybe that was just his hands losing their warmth.
He closed the chest.
Wemmbu looked down at the blade. He didn't have the energy to argue anymore, and he definitely didn't have the energy to wait for the blood loss to finish the job. If there was going to be a final word, he wanted to be the one to say it—even if he said it in silence.
He gripped the handle of his sword, his knuckles white against the dark hilt. His breathing was steady now, calmed by a sudden, final bit of clarity. He didn't look up. He didn't say another word.
With one quick, decisive motion, he brought the edge of the sword to his throat and sliced.
The sound was sharp and sudden. Wemmbu’s body slumped instantly, his weight hitting the stone ledge before sliding toward the bottom of the crater. Gambit clattered to the floor next to the chest he had just built, the metal ringing out against the rock.
The crafting bench sat still. The chest remained closed, holding everything he had left behind. In the middle of the quiet, blood-stained crater, the only thing left standing was the sign he had placed in the dirt.
He wished he was in someone's hands, someone who can warm him.
That reminds him, was it always this cold?
Wemmbu was slain by Wemmbu