---
First-Person View (Oliver Reed):
I groan as I try to sit up. It feels like the planet's gravity has it out for me specifically—like every pound I carry has its own agenda to keep me nailed to the bed. My mattress dips like a crater under me, the springs creaking like they've given up hope.
I rub a hand through my hair—it's a tangled mess, probably sticking up in all directions. I haven't checked. Don't need to. I'm twenty-eight and still living with my parents in Florida, stuck in a cycle of sluggish mornings, awkward dinners, and pretending not to hear my dad sigh every time I pass through the kitchen. My body feels like it's working against me, and most days, just getting up is a victory. A sad, breathless victory.
---
Third-Person View (Narrated):
Oliver Reed groaned as he slowly shifted his weight, each movement an effort against the gravitational pull that seemed tailor-made for his overweight frame. The mattress sagged under him, protesting as much as he was. He rubbed his eyes, then his unruly brown hair—thick, messy, and sticking out in a way that made him look permanently disheveled.
At twenty-eight, Oliver still lived with his parents in a modest Florida home, its walls heavy with routine and quiet disappointment. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, not just physical but something deeper, something heavy in his chest. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment, catching his breath, silently dreading the effort it would take just to face another aimless day.
-----
Chapter 2: Weight of the World
First Person – Oliver Reed
Being overweight is... exhausting. People say it casually, like it's just about looks or clothes not fitting, but it's so much more than that. The earth's gravity feels like it's punishing me every time I move. I weigh over 290 pounds. Every step feels like a burden. Waking up is an entire workout on its own.
Most mornings, I don't even make it out of bed—well, the blanket I sleep on, since I don't use the actual bed anymore. I just... roll around until the exhaustion pulls me back under. My phone's usually under me somewhere, and I don't even care. The effort to sit up and find it feels like lifting a mountain.
Sometimes I get the urge to train. To move. To try. And sometimes I do. A few push-ups, maybe a walk around the block. But it never lasts. I always end up quitting. I lose momentum before I gain anything.
I don't even think I can lose weight anymore. That hope's been buried under years of false starts and broken routines. I just... don't have the motivation. It's like my mind gave up long before my body did.
That said, weirdly, I don't think I'll get worse. I don't think I'll go past this weight. It's like I've hit some strange limit. A ceiling made of exhaustion, shame, and gravity.
---
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver stirred from sleep, buried beneath a thin, wrinkled blanket spread across the hardwood floor of his room. He didn't use the bed anymore—not since the springs gave out—and instead slept like a ghost on the floorboards, surrounded by clutter and quiet.
As he rolled to his side, he winced. His phone was underneath him again, pressing into his lower back like a reminder of everything he tried to ignore.
He pushed himself up slowly, grunting from the effort. His body ached—not from effort, but from simply existing. Every movement felt heavier than it should. The gravitational pull of the Earth seemed almost personal, like the planet itself wanted to keep him down.
Sweat already began to bead on his forehead, just from standing. No words, no motivation. Just a sigh, a glance at the dim light through the curtains, and the weight of another day he had no plan for.
The air was still.
And Oliver... was still tired.
------
[News: The one big beautiful bill]
Chapter 3: Sunshine and Static
Third Person – Narrative View
April in Florida felt like a furnace turned on too early. The sun was blinding even through the thin curtains of Oliver's room, the heat pressing in through the walls like a slow, steady weight. The air was thick, unmoving. The kind of heat that made everything feel a little more difficult, a little more hopeless.
Oliver sat cross-legged on the floor, sweat already forming under his shirt, watching the news play on the dusty screen in front of him.
"President Donald Trump today unveiled the OBBB—One Big Beautiful Bill," the anchor said with a practiced grin. "A sweeping tax reform that dramatically reduces income taxes across all brackets, in what Trump called a 'historic gift to the American worker.'"
Oliver narrowed his eyes, half-listening as he sipped lukewarm water from a crinkled plastic bottle.
"But in exchange, the bill also eliminates federal funding for programs like Medicaid and food stamps, raising fierce opposition from across the aisle."
He let out a dry laugh.
Figures.
"Tech billionaire Elon Musk took to X this morning to reject the bill, calling it—quote—'a lopsided policy that abandons the vulnerable in favor of feel-good economics.'"
The screen cut to a video of Musk standing stiffly in front of a row of solar panels, trying to look like a genius.
