Chapter Text
That-
scoff.
Flame let out a sharp breath through his teeth, half a laugh, half a curse. “Yeah. Sure. I can't believe that’s actually him.Genuinely him . HIM really ? ”
The sarcasm did nothing to steady the twisting pit in his chest.
He stared at the dirt in front of him, like maybe it would provide an answer he actually wanted.
Of course it didn’t. Nothing did .
He dragged a hand back through his locks, claws scraping lightly against his horns. “So that’s where Wemmbu’s been hiding…? Unbelievable.” His voice cracked, just a little, but he pushed past it. “Why— why the hell would he be there?”
Parrot’s concern tone mock him — hit him again. Of course the bird saw this happening , all his theories being right , being the biggest bird , being the smartest player . Out of everyone he saw something.
Parrot saw something.
And Flame brushed it off…. he didn't think it was true . It wasn't the truth yet it stood in front of him just moments ago.
Now it sat in the back of his skull like thunder that refused to roll away.
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the memory of the fight to replay — every detail, every sound, every shift in weight. It was torture. It was also unavoidable.
At the moment of impact, Flame was certain it was Wemmbu. Absolutely certain- he could smell it from thousand of blocks away. He didn’t even think — the recognition was instinctual, like muscle memory, like the rush you get when an old rival jumps you from behind and you just know who it is.
But now that he replayed it? Too many things were off.
Too many things were wrong.
Too many things didn’t fit.
He couldn’t see the familiar grin or the purple particles that seemed to follow Wemmbu everywhere.
No familiar grin.
No loud ego.
No taunting.
No signature stupid movement where Wemmbu half-tripped, half-flew because his wings were in the way. And then acted as if it was on purpose .
“Wings…” Flame muttered.
That knight had none.
Not even scars or gaps where wings would have been.
Just armor.
Heavy, grounded armor. He finds that fact distressing . It should be proof that that isn't Wemmbu , yet at the end of the day it proofs nothing when the guy didn't even showed his face.
That’s what bothered him most.
The knights identity was closed off .
A soldier remain . One apparently loyal and trusted . The left-hand man ? of the Law forces after Deputy Ace .
At least Flame knows of Ace and how he looks . Lawdog was a complete new player that Flame didn't met before and now he mistook him as Wemmbu ?
A loyal one to the boot too . The guy didn't even move when Lettuce gave the speech , he stood there like a well trained soldier. Even Loppezz could be seen moving .
Flame swallowed hard, tongue dry.
Wemmbu?
Voluntarily submitting to Law?
No- it mustn't be him then .
But if it was , if his instinct didn't lie , they clearly were just wrong .It made Flame’s skin crawl.
Not because he thought Wemmbu was trapped — no. That wasn’t his assumption at all.
He thought:
He chose this.
He lowered himself to this - a law boy.
Working for Law…
That was a new low.
A pathetic, degrading, weak decision- at least in Flame’s eyes. It was a display of submission he didn't think Wemmbu would even show .
He didn’t understand it.
He didn’t want to understand it.
Why?
Why would Wemmbu sink that far?
Why would he throw away everything he stood for — everything Flame thought he stood for — to bow to those robed parasites? Did the Law offer riches or something ?
It made no sense.
Flame leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring holes into the dirt.
Flame had fled the scene when he saw more guards come after him . He tried going to his base ,but they seemed to be one step in front of him , infiltrating his home . He fled again to a remote jungle hoping he loose sight of the guards , but it always seemed that they knew where to look , knew of his location anytime , anywhere . It was getting annoying .
But all of that was background noise now — static behind the memory that wouldn’t leave him alone.
The Northern Council .
The torchlight reflecting off the knight’s visor.
The way the air shifted before the first blow.
The exact pivot of the foot, the timed weight, the unmistakable angle of the strike—
Wemmbu. Or whoever Lawdog is .
Flame clenched his jaw until it hurt.
He hated how familiar it felt.
He hated how unfamiliar it looked.
Living the life as dangerous as Flames , he learn to sharpen his instict . 9/10 times his gut is right , always right , why was is wrong now- unless.
He hated the possibility that the two could coexist.
Flame pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. The thought dug under his skin like splinters.
