[Adam]: So you and the other six crawled out of hell in the middle of my funeral with demons on your heels, and Father Gregory had a shotgun in my grave that he used to hunt them?
[Jake]: Yeah. We dove into hell for you, came back with nothing but demons and bad decisions. Father Gregory turned into a one-man salvation squad with a twelve-gauge and zero hesitation.
[Adam]: Then why didn't you go look for me in heaven?
Jake snorted, shoulders shaking with a mix of laughter and something like grief.
[Jake]: Bro, we know you better than your own mother. If you'd gone to heaven, Jeffrey Dimmer would be giving out halos at the corner store. No — we checked every lead, every crazy rumor. Wrecked a few vanities in the process. We got nothing solid until a trader showed up with a map that smelled like old smoke and desperation. Followed it. It spat us out into a carnival of nightmares — and somehow, the trail ended back here.
He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck.
[Jake]: We thought you were gone. The funeral—man. Garrett went hollow. He stopped sleeping. Spent nights with those photo albums, like he thought he'd find you looking back. It wrecked him.
There was a beat of silence. I watched Jake's face tilt in the firelight, the bravado folding for a second into raw, human worry.
[Adam]: …Garrett's worse off than I thought.
[Jake]: He is. But he asked us not to give up. Said, "If he's out there—find him." So we did what idiots do: we chased a ghost. And it led us here.
He looked up at me, eyes catching mine like a lifeline.
[Jake]: So… what now, Adam? You're alive, you've got a castle, you cook with vampires. It's a whole horror sitcom. You want us to bail, or you want backup?
[Adam]: No. You guys didn't waste three years on me for nothing. The least I can do is give you something.
I dug into my pack and handed Jake a handful of gold. He blinked, laughed like the sound might break, then pulled a battered Polaroid from his pocket and snapped a photo of me — armor, sword, the ridiculous apron still tucked away in a corner. He shoved it in his pocket like a talisman.
[Jake]: I can't take this, man. And—there's something else. I met a witch… jellyfish person. She told me I could only be with you for an hour. No more, no less. She said the Market keeps time differently… I've got fifty-eight minutes left, Adam. I—
He took one step back, eyes frantic. Before I could stop him, he vanished like someone had folded a piece of paper and blown it away.
Silk's head turned toward where he'd stood, black eyes unreadable. Her voice came flat, like a mechanical bell.
[Silk]: Analysis: Subject disappearance confirmed. Local timestamp: sixty-one minutes since arrival. Temporal discrepancy detected.
I was still holding the gold. Jake was gone. The photo in my mind — his grin, the way he'd said Garrett's name — left a burning hole in my chest. Vlad swore under his breath, claws clicking against the stone.
[Vlad]: Damnation. He didn't even say goodbye.
[Adam]: He looked at me like he'd done this before. Like he knew the rules and hated them. He chose to come here and then—gone.
Silk crouched where Jake had been, fingers brushing the cobbles. The air still shimmered faintly — a rainbow slick like oil, wrong against the clean lines of Skyblock.
[Silk]: Residual signature: Market extraction. Destination—his world. Probability of voluntary return: low.
I stood there, still holding the useless gold I'd tried to give him. My throat burned.
[Adam]: …Damn. Poor guy. Three years hunting for me, and all he gets is an hour.
Vlad shifted uneasily, his crimson eyes dim.
[Vlad]: He didn't even scream. Just… folded away like a note in the Ledger.
Silk straightened, her black eyes catching the firelight.
[Silk]: Correction: he did not scream because the choice was not his. Market law overrides free will. His fate is bound by contract.
The words hung in the air like chains.
I clenched my fists until the edges of the gold dug into my palms.
[Adam]: Then we'll find a way around their damn contracts. If the Market thinks it can write off Jake as "low probability," it doesn't know me.
Vlad gave me a look — half doubt, half faith, his voice low but firm.
[Vlad]: Brother… you're talking about breaking rules written before worlds had names. I advise caution. For now, let's focus on what we can actually control. We've run out of iron again, and the Tinker Construct forge is almost complete. Our automatic farms are close too, thanks to the villagers. But—
He rubbed the back of his neck.
[Vlad]:—We need to expand the walls. East and west are both cramped. And the warehouse? It's bursting. If we don't get ice and snow to build a proper cold box, we'll lose… six thousand in crops and farm products, maybe more. All rotting as we speak.
