Old Rose nearly screamed when the mountain of bread erupted, but thankfully she'd kept her distance and wasn't buried alive like poor Jack. Once the chaos settled, a sweet, buttery scent drifted through the air—rich, warm, almost nostalgic. It reminded her of honey from a summer long past.
She picked up one of the loaves. It was soft—far softer than any bread she'd ever touched. The aroma grew stronger as she squeezed it, and her wrinkled eyes went wide.
"This… is bread?"
She couldn't believe it. In all her years, she'd never seen a loaf this fluffy, this golden, this perfect. Even the black bread nobles paid fortunes for didn't compare.
She swallowed hard, hesitant. What did this strange cube-headed "lord" mean by giving them this?
Steve only glanced her way, seemed satisfied, and then turned and walked off, silent as ever.
So… it's a gift? she thought.
Jack finally wriggled free from the bread pile, blinking and sniffing. "It smells amazing!"
"You brat!" Rose whacked him on the head. "You're crushing it all! Don't waste food!"
She scooped up a loaf, waving for the nearby villagers to come help. Food had been running scarce lately—these loaves could feed the entire village for a day.
Meanwhile, Holls had heard the noise and jogged over, puffing, climbing the cobblestone mound. "What's going on up here?"
Jack explained everything exactly as it happened.
"Wait," Holls interrupted, his eyes slowly widening. "You mean—you can touch those floating things?"
It was like lightning struck his brain.
That explained everything. Only when Steve dropped items could others interact with them. Everything else belonged solely to him.
It was a terrifyingly elegant system. And Holls… he wanted to understand it. Not for magic, not for fame—but because if he could just learn how Steve forged that perfect iron, he'd die happy.
...
When Steve returned, the villagers were still moving bread. He observed quietly, noting how the world had modified villager behavior.
Back home, villagers had inventories; here, that mechanic was gone. They carried items physically, shared them by hand, and even their stacking limits were different. Fascinating.
He didn't dwell on it. He just wanted to see if the breeding system worked.
For a while, the two villagers inside his makeshift breeder hesitated under his gaze. Then, sensing his approval, they resumed their routine—but still, no hearts appeared.
That was disappointing.
There were children in this world, so the system must exist somewhere. Maybe the beds were the problem.
In some modpacks he'd played before, similar items from different mods didn't interact properly. He'd wasted hours troubleshooting that kind of nonsense. Maybe the beds he'd scavenged from the town were just decorative models.
So, he decided to craft real ones.
He traded a few emeralds with Old Rose for thread, then forged two tripwire hooks and a pair of shears. He set up a simple string farm—the classic contraption.
Cobblestone frame, hooks, trapdoors, lever, and a water bucket to collect the drops.
A flick of the lever—click, click, click—and strings began falling out of thin air, carried neatly into the corner by water flow.
Holls stood by silently, fascinated. When Steve wasn't looking, he tried to grab one of the threads—but his hand passed straight through. He nodded thoughtfully, confirming his theory again.
With the thread gathered, Steve crafted a fishing rod for future use, spun some wool, and built several original beds, replacing every single one in the breeder.
The old ones, he just dropped on the floor. The villagers would pick them up eventually; they had self-organizing behavior, and he wasn't about to waste time.
Rose ran her hands over one of the white beds. The surface was unbelievably smooth—almost too perfect. The pillows and blankets looked real, but when she tried to lift them, they were flat, like images printed onto the fabric.
Still, when she sat down, her old spine melted in comfort. "Oh my… this is softer than clouds…"
She couldn't tell what material it was—something finer than wool, impossible to weave by hand.
Steve watched from above the wall, expressionless, waiting for results. But still… no hearts.
"Did they patch villager breeding too?" he wondered silently.
After a moment of silent observation, he gave up. He shut down the string machine, stashed the extras in a chest, and grabbed his torch and stone pickaxe.
If he couldn't get new villagers, he'd at least go mining.
There were still gems and monster nests underground—always worth something.
...
This time, Holls didn't follow. Despite being a dwarf, he had no love for deep tunnels—and Steve's one-block shafts were far too claustrophobic even for him.
"That guy's gotta come up sometime," he muttered, eyeing Steve's home—a perfect cube of cobblestone, no windows, no chimney.
He peered through a narrow crack in the door and saw a faint glow inside. "A furnace? He's smelting something in there…"
His fingers twitched with envy, but he stopped himself. If Steve didn't even like people handing him things, he'd definitely hate someone snooping in his house.
Better not risk it.
...
While Steve mined, Holls went looking for Elena.
He found her resting, bandaged, still pale from her last ordeal. "Could you keep an eye on him for me?" he asked. "Just tell me what he does, anything strange."
Old Tom, the healer, frowned. "She's injured! She needs rest! And I don't know what you're planning, dwarf, but that lord saved our lives. You'd better not cause trouble."
Holls hesitated, then noticed the crimson mark on Elena's leg. He sighed and pulled a small emerald gem from his pouch.
"Then I'll hire you, old man," he said, placing it in Tom's hand. "This way you'll know whether I mean him harm or not."
Tom squinted at the gem. It shimmered faintly—Steve's signature emerald hue. He recognized it instantly. Maybe this was one of the lord's creations?
He decided to hold onto it for now and ask later. If it truly belonged to Steve, he'd return it.
Holls gave a curt nod and left, his boots clanking on the stone road as he hurried back toward the town—his mind burning with plans, questions, and the echo of one thought:
I need to learn how he forges that kind of iron.