Was that really him?
He couldn’t tell.
And that uncertainty — that single unanswerable question — was worse than any injury.
He didn’t want Wemmbu to be controlled.
Gods, no.
Not his rival. Not that idiot. Not the reckless, wing-snapping menace who never shut up and never backed down. The idea of Wemmbu — Wemmbu — being puppeted by anyone was so wrong Flame couldn’t even picture it without his stomach twisting.
They fought.
They clashed like it was a religion.
But beneath every swing, every explosion, every stupid taunt, there was respect.
A reluctant, infuriating, bone-deep respect for someone who trained as hard as he did, who practiced until dawn, who treated battle like an art form instead of a chore.
Wemmbu losing that?
Losing the freedom that made him him?
Losing the chaotic, loud, ridiculous personality that caused more problems than it solved?
Flame grit his teeth, eyes burning.
He hated his guts.
He swore he did.
So why did the thought make him feel—
WHY.
Why was this bothering him so much?
WEMMBU, WHY ARE YOU SUCH A MESS TO DEAL WITH?
He wanted to yell it into the dirt. He wanted an answer. He wanted something simple, something that didn’t make his chest hurt.
Respect is given where it’s due — and unfortunately, that idiot had earned it. Not because they were friends. Not because Flame liked him.
But because Wemmbu was a damn good player.
A damn good fighter.
A damn stubborn force of nature.
And Flame respected him more than he ever cared to admit.
More than this rivalry deserved.
More than he wanted to feel for someone he didn’t want trapped, restrained, or used.
Flame inhaled sharply.
Then let it out slow.
A long, shaky breath he pretended wasn’t shaky.
He didn’t know what he hated more:
The possibility that the knight was Wemmbu…
…or the possibility that it wasn’t —
and Wemmbu was still missing.
Gone.
Just like that.
Again.
He hadn’t even unwrapped that emotional disaster yet.
He swallowed it down, shoved it behind the rest of the chaos in his head, told himself it didn’t matter.
But it did.
He had just experienced “invisible knight Wemmbu” — the disappearing act, the mystery, the vanishing into thin air — and now what's next , Wemmbu dead arc 2.0 ?
The thought made his pulse spike.
Both possibilities twisted him in knots.
Both made him feel sick.
Both pushed at a part of him he refused to look at too closely.
Both made him feel—
He stopped himself.
Cut the emotion off brutally before it formed into something recognizable.
Something he might have to confront.
Flame slumped back against the oak tree, eyes unfocused, mind running in circles he couldn’t break. He didn’t want to spiral. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to be sitting here thinking about someone he swore was nothing more than an annoying rival.
Enemies.
Not long ago.
Not teammates.
Not friends.
Enemies.
So why was his chest tight?
Why did the memory of that grounded stance bother him so much?
Why was he thinking about the wings that should’ve been there?
Why did he suddenly, stupidly, irrationally miss the clumsy flapping he used to complain about?
The answers were right in front of him.
All of them.
They pressed close, waiting for him to stop lying to himself.
But Flame shoved them down, refusing to accept even one.
He wasn’t ready to break.
But he was unraveling, slow and steady.
.
.
.
“How do we get you there?” Minute asked, pacing in a tight circle. “Egg, seriously — how do we get you out there? You’re stuck here. You know you’re stuck here.”
The words hit something sharp in the air.
Egg’s head snapped toward him.
Not violently- quickly, too quickly — like a creature reacting to a sound only it could hear.
His feathers rose, then fell, then rose again. His form was wrong. Larger than usual, elongated, drifting just an inch higher off the ground like gravity didn’t know how to hold him right now.
Minute swallowed. That was never a good sign.
“I am not stuck,” Egg muttered, voice low, the faint hum of cosmic energy under it. “I’m… limited. There’s a difference.”
“Egg, come on.” Minute held his hands out, palms open. “You’re talking like you can just rip reality open and walk out.”
“I might,” Egg said, too fast. “If I have to.”
“No, you won’t.” Minute stepped forward. “You’ll tear yourself apart if you try anything reckless. Stop. Breathe. Worst case you will end up stranded in Farlands , which will cause more problems ”
Egg didn’t breathe. Not in the way normal players did.