Oliver leaned back, letting his head thump softly against the wall. The heat, the noise, the politics—it all melted into a haze.
First Person – Oliver Reed
This state feels like it's boiling. It's only April and it already feels like August. I'm sweating just sitting still.
And now Trump's talking about some One Big Beautiful Bill—as if slapping a name like that on it makes it helpful. Cutting income tax? Great—if you've got income. If you don't, like me, what does that even mean?
But killing off food stamps and Medicaid? That's not policy—that's punishment. That's telling people like me to just disappear.
Even Elon Musk, the Mars guy, the meme guy, is calling it out. When Elon Musk is the voice of reason, you know the country's lost the plot.
Politics now feels like reality TV, and I'm just some extra stuck in the background—sweating, jobless, watching the empire shuffle its money around while the rest of us try not to collapse under the heat.
Forget the headlines. The only "big beautiful" thing around here is the sun, and it's just making everything worse.
------
Chapter 4: The Collapse Within
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver shifted on the floor, the Florida heat curling around him like a heavy, invisible blanket. The air in the room was stale, unmoving, like it had given up trying to circulate. The low hum of the TV droned on in the background, but he wasn't really watching anymore.
Suddenly, he winced and placed both hands on his sides—right over his ribs.
A deep discomfort spread through his torso, not sharp like pain, but dense, like pressure building inwards. It felt like his body was folding in on itself, the weight of his own frame pressing down from all directions. His breathing slowed, not because he wanted it to, but because anything faster would've taken too much effort.
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers digging slightly into his ribs as if trying to hold something in place—or stop something from breaking.
The pressure wasn't just physical. It was emotional, existential. Like all the stress, hopelessness, and heat had finally manifested in his chest, trying to crush him from the inside out.
His eyes stared blankly at the floor, and for a moment, Oliver didn't move at all.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he was afraid if he did… he'd collapse entirely.
-------
Chapter 5: Pocket Change
First Person – Oliver Reed
The next day, I went to Dollar General.
That place used to feel like the last line of defense against rising prices. A place where things were still cheap, where a few bucks and some coins could actually get you what you needed. Not anymore.
Even Dollar General's starting to shift. Prices creeping up—1%, maybe 2%, but it adds up. A bag of cough drops? Used to be under two bucks. Now they're $3.60. For cough drops. Nothing fancy. No honey-lemon fusion or organic this-or-that. Just cough drops.
I checked my pocket—$2.50 in quarters. That's it. All I had. I didn't even bother pulling out my card; the balance was a joke anyway.
So I bought the cheaper kind. The off-brand ones that taste like menthol and sadness.
As I walked out, plastic crinkling in my hand, I couldn't help but think about how stupid it all feels. This whole money-made society. Everything's marked up, taxed, and squeezed. Every cent feels like it's worth less and less. They say it's just "inflation." I say it's insanity.
You can't breathe without being billed for the air.
We're all just trading time and energy for numbers that disappear faster than we can earn them. The system doesn't feel broken—it feels rigged. I'm not asking for luxury. I just wanted cough drops.
But even that felt like too much.
------
[MINECRAFT ARC].....
Chapter 6: Block by Block
Third Person – Narrative View
Later that evening, Oliver sat cross-legged in front of his dusty monitor, the Florida heat still lingering in the air like a leftover argument. The news was off. Social media silenced. For now, it was just him… and Minecraft.
Survival mode. Default settings.
No mods. No shaders. No fancy texture packs.
Just Steve. Plain old Steve, with the square blue shirt and empty expression—like a mirror.
Oliver didn't even bother changing the skin. Why bother? It's not like anyone else was watching. This wasn't for streaming or showing off. This was his quiet escape, one block at a time.
He punched his first tree—classic. Gathered wood. Built a crafting table.
Wooden pickaxe. Wooden shovel. A few tulips and daisies, picked absentmindedly as he wandered. The quiet hum of the game's music filled the room—soft, melancholy, nostalgic.
Eventually, he found a cave. Deep. Dark. Dangerous.
He paused.
Too dark. Too quiet.
So he opened the chat.
/give @p torch 72
A little cheat. A quiet one. Nothing wild. Just enough light to make the darkness tolerable.
Armed with stacks of torches, he descended. Block by block. Step by step.
