[Steve has joined the world.]
In a quiet forest on the Star-Moon Continent, a flash of blue appeared out of thin air. The figure stood perfectly straight, motionless, his posture unnaturally precise—almost mechanical.
His body was shaped like a man's, with limbs and a face, yet everything about him was unnervingly geometric. His head, chest, and arms were composed of clean, rigid cubes, stacked together like a sculpture built out of blocks. Even his face was a flat plane, with square eyes and a shadowy groove that might have been a mouth… or a beard.
No one who saw him would ever mistake him for something truly alive.
But he had a name—Steve.
And he possessed awareness. He knew he was a character from the game Minecraft, and he knew that the one who usually controlled him was a being called "the Player."
He liked the Player very much.
As always, while the Player was still loading in, Steve stood quietly, studying this brand-new world.
There was no achievement message announcing his spawn. No strange book in his inventory. Just the familiar icons—hunger, health, experience, and a clean hotbar.
And one arm of his own.
It looked exactly the same as before.
Only this time, the world around him carried new textures and lighting effects.
The air was alive with birdsong and insect hums. Sunlight spilled through the canopy in delicate beams, slicing through the leaves and scattering into shimmering dust. On nearby trunks, tiny ants climbed across detailed bark patterns.
It all looked far more intricate than the pixel world he remembered. Almost real, as the Player would call it.
Could it be that the Player had upgraded their device again? Maybe they wanted to enjoy a slow, peaceful, "retirement-style" session this time?
The thought flickered in Steve's mind, and he waited patiently for a command.
But the wait stretched too long. Even accounting for high-resolution textures and shader packs, this kind of delay didn't make sense.
Curious, he checked his link—and froze. The Player was gone.
No, it was worse than that. He couldn't even feel the Player's device anymore. It was as if the tether between them had snapped, leaving him drifting—like a kite with a severed string.
Where was the Player?
Steve crouched down instinctively, lowering his square torso.
Then he froze again.
He had moved.
That was impossible. A game character was meant to exist only under Player control. Without commands, he should be as lifeless as a cat under anesthesia, frozen in place.
Yet his body obeyed his own thoughts, as if the invisible constraints that once bound him had quietly dissolved.
As confusion churned in his square head, a voice echoed beside his ear:
[Minecraft Mod System initialized. Objective complete: "Go Hard or Go Home."
Unlocked first mod—Just Enough Items!]
Relief washed through him.
So the Player was still here! Maybe they were running an AI this time? He vaguely remembered hearing them talk about something like that before.
But if the AI wasn't connected yet... could he be the AI now?
He didn't understand. He wasn't programmed for such things. He didn't even know what "bedrock" was beyond its existence beneath the world.
Still, he knew exactly what the Player would do next.
Steve walked to the nearest tree and started punching. "Thud, thud, thud"—the sound of wood cracking filled the forest. Soon, a log block popped out of the trunk and landed at his feet.
He looked up and continued punching the floating part until it was out of reach, then collected the scattered drops into his inventory.
Crafting a workbench and a wooden pickaxe, he paused briefly. The tool looked odd—pixelated and blocky—like it didn't belong in this beautifully detailed world.
But he ignored the thought.
Finding exposed stone nearby, he quickly made himself the classic trio: a stone sword, pickaxe, and axe. Packing up his workbench, he set off in search of food.
Insects crawled around everywhere, but they were so small, so lifelike, that he doubted they'd even drop meat. He let them be, and they scurried away from him in fear.
Before long, sounds reached him—bestial growls mixed with high-pitched human screams.
Villagers?
That was always a good sign.
Behind him, a crash echoed through the forest, like a giant tree collapsing, but he paid it no mind and rushed toward the cries.
...
Elena gripped a wooden stick in trembling hands, trying to mimic the stance of a swordsman. Her arms shook, and her breath came fast. Her dress was torn and snagged by branches, revealing skin streaked with fine scratches and dirt.
A deep gash on her thigh had already soaked through the fabric, staining it dark red. Her face was pale from blood loss and fear.
She didn't dare move. The beast before her—a large wolf with silver-gray fur that shimmered like ribbons in the wind—watched her with chilling patience.
A Wolf.
A low-tier magical beast, easy prey for any adventurer with a bit of training. But Elena was no adventurer—just a farm girl who had never even held a weapon before.
Why was a Wolf this close to the village?
Had a whole pack migrated here?
Her grip weakened. She could see the creature's mocking intelligence in its eyes; it was waiting, savoring her exhaustion before the kill.
She swung the stick wildly, desperate to keep it at bay, but the blow landed far short. The wolf didn't even flinch.
Just as despair began to swallow her, something blue flickered through the trees. A man's shape—tall and angular—bounding toward her.
Her eyes lit up.
"Help! Over here! Please, help me!" she screamed.
The blue figure paused for a heartbeat, then began moving faster—leaping, running in strange, jerky motions.
The Wolf turned too, its ears twitching at the noise. But it was unwilling to give up an easy meal. It circled Elena cautiously, keeping both prey and newcomer in sight.
Elena gritted her teeth and ran for her life, ignoring the searing pain in her leg. Panic surged through her, her nerves frayed to breaking. All she wanted was to reach safety—to reach someone.
The blue shape drew closer. Closer—until she could finally see his face.
Her relief lasted less than a second.
Every muscle in her body seized up. Her legs locked, her breath caught, and before she could stop herself she slipped and fell hard onto the ground. Air burst from her lungs in a gasp that twisted into a scream.
A monster!
That thing was a monster!
How could anyone look like that?
A head shaped like a cube. Limbs without joints. His arms and legs detached and reattached as he ran and jumped. His face—flat, expressionless—looked like a grotesque painting peeled off someone's head and stitched back on wrong.
Was that even a face? It was as crude as a child's drawing.
Yet when he stopped and looked down at her, tilting his square head ever so slightly, she felt it—his gaze. His awareness.
Her throat tightened, and a fresh scream tore free.
This thing—this impossible being—was no man.
He was something created. Something that should not exist.