His chest didn’t move.
His form wavered.
It made the moment worse.
“Look at me,” Minute said softly.
Egg didn’t.
He instead pulled out his communicator again, scrolling through old messages, eyes darting. Wemmbu’s last text. A short, vague little line — nothing special. Nothing unusual.
Egg stared at it like it should solve everything.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he whispered. “He was fine. He was out there. We talked. I would have known if something was wrong.”
“Egg—”
“No,” Egg snapped — but it wasn’t violent. More like something cracking under strain. “Minute, don’t. Not yet.”
Minute took a breath, slow, careful.
“Look,” he began, “I know you don’t like what I said—”
“What you said,” Egg bit out, “is that Wemmbu might be with the Law.”
“I said it could be him.”
“Which is the same thing.”
“Egg, please.” Minute stepped closer. “Let me explain.”
Egg floated back an inch, feathers flaring. Minute froze, hands half-raised in a calming gesture.
The room shook in that quiet way the End does — a subtle vibration in the air when an End creature gets too emotional.
“Minute,” Egg said quietly, “you’re my friend. You know that. I trust you. But what you’re saying— it doesn’t make sense. Wemmbu would never join the Law. Not like that. Not openly. Not willingly.”
Minute nodded. “I know. I know you believe that.”
“It’s not just belief— it’s fact. He wouldn’t.” Egg’s voice trembled — just slightly. “He won’t.”
Minute hesitated.
Then: “Egg… Flame recognized him.”
Egg’s entire form stilled.
Completely.
Like someone pressed pause on him.
No twitching.
No floating pulses.
Just silence.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Egg said calmly. Too calmly. “Flame jumps to conclusions. He always has. He sees shapes in shadows and calls them monsters.”
“He wasn’t guessing,” Minute replied. “You weren’t there. He sounded— I don’t know. Confident. Certain. Like something in him knew.”
Egg blinked once. Slow.
Then again.
“Minute… don’t do this.”
“I’m not trying to upset you. I’m telling you what I saw.”
“Are you sure this isn’t the stress?” Egg asked quietly. “You’ve been traveling. You’re tired. You’re worried too. Maybe you misheard him.”
“Egg—”
“Or maybe you saw someone who fights like Wemmbu. There are plenty of players with shields. Plenty who can jump. Plenty who—”
“Egg.”
“—plenty who could have trained. Plenty who—”
“Egg!”
Egg finally stopped, feathers half-fluffed, eyes wide and glassy.
Minute stepped close. Close enough that Egg’s aura prickled against his skin.
“I’m not saying he joined them,” Minute said softly. “I’m not saying he’s trapped. I’m not saying anything is certain. I’m saying… something is wrong. And you need to be ready for that possibility.”
Egg swallowed.
Or mimicked swallowing. Hard to tell.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Egg whispered. “He wouldn’t leave without telling me. Not after everything. Not like this.”
“I know.”
“He always has a plan. Even when it’s a dumb plan. Even when it’s a stupid plan. He tells me.”
“I know.”
“I would have known,” Egg said again, voice softer now — scared.
Minute placed a hand on Egg’s shoulder, steadying despite the electric pulse beneath the armor cloth.
“That’s why I need to go back,” Minute said. “I need to see more. I need to get proof. You need to stay here, where it’s safe.”
“I’m not staying,” Egg muttered, the twitch returning, his height rising an inch. “If he’s in trouble—”
“Then what?” Minute challenged gently. “You can’t leave the End without help. You need me to set up a portal. You need materials. You need planning. If you rush— you’ll hurt yourself.”
Egg’s feathers slowly folded.
A quiet, shaky sigh left him.
“Please,” Minute said. “Let me go first. Let me confirm something. Anything. Then I’ll come back here. I won’t leave you without answers. I promise.”
Egg stared at the communicator again.
The message.
The tiny, meaningless line.
He clicked the screen off.
“…Fine,” Egg whispered. “But message me. Immediately. Anything you find. Anything at all.”
“I will.”
“And Minute?”
“Yeah?”
“…I hope you’re wrong.”
Minute didn’t say it.
Didn’t dare say it.