[Silk]: Affirmative. Initiating inventory stabilization protocols.
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose.
[Adam]: Great. More work for me. Saving worlds, breaking contracts, and now… playing refrigerator. Perfect.
[Day 38]
I stood at the entrance of the forge, the heat hitting me like a wall. The thing was massive—ten by ten blocks wide, two floors high, with smoke stacks belching dark plumes into the void sky. It wasn't just a workshop anymore. It was a heartbeat.
Vlad was already hunched over the anvil, hammering at my chestplate. Sparks flew with every strike, each one caught by the enchanted runes carved into the stone floor to recycle heat back into the tubs of lava. Around him moved twenty villagers, their arms practiced, their eyes sharp. This wasn't the awkward crowd I remembered from Day 1. These were smiths. Craftsmen. Builders of war.
And three of them—newcomers from the mod—stood out like burning coals in the dark: a Bladesmith with eyes that measured every angle of a weapon, a Metallurgist who tested alloys by touch alone, and a Metal Enchanter who spoke to the steel in words I couldn't understand. Too bad the village was already full; their hands were priceless, and I couldn't summon more until we carved out more space.
I leaned on the doorframe, watching it all with a mix of pride and exhaustion.
[Adam]: We're finally looking less like scavengers and more like… something dangerous. But we're packed tighter than pigs in a pen. If we don't expand soon, we'll choke on our own progress.
Vlad glanced up from his work, sweat running down his brow.
[Vlad]: Then stop watching and start building, brother. The forge can't defend itself, and neither can we without walls to match.
[Adam]: Sorry, Vlad, but I've run out of materials for like… everything. Stone, clay, even the scraps I hoarded for emergencies. I burned it all on the forge and the new warehouse. Silk and I are already running on fumes from hauling and stacking.
Silk, who had just returned from the farms, dropped a bundle of fishing rods and gave me a flat stare.
[Silk]: Correction. I am tired. You merely complain.
[Adam]: …Right. Noted. Okay, fine. Give me two hours. Two. Then I'll have your walls.
[Vlad]: Two hours or two days, brother, I don't care—as long as we have them before another mob wave crashes in. Because if this place falls, we're worse than dead. We'll be average and homeless.
The forge roared louder behind him, drowning the silence. The truth of his words clung to me heavier than my armor.
[Day 39]
Me, Silk, and Vlad sat slumped around the long table, exhaustion dripping off us like sweat. My armor was smeared with dirt and dust, Silk's usually perfect hair was tangled with straw, and even Vlad looked like someone had wrung the vampire out of him.
The forge still smoked in the distance, the new walls only half-finished. Piles of lumber and ore veins were stacked like accusing mountains in the courtyard.
[Adam]: …Remind me again why every project feels like we're fighting two wars? One against monsters, one against deadlines.
[Vlad]: Because we are. And right now, the deadlines are winning.
Silk dropped her head onto the table, her voice muffled.
[Silk]: Analysis… seventy-four percent of labor output directed to survival. Twenty-six percent for expansion. No reserves. Projection: burnout imminent.
[Adam]: Great. Even the robot fish girl says we're overworked.
Vlad smirked tiredly, rubbing his temples.
[Vlad]: Brother… maybe we should—just maybe—slow down before we kill ourselves faster than the mobs ever could.
The three of us sat in silence, the crackle of the forge echoing through the stone halls, when a sudden gong reverberated through the island—the kind of sound that only meant one thing.
An event.
[Silk]: Alert. Incoming scenario. Source: Soul Market.
[Vlad]: …Adam. What did you buy this time?
[Adam]: Nothing. I didn't buy a thing.
Silk raised a finger, pointing lazily toward the window.
[Silk]: Correction, Vlad. A caravan from the Red Carp Trade Agency has arrived. Intent: commerce. Confirmation: visible wagons, six. Guards, twelve. Lead negotiator approaching.
Vlad groaned and slumped back in his chair.
[Vlad]: …Of course. The universe delivers merchants right when we're too tired to swindle them.
[Adam]: On your feet. If they came this far, they either need food, or they're brave enough to test us. Either way, I'm not wasting the chance.
