The world loaded in gently.
No jolt. No flash of light. Just the soft, familiar weight of gravity settling into place and the warm square of sunlight pressing against Eryx's closed eyelids.
He opened his eyes.
Blue sky—too blue, too clean. Clouds drifting like lazy brushstrokes. The grass beneath him was impossibly green, individual blades rendered in perfect cubic uniformity, yet somehow soft enough that his shoulders sank into it when he exhaled.
Minecraft.
Modded Minecraft.
The Ghastling floated beside him, already awake, ribbons drifting in lazy spirals. The white along the underside of her tendrils had crept higher since the last time they'd been here. Growth was steady. Comfortable. Natural.
"Morning," Eryx muttered.
She responded with a bubbly trill and bumped his cheek affectionately.
He sat up, stretched, and checked the sun's position.
Plenty of time.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go annoy some villagers."
The village lay a short walk from his base, past a gentle slope and a shallow stream that reflected the sky like a polished mirror. The path was worn—not by boots, but by habit. Villagers didn't walk with urgency. They wandered. Drifted. Lingered.
As Eryx approached, heads turned.
Tall noses angled toward him. Unibrows furrowed.
"Mmmph," one villager grunted.
Another nodded sagely, as if Eryx's mere existence required approval.
Trading stalls lined the center of the village, patched together from oak planks and stone slabs. Bells hung overhead, chiming softly in the breeze.
Eryx stepped up to the nearest villager and held out an emerald.
No words were exchanged.
The villager squinted, reached under the counter, and presented a selection of items.
Iron ingots. Bread. A suspiciously worn helmet.
Eryx nodded, brows knitting as he considered.
"Fair enough," he muttered, and accepted the trade for the bread.
Trading wasn't for getting stuff, Eryx thought of this as Charity... Plus food here was running a bit dry.
He moved from stall to stall, emeralds flowing freely from his inventory—more than he reasonably needed. That farm he'd built back near the mountains had paid off far more than expected.
(Oops. Secret.)
As he finished a trade, a villager in a green shirt shuffled forward.
The Nitwit.
Eryx paused.
The villager held up an iron ingot proudly.
One iron.
For one emerald.
Eryx stared at it.
"…Buddy," he said gently, "that's robbery."
The Nitwit tilted his head, smiling vacantly.
Eryx sighed and handed over the emerald anyway.
The Nitwit beamed.
Only then did Eryx notice the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Villagers were gathering.
Not around the trading stalls.
Around the Nitwit.
A bell rang.
The green-shirted villager climbed onto a small platform—one Eryx was certain hadn't been there before.
The Nitwit raised his arms.
"Mmmph! Hrrmph!"
The villagers murmured.
Eryx's eyes widened.
"…No way."
The Nitwit gestured dramatically, pacing back and forth, waving his arms like a politician mid-speech. Villagers nodded. Some clapped.
"He's the mayor," Eryx whispered.
The Ghastling bobbed beside him, unimpressed.
The Nitwit—Mayor, apparently—finished his speech with a triumphant grunt. The villagers dispersed, visibly satisfied.
Eryx rubbed his face.
"…I traded with the mayor."
That was enough village interaction for one day.
He returned home as the sun climbed higher.
His base sat just beyond a stand of oak trees, nestled into a gentle rise overlooking the plains. It wasn't massive. It wasn't fortified.
But it was his.
The house was primarily oak—solid, warm, dependable. Thick beams framed the structure, darkened slightly from exposure to the elements. The roof sloped gently, layered with oak slabs that caught the sunlight in neat, orderly lines.
Birch accents stood out in contrast.
Window frames. Support posts. Trim along the edges of the roof.
Birch was weak—everyone knew that—but it was bright, clean, decorative. And since Eryx didn't venture far, durability wasn't the priority.
Inside, the space opened comfortably.
The floor was polished oak, smooth beneath his boots. A long table dominated the center of the main room, cluttered with maps, books, and neatly stacked resources. Lanterns hung from birch beams overhead, casting a warm, steady glow.
Along one wall, storage chests were embedded neatly into the structure, labeled with simple signs. Materials. Tools. Food. Mob Drops.
A copper figure stood near the back wall.
"Bronze," Eryx said.
The Copper Golem whirred softly, turning its square head. Its body was mottled with oxidation, patches of green creeping along its joints. It waved stiffly.
Bronze wasn't just decoration. He was a translator—capable of interpreting villager language into something Eryx could understand when needed. But for now, he remained stationed here, watching over the base.
Small blue shapes flitted through the air.
Allays.
They hummed softly as they carried items from one chest to another, responding instantly to Eryx's presence. He'd given them simple tasks—organize, retrieve, tidy.
They adored him for it.
"Good work," Eryx said, patting one gently as it passed.
It twirled happily.
The Ghastling floated toward the back of the house, where her favorite spot waited—a shallow pool lined with smooth stone, water gently circulating. She dipped her ribbons in, sighing contentedly.
Eryx leaned against the doorframe, taking it all in.
The oak walls. The birch trim. The quiet hum of a world that obeyed different rules—but rules he understood.
"This place is getting crowded," he murmured.
The Ghastling peeked up at him, eyes bright.
He smiled.
"…Which means the shop needs more stock."
He checked his gear. Emeralds—plenty. Gemeralds—always. Tools—ready.
"Alright," he said, stepping toward the door. "Let's go tame some more monsters."
The Ghastling chirped excitedly and floated after him.
The base door closed behind them with a solid thunk.
And somewhere, far beyond oak beams and birch trim, the world quietly prepared to adapt—again.