But as he left — wings already unfurling — he hoped he was wrong too.
.
.
.
Flame froze mid-step when the bushes rustled behind him. He ripped his sword from his hip and swung toward the noise, heart already beating in his throat.
A startled squawk answered him.
“Relax relax. It’s literally just us,” Parrot hissed as he shoved branches aside. “Put the sword down before you decapitate someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
Theo emerged behind him, weighed down by two backpacks that made him wobble with every step.
Flame groaned and lowered the blade. “You two need to stop sneaking up on me.”
Parrot raised a brow. “You’re wear bright red everywhere in a green forest. We could’ve found you if we were blindfolded.”
Theo snorted. “You look like a walking strawberry. snorts”
Flame glared. “Whatever. What do you want?”
Parrot took a long breath, clearly preparing himself. “Obviously to talk on what happened and plan on how to move forward . Why did you pick a fight with the Law. We were supposed to get clues quietly.”
“I did get clues.” Flame crossed his arms. “Clues you wouldn’t have found.”
Theo whispered, “Here we go…”
Parrot put his hands on his hips. “Fine. Enlighten me. What miraculous discovery came from punching armored soldiers.”
Flame hesitated, jaw tight. “Your- hypothesis might be right . About Wemmbu being with Law. But not as a prisoner . Lawdog… might be Wemmbu.”
Theo blinked like he misheard. “Wemmbu? That… that guy? Why would he… how would he…”
Parrot groaned instantly. “Flame. Where did that thought even came from.”
“I’m serious,” Flame said, stepping closer in frustration. “Something about him felt like Wemmbu.”
“Felt? That’s your evidence? Feeling?” Parrot pinched the bridge of his nose. “He could be anyone who holds a mace Flame. ”
Flame shoved him lightly. “I’m not imagining this.”
Parrot shoved him back. “Yes you are. Because I was there too. I saw that knight up close. And if that was Wemmbu then he had someone else piloting him from the inside.”
Flame hissed, “Same height. Same structure.”
“Yes. And completely different everything else.” Parrot crouched slightly and tapped the ground, starting to trace motions with his finger like a forensic analyst. “Wemmbu’s balance point is forward-left dominant. Lawdog’s was dead center. Wemmbu’s gait is chaotic, tempo-shifting. Lawdog moved like he was reading from a manual.”
Theo blinked. “You memorized Wemmbu’s gait?”
“I memorize everything,” Parrot snapped without looking up. “The knight used straight-line acceleration. Wemmbu uses bursts with irregular rhythm. The stance was narrower. The attacks were pre-planned. The reaction time was too clean. Wemmbu fights like he’s dancing with knives. This guy swung like he was being watched.”
Flame frowned, defensive. “You’re overthinking. Of course i know how Wemmbu fights - didn't you see him froze when i called out Wemmbu ?”
“That’s literally my job. And yes , but anyone would freeze and being called Wemmbu” Parrot stood again. “Look, I’m not saying he wasn’t odd. He was weird. And strong. And wrong. Something is wrong with the Law. The Lettuce is unstable. The soldiers didn’t move like normal troops. I get that, okay. But saying that guy was Wemmbu is stupid.”
Flame’s jaw tightened. “Then where is he.”
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Theo looked between them, chewing his lip. “We… don’t know. That’s the whole problem.”
Flame stepped closer, heat rising in his voice. “I haven’t seen him in days. You haven’t. No one has. And he vanished at the exact time the Law started acting weird. You said he was in trouble , he could be , why not now ? ”
Parrot held up his hands. “Correlation is not causation. Missing idiot plus creepy kingdom doesn’t mean knight equals Wemmbu. Plus , i doubt Wemmbu would actually work well for the Law. You saw how Lawdog behaved , it was total obedience.”
“Then explain the timing.” Flame jabbed a finger at him. “Explain why he disappears and suddenly a knight who looks like him shows up. Explain why he fights differently when he could be forced. Explain why—”
Parrot grabbed Flame’s wrist and shoved it down. “Because facts matter. I need more data. Actual proof. A pattern. Even one consistent detail before we jump to conclusions.”
“You’re scared it might be him,” Flame said quietly. “That’s why you keep denying it.”