We pushed ourselves up and walked out into the courtyard, where crimson-painted wagons sat in neat formation. The horses were sleek, the guards alert, and at their head stood a woman in fine red-and-gold robes, her black hair bound up with jade pins. She carried herself like she owned not just the wagons—but the road itself.
She smiled as her eyes found me.
[Famele]: Adam, leader of… Skyblock, was it? I am Famele of the Red Carp Agency. We've heard whispers of your little floating fortress. And whispers, in our line of work, mean opportunity.
I crossed my arms, sizing her up.
[Adam]: Depends on the opportunity. You came all this way. What is it you're looking for?
[Famele]: Food. And lots of it. Your village has been… expanding. We noticed. Bread, meat, vegetables, anything that can travel well. The city markets are strained, and the other agencies—well, let's just say they can't fill their quotas.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to sound conspiratorial.
[Famele]: If you sell to us first, we'll make sure the Red Carp Agency becomes your… most loyal customer. And more than that—information. Intel on opportunities only open to traders like yourself. If you doubt me, I can swear it on a guild promise.
Her smile widened, sharp as a blade.
I glanced at Vlad, then Silk. Vlad's frown said Don't trust her. Silk's eyes glimmered faintly, like she was already measuring Famele's heartbeat and breath patterns.
I sighed and gestured to Silk.
[Adam]: Silk. Bring out everything we don't need. Bread, fish, dried meats—stack it for her tally.
She moved like clockwork, vanishing into the warehouse and returning with crates piled high, setting them down with mathematical precision.
I turned back to Famele.
[Adam]: Food's on the table. Now tell me—what's the exchange?
She produced a list with a flourish, parchment sealed in red wax. Her voice dropped low, as if she were reading a prayer.
[Famele]: Information, slaves, rare materials, and even magic tomes not bound to any world.
My eyes flicked down the list—and stopped.
Holy Iron. Infernos Gold. Dark Steel.
[Vlad]: …Brother. This is a trap. Or a miracle.
Silk's voice cut through the moment like a needle.
[Silk]: Analysis: probability of deception 41%. The probability of hostile reprisal if the deal is refused is 23%. Probability of hidden cost… immeasurable.
Famele only folded her hands, smile widening as though Silk's warning amused her.
[Famele]: So… will you trade or not? Let me give you some advice regardless. Build a market. A hotel for passing traders. Even a camp for caravans. Do that, and you'll have more wealth than you can spend.
I looked at Vlad, at Silk, and then back at the woman who seemed far too confident for someone surrounded by strangers. My hand extended.
[Adam]: I hope your agency has wagons strong enough to carry it all—because I've got ten warehouses full of food.
Her eyes glittered.
The trade began. Crates of bread, fish, smoked meats, fruits, and grains rolled out in waves, stacked higher than the villagers could count. In return, Red Carp's wagons unloaded ingots and crystals sealed in black iron, tomes bound in scales, and tools etched with languages I didn't recognize.
By the time the sun began to fall, the warehouses were lighter—but our forges, vaults, and armories were heavier than ever.
[Vlad]: Brother… I don't know if we just sold food… or if we just sold our future.
[Silk]: Correction: we exchanged a renewable resource for non-renewables. Strategic advantage achieved. Long-term consequence… pending.
Famele mounted her horse, still smiling as though she'd just purchased our souls at a discount.
[Famele]: Until next time, Crimson Hoods. Remember my advice. Markets grow like roots. Hotels attract flies. And camps… camps bring hunters. Also—hope to see you again, cute Silk.
She winked and rode off with her caravan, banners of red vanishing into the horizon like blood sinking into dusk.
[Silk]: Initiating search for legal counsel. Grounds: body harassment by Madam Famele.
Her voice was flat, but her hands trembled around the fishing rod she still carried.
I frowned.
[Adam]: …Did she do anything to you?
Silk shook her head once, sharply—white hair whipping like a blade—but her black eyes flickered, caught between calculation and something disturbingly human.
Before I could press further, fire cut across my vision:
[State: Profits made 27%]
[Profit Kind: Materials]
[Points Awarded: 548]
[Evaluation: Average]
[Tax and Fee: 10%]
The numbers glowed, cold and merciless, before dissolving into ash.
