Time in this place was wrong.
Eryx noticed it on the first morning—if it could be called morning—when the square sun rose too quickly and his body didn't agree with it. His muscles ached as if he'd slept poorly, yet the light said it was time to move.
Twelve hours.
That was how long a full day here lasted.
Or rather—how long it should have lasted.
Because it didn't matter how fast or slow time moved. Not really.
Until Eryx either died, or survived five full days, he wasn't going back.
The knowledge sat heavy in his chest as he stepped out of the small house he'd built just beyond a village perimeter. It wasn't much—oak planks, a stone foundation, a roof that didn't leak—but it was his. Close enough to civilization to trade if needed, far enough away that nothing wandered too close at night.
The Ghastling floated beside him, eyes bright, body glowing faintly in the sunlight.
"You ready?" Eryx asked.
The Ghastling chirped and spun in a slow circle.
Eryx adjusted the straps of his armor.
Emerald.
Not diamond. Not netherite.
Emerald.
It gleamed green in the sun, faceted and clean, plates fitting together in a way no villager-crafted gear ever had. It wasn't invincible, but it was stubborn. Durable. And more importantly—
Most creatures didn't like biting it.
He'd learned that the hard way.
---
The forest beyond the village was alive with motion.
Foxes darted between trees, red and white fur flashing through undergrowth. They were smarter here than they should've been—watchful, cautious, curious in equal measure.
Eryx knelt, holding out emerald fragments in his palm.
"Easy," he murmured.
One fox approached. Then another.
They sniffed the air, eyes locked on the green glow. The first fox nudged his hand gently, tongue flicking out to taste the edge of a shard.
Its tail wagged.
"Good," Eryx said softly. "That's good."
By the time the sun reached its midpoint, he had three foxes padding after him, tails high, ears alert. He led them carefully back toward the pens he'd built—real pens, with space to run, shade, and water. Not cramped cages.
They settled in quickly, curling together like they belonged there.
"Alright," he exhaled. "That's one."
Wolves came next.
They were harder.
A pack watched him from a rocky outcrop, eyes glowing faintly, hackles raised. The alpha stepped forward, teeth bared.
Eryx didn't stop walking.
The first wolf lunged.
Its teeth hit emerald.
There was a sharp crack.
The wolf yelped, recoiling, shaking its head violently. One of its fangs had snapped clean off.
Eryx turned slowly.
"I'm not here to fight," he said evenly. "But I won't run either."
The Ghastling hovered higher, a faint red glow forming in its core.
The wolves hesitated.
Then one sat.
Then another.
Emeralds changed hands.
By dusk, he had wolves too.
The savannah was hotter, harsher. Tall grass waved in dry wind, acacia trees casting long shadows. Armadillos rolled defensively when he approached, clattering shells clicking against stone.
Eryx crouched patiently.
"C'mon," he coaxed. "I'm not going to crack you open."
It took time, but eventually, they trusted him enough to follow.
He avoided the lion habitat entirely.
Not because he feared them.
But because they watched him with something that felt… thoughtful.
They didn't attack.
They didn't approach.
They just stared.
Eryx adjusted his armor and kept walking.
---
Night came fast.
Too fast.
He locked his animals into their pens, reinforced the fences, and retreated toward the cave entrance he'd carved out weeks ago.
The mob farm.
It wasn't elegant.
It was necessary.
You couldn't stack mobs anymore. This wasn't a game—it was a place. Creatures moved, reacted, fought back. So Eryx hunted.
Carefully.
The cave swallowed him whole as he descended, torchlight flickering against rough stone walls. Dripping water echoed somewhere deep within.
A hiss.
The Ghastling reacted instantly, firing a tiny fireball down the tunnel. It burst against stone with a soft thump, illuminating a creeper mid-step.
It exploded.
Eryx was thrown back, armor ringing, pain flaring through his ribs.
He groaned, teeth clenched.
"Still hurts," he muttered, pushing himself up.
He fought skeletons, spiders, things that weren't supposed to exist. When he could, he tamed the spiders—careful, methodical, offering emeralds between dodged strikes.
Some accepted.
Some didn't.
When one didn't, its fangs sank into his arm.
He screamed.
When he died, it was quick.
Darkness.
Then—
Grass.
Sky.
Respawn.
His chest burned like he'd been set on fire, phantom pain lingering even as his body reformed. Inventory intact. Armor intact.
He lay there for a long moment, breathing.
"Still hurts," he said again. "Every time."
The Ghastling hovered anxiously.
"I'm okay," he assured it. "Let's keep going."
---
By the fourth day, exhaustion clung to him like wet cloth, he didn't need to sleep here but it sure as hell felt exhausting, and he wasn't going to waste precious hours in a instant sleep.
His hands shook as he mined deeper, pickaxe striking stone rhythmically. He needed diamonds—real ones, not emerald substitutions.
The stone broke away.
Wood.
Rails.
Eryx froze.
A mineshaft.
Old wood supports creaked softly. Rails ran deeper into darkness, carts abandoned like someone had left in a hurry.
He stepped forward slowly.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
This was big.
This was very big.
The Ghastling floated closer, glowing brighter.
Eryx smiled despite himself.
Five days weren't done yet.
But he was close.
And he wasn't leaving empty-handed.