Parrot stiffened. “I’m not scared. I’m realistic. And I’m more worried about the future king who's going to ruin the server than your weirdly emotional rival drama.”
Flame shoved him again, harder this time. “This isn’t drama.”
Theo wedged himself between them. “Guys. Seriously—”
Parrot snapped at Flame, feathers puffing slightly. “Then stop acting like it is. We need answers. All of us do. But you’re focusing on the wrong threat. The Law is suspicious. A new king is about to be elected . And that knight is just a symptom. Not the root.”
“And Wemmbu could be trapped in the root,” Flame said.
Parrot clenched his teeth. “Or he could be somewhere else doing something stupid, which would be very on-brand for him. And you know Wemmbu well enough that he bows to nobody.”
Theo nodded weakly. “We… we honestly don’t know.”
Flame’s voice cracked. “And that’s what I hate. Not knowing.”
Parrot finally softened, though his tone stayed sharp. “I want to know where he is too. But we can’t solve anything if you keep punching the problem before we even understand it.”
Flame looked away, chest tight.
Theo scratched the back of his neck. “So… what now?”
Parrot breathed out slowly. “Now we collect evidence. We dissect the Law from the inside out. We observe, compare, record. And I prove to Flame that Lawdog isn’t Wemmbu.”
“And I prove he might be,” Flame muttered.
Theo held his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”
But even with all the arguing, all three of them felt the same cold truth crawling up their spines.
Something in the server was wrong.
Deeply wrong.
Wrong enough that even Parrot didn’t have the words for it yet.
And until they figured out what the Law was hiding…
Wemmbu’s fate hung in the dark, unanswered.
.
.
.
No one really needed to know what happened behind the walls.
No, not really.
Lawdog did what Lawdog did — scout, run errands, train until consciousness thinned at the edges. Wake up. Rinse. Repeat. Another day, another half-life lived under the sun.
Wemmbu had grown accustomed to this rhythm… or maybe “accustomed” wasn’t even the right word anymore. He’d simply folded into it. Molded into it. Attachment came in the strange way captivity creates its own gravity — the kind that drags you down until standing feels like betrayal. He rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only to answer yes or no. Anything more felt like a luxury he hadn’t earned.
Resistance?
He didn’t bother. Not yet.
His limbs were too heavy, his bones too tired, his feet too rooted in the dust-packed training ground. And the newest collar—sharp along the inside curve—rested against his throat like a reminder that names meant nothing anymore. He had a whole drawer of them, each for a different purpose. Combat. Posture. Conditioning. None for comfort. They weren’t always for pain, not anymore. Sometimes they were just symbols. A mark of allegiance. A visible reminder of everything taken.
The shocks were a thing of the past, but Lettuce still found ways to discipline him when needed. Emotional leverage. Cold statements said in just the right tone. A silence that lasted too long. That was enough now. Lawdog didn’t cross lines, not intentionally. But it never mattered — there were always more lines.
And on this particular day, heat pressed down like a hand.
Wemmbu stood in the open field, dust swirling around his ankles. The sun hung low and heavy, as if pressing down on the training grounds out of spite. The collar today was one of the plain ones — simple metal, cool in the morning but already warmed to an irritating pulse against his throat. Not the posture one, not the jagged one, not the heavy combat ring. Just the basic reminder. He preferred this one, if preference still existed. At least it didn’t bite.
Lettuce tightened the clasp earlier with a practiced flick of fingers, the motion so smooth it felt almost gentle. Almost. He didn’t linger, but there had been a half-second — one short pause — where his hand had hovered near the back of Wemmbu’s neck, like an old habit trying to surface. Then it vanished, tucked away beneath the usual cool professionalism.
“Move,” Lettuce said.
Wemmbu obeyed.
The first sprint stole his breath quicker than it should have. The heat turned the air thick, clinging to his lungs. Every pivot dragged behind instinct — his body still tried to account for wings that weren’t there. He’d feel the phantom flare in his back, a twitch of vanished muscle, and then nothing to save him from the tilt of his weight. He stumbled, corrected, stumbled again.
Dust stuck to his sweat, coating his skin like a second, gritty layer.