[Vlad]: Average. Again. Brother, we just gave away ten warehouses of food, and we're still average. At this point, I'd rather trade in sheep blood—at least I can drink that.
[Silk]: Correction: not recommended. Sheep blood output is insufficient.
[Vlad]: I wasn't serious—!
I rubbed my temples, the echoes of Famele's smile still gnawing at the back of my skull.
[Adam]: …Average or not, that trade just painted a target on us. We've got stronger materials, rarer metals, and more mouths to feed. If we don't expand—walls, markets, maybe even that hotel—then the next agency won't come to buy. They'll come to take.
[Day 40]
The market bustled like it had been alive for decades, not hours. Villagers bartered with villagers, stalls overflowed with goods, and the houses I'd ordered raised now glowed with lantern light. Beyond the walls, the forest I'd planted stretched like dark teeth into the horizon.
Vlad had vanished into the forge with every smith, enchanter, and metal worker at dawn, dragging the new metals with him. Since then, the forge had roared like a dragon, smoke billowing and sparks burning holes in the sky. Silk had kept the village moving—farming, fishing, trading.
Me? I'd worked until the stars were wheeling overhead. By the time I dropped into bed, the moon was already high and the forge still thundered.
[Day 41]
I woke to the sound of steel singing.
Vlad stood in the forge's heart, bare-chested, his pale skin streaked with ash and sweat. Around him, seven blades floated on chains of crimson light, each humming with a resonance that made my teeth ache.
In his hand was a rapier so fine it seemed carved from moonlight itself.
[Vlad]: Brother, look. This one is called Noble. The others—Hope, Honor, Happiness, Life, Oath, and… Love.
The names struck me harder than the steel itself. These weren't just weapons. They were Vlad's way of shaping his hunger, his curse, into something that gave instead of only taking.
[Adam]: Seven blades… for seven vows.
Vlad smirked, exhaustion tugging at his lips but pride glowing in his crimson eyes.
[Vlad]: And each one carries a piece of me. Anyone else who wields them will feel it—the hunger, the strength, the oath not to fall to it.
Silk appeared in the doorway, arms folded, a smear of dirt on her cheek. She looked at the floating blades with something halfway between wariness and awe.
[Silk]: Analysis: weapons classified as relic-tier. Probability of destabilization… low. Probability of painting a target on our backs… 100%.
[Vlad]: Then let them come. Let the world see what the Crimson Hoods forge in the dark.
I stepped closer, staring at the blades. For the first time in a long time, I felt something in my heart.
[Adam]: Vlad, those are cool and all, but where are the rest of the materials? There were at least two hundred bars of each kind.
[Vlad]: (⊙ˍ⊙)..., (⊙_⊙;)..., (lll￢ω￢)
[Adam]: …Vlad. Don't say that you used all of them. Because I swear I will get angry.
The forge went very quiet. The villagers froze mid-hammer, all of them glancing nervously between me and Vlad.
Then—
He dropped the rapier on the anvil and bolted like a bat fleeing dawn.
[Adam]: CAME BACK HERE AND GIVE ME BACK MY RESOURCES!
I grabbed the nearest axe and tore after him. Villagers scrambled out of the way as we thundered through the marketplace, Silk calmly sidestepping with a basket of turnips like she'd seen this exact scene coming hours ago.
[Silk]: Observation: resources have been transmuted into artifact-grade weaponry. Retrieval of "materials" is impossible. Conclusion: Adam is chasing phantoms.
[Vlad]: I HEARD THAT! THEY'RE NOT PHANTOMS, THEY'RE MASTERPIECES!
[Adam]: MASTERPIECES DON'T BUILD WALLS, VLAD!
The chase circled the forge, across the wheat fields, through the pig pen, and nearly into the lake. Villagers leaned on fences and cheered like this was free theater.
By the time I cornered him against the barn, Vlad was doubled over laughing, clutching two of the floating blades like trophies.
[Vlad]: Brother… hhhah…You should've seen your face.
[Adam]: You turned my entire stockpile into shiny sticks.
[Vlad]: Seven shiny sticks… that can kill gods.
[Silk]: Correction: untested. Probability of god-killing… 12%. Probability of Adam fainting from stress… 98%.
I lowered the axe, pinching the bridge of my nose. Maybe—just maybe—she was right... is this why my face is kissing the floor.
[Chapter End]