He dodged a swing too late, the fabric of his sleeve grazing his cheek. The collar shifted sharply when he twisted out of the next one, pressing into a tender spot. He hissed quietly through his teeth but said nothing. Lettuce didn’t react. The silence was its own discipline.
The sword drills were mercifully short. His grip slipped once, nerves shot from heat and imbalance, the blade tilting embarrassingly low. Lettuce’s eyes flicked to it — one small, measuring glance. Not anger. But he noticed. He always noticed.
The sword was taken from him without a word and replaced with the mace.
This part was always the worst.
The mace fit his hand like an echo — familiar weight, familiar shape, familiar promise. But fighting with it on the ground felt like wearing someone else’s body. He swung, pivoted, tried to tighten his core and adjust for the difference, but every motion ended too early, landed too flat, dragged too close to the dirt. The collar warmed against his skin with each movement, the metal catching the sun until it gave a low, dull heat that throbbed with every breath.
He missed his wings in ways that stung. In ways he didn’t say out loud.
A memory flashed mid-spin — a younger version of himself spiraling through the air, three wingbeats to rise, one to drop, a perfect arc of motion that used to feel like freedom. The mace went up with him, down with him, part of the sky’s rhythm.
The memory hit so hard he lost his footing for a moment.
The mace nearly slipped.
His heel skidded.
His vision whitened from the sun.
His body folded sideways, unbalanced, and he had to slam his foot down just to stay upright.
Lettuce’s voice cut across the field, steady, deep:
“Focus.”
No bark. No disappointment.
But that one word carried its own leash.
Wemmbu nodded, throat tight, collar pressing lightly into his pulse.
He lined up for the wind charges next. The only part of training that still made him feel even a spark of something like his old self — but even that sensation was artificial, mechanical. The burst came, and he ran into it, letting the enchanted wind shove him into a forced arc.
For half a heartbeat, his body lifted — not a true lift, not flight, but a fraction of the old feeling. Enough to hurt.
Then the wind twisted him too sharply, and he crashed back down, boots dragging trenches through dirt. The impact jarred his spine. The collar rattled softly from the jerk of his head, the sound quick and sharp like a tap on bone.
He tried again.
Harder.
Launching himself into the next charge too aggressively, trying to chase the ghost of the sky.
He misjudged the angle.
The burst hit from the wrong side and shoved him sideways so violently he crashed onto both knees, palms scraping through dust and gravel. His breath left him in a grunt he didn’t bother hiding.
For a moment, everything went quiet except the hum in his ears.
Then Lettuce’s steps approached — slow, deliberate.
He stopped beside Wemmbu but didn’t help him up.
Didn’t say anything.
Just… hovered. Watching him breathe. Watching him shake.
There was a flicker — a small one — something almost soft in his expression, almost worried. The kind of look you’d miss if you blinked.
But it vanished the moment Wemmbu raised his head.
Lettuce stepped back, coolness settling over him again.
“Stand,” he said.
Wemmbu pushed himself upright. His arms trembled. His legs felt like they were full of sand. The collar had shifted slightly off-center during the fall, pressing into a spot that would bruise later. He didn’t adjust it. He didn’t touch it at all.
He braced himself.
He prepared to run again.
“Enough for today,” Lettuce said — but it wasn’t really gentleness. More like practicality. A decision made after watching every twitch of muscle, every breath, every misstep. Keeping him useful, not breaking him.
Lettuce reached forward, fingers brushing the collar briefly as he checked the clasp. The touch lingered just a fraction too long — then disappeared, tucked back behind command.
Wemmbu exhaled, slow, steady, tired in a way that wasn’t just physical.
He stood there under the heavy sun, collar humming faint warmth against his throat, wings gone, balance off, breath shallow.
Another day behind the walls.
Another version of himself worn down until the edges blurred.
.
.
.
Minute traveled for longer than he meant to — long enough that the charged panic from talking with Egg faded into a dull, cold worry. Every step toward the Law’s territory set off another quiet alarm in the back of his mind. He’d planned to go straight there, march right in, demand answers… but the closer the familiar path became, the more the air felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too watched.
Too… something.
Minute stopped on the ridge overlooking the valley and rubbed his forehead.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, “maybe not straight to the base. Not unprepared. Not with… whatever this is.”
He turned to take the long route around — and nearly ran straight into another player.
“OH— Spoke?” Minute blinked. “What in the world—”
“Minute!!” Spoke flung his arms out like he’d been summoned. “Surprise to see you! I’m just— uh— building a civilization. Y’know, the usual! Cultivating society! Establishing dominance! Constructing questionable monuments! The classics!”
Behind Spoke, a half-finished… something… loomed in the distance, glowing with too many redstone lamps to be legal.
Minute sighed, half relieved, half exhausted. “Right. Of course. Why not.”
Spoke tilted his head. “What brings you out of the End? You said your going back since we last spoke. You and Egg— little void chungies or vampires … Hmm you guys are definitely allergic to the sun.”
“I did go back,” Minute said , ignoring the last part . “And now we have a problem.”
Spoke perked up instantly. Problems were basically his favorite snacks.
“Oooh. What flavor?”
“The Law.”
Spoke made a face like he’d just bitten into something sour.
“The Law? Ew.”
“And… I think Wemmbu is working with them.”
Spoke stared.
Then stared harder.
Then threw his head back and cackled.
“Wemmbu? THE Wemmbu? Mister War-Mace-Hundred-Man-Slosher? Mister ‘Oops I accidentally wiped out a small nation-state?’ Mister ‘My training arc includes getting disowned by my trainer?’ That Wemmbu?? Working for the Law?!?!”
Minute deadpanned. “Are you done?”
“No. But I’ll pause.”
“Spoke, I’m serious.”
Spoke sobered — at least by Spoke standards. It meant his smile just dropped to “dangerously curious” instead of “manic.”
“Okay,” he said, hands on hips. “Explain.”
Minute did. Patiently. Carefully. From the sighting to Egg’s reaction to what Flame had said. Spoke listened with an expression that shifted between disbelief, interest, and that particular Spoke-quality that said: I already have five plans forming and none of them are good ideas.
When Minute finished, Spoke whistled.
“…Wow,” he said. “That’s messy.”
“That’s why I need help.”
Spoke blinked at him dramatically. “You’re asking me? Me? The guy who accidentally crashed the Nether economy last week?”
“You’re also the only one around.”
“True.” Spoke grinned. “And for my little friend? Sure! Why not! Sounds fun. Or dangerous. Or both. Which means I’m in.”
They launched into planning.
Minute was all strategy, caution, logic.
Spoke was… whatever cyclone of brain activity qualified as “planning” for him.
Between the two, they formed something resembling an actual approach. A route. A cover story. A dozen contingencies. A signal system.
Minute felt the tiniest bit lighter.
Until Spoke’s expression shifted — just slightly — eyes narrowing at something behind Minute’s shoulder.
A tiny flicker.
White particles.
Soft.
Silent.
Almost shy.
Spoke didn’t say anything.
He didn’t even look long.
Just long enough.
Then he clapped his hands loudly, interrupting himself mid-sentence.
“ANYWAY! You know what? Let’s not talk about this here.” he said suddenly. “Air is better. Fresher. Less… nosy.”
Minute frowned. “Nosy? Spoke, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“YUP! UH-HUH! AND WE SHOULD KEEP IT THAT WAY. C’mon!”
He grabbed Minute by the arm and launched upward with a burst of rockets, yanking them both into the sky before Minute could protest.
Wind roared past them. Clouds drifted close enough to touch. The valley shrank beneath their boots.
A hundred blocks up, Spoke finally leaned in and whispered:
“They’re listening.”
Minute’s stomach dropped.
“Who?”
Spoke kept smiling — but it wasn’t his usual chaotic, sparkly smile.
This one was thin. Sharp.
“Whoever leaves white particles,” he murmured. “And whoever they’re reporting to.”
Minute felt the cold settle in his chest.
“…We’re heading for the Law, then?”
“Yup,” Spoke said cheerfully, and lit another rocket.
“Straight in. Fast. Before they know we know.”
Minute swallowed hard and followed.
And somewhere far below them, right where they’d been standing — a new flicker of white drifted up, too faint for either of them to see.