The cave opened wide beneath him—stone, silence, potential. And in a way, it felt good. Down here, underground, there were no bills. No job interviews. No heat advisories or headlines.
Just stone.
And light.
And a man named Steve who never asked for more than a few tools and a reason to dig.
[I build a house!]
Chapter 7: A House of His Own
Third Person – Narrative View
Eventually, survival mode felt like too much. Too much darkness. Too much hunger. Too much risk. Oliver sat back in his chair, fingers resting on the keyboard, and sighed.
Then, without hesitation, he hit the keysand opened the command bar.
[/gamemode creative]
Just like that, the rules changed.
Now he could fly. Now there was no danger. No hunger bar ticking down. No creepers hiding around corners. Just freedom. A flat kind of peace. The kind he couldn't find in real life.
He scrolled through the block menu, searching until he found it—the new pink cherry wood, fresh from the latest update. Soft, clean, almost dreamlike. Thekind of color that didn't exist in the world he woke up to. He placed the first block and began building.
Oliver chose a flower forest biome, high on a gentle hill overlooking a calm river. It was quiet here. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, bees buzzed lazily between tall patches of alliums and azure bluets.
He built a small cottage—nothing massive. Pink cherry wood for the frame, a curved roof with glass panes for light. Flowers lined the path. Rows of them. Lilacs, daisies, tulips, even a few lanterns hanging from tree branches like fireflies frozen mid-flight.
Inside, he added a bed—magenta. A small reading corner made of bookshelves and a lectern. A fireplace with no need for warmth. This wasn't just a base. It was his space. His pocket of control in a world where he had none.
First Person – Oliver Reed
In this world, I have nothing. No job. No future.
But here, in this game—I built something. I made it beautiful.
I know it's just code. Just pixels and numbers. But this house? This space? It feels like mine.
In real life, I live in someone else's house. Sleep on the floor. Avoid mirrors.
But here… I built walls. I built light. I built peace.
No hunger. No fear. Just cherry wood, flowers, and quiet.
Sometimes, that's enough.
[CAVE EXPLORATION]
Chapter 8: Cave Cowardice
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver stood at the mouth of a deep cave, stone-gray and yawning open like the mouth of something ancient. The glow of his 72 torches flickered faintly in his hand. A shield—spawned in with a simple command—was strapped to his off-hand, bulky and unused.
He hesitated.
A few gravel blocks crumbled as he crept in, placing torches with shaky rhythm. The familiar cave noises echoed: soft wind, a faint rumble… and then—
Hssssss.
The unmistakable sound of a creeper winding up.
Oliver froze.
"Yeah, nope," he muttered to himself, turning around instantly.
The torch trail back to the surface became his lifeline. He ran—not from a boss fight, not from a trap—but from the idea of danger. That one hiss was enough to unravel his confidence.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I don't care what anyone says. Those caves? Terrifying.
Doesn't matter if I have a shield or full diamond gear or god mode on. The moment I hear that creeper hiss or see skeletons lurking in the dark—I'm out. I don't even try to fight. I just leave.
Why risk it? Why stress myself out when there are safer caves to explore? Ones I already half-lit, half-looted. Ones I know won't kill me the second I round a corner.
I'm not here to be brave. I'm not here toprove anything.
I just want to dig in peace.
Besides, this is my world. I make the rules here.
And the first rule is simple:
If it hisses, I run.
[Hey that's cheating!]
Chapter 9: The Cheat Code Life
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver wasn't trying to play fair anymore.
He had long since accepted that real life didn't reward honesty or effort the way it promised back in school. So in Minecraft, the one world he could bend, he stopped pretending. Survival became semi-survival. A place to wander without pressure. A place to cheat — but not to win — just to feel like he had a say.
It started with the wolf.
He found it pacing near a birch tree, tail low, eyes curious. In survival mode, he'd never have enough bones. Too many nights hiding in makeshift huts to fight skeletons. But now?
/give @p bone 64
Twice.
He knelt, spam-clicked the wolf with bones, and smiled as hearts burst around it. The collar formed. A loyal companion in a world that didn't argue or talk back.
"Name's Bitey," Oliver said aloud, even though no one was listening.
Next, he wandered into a nearby plains village. Crooked paths. Straw roofs. A few aimless villagers bumping into each other like pixels without purpose. Normally, he'd barter, collect, struggle to trade wheat for one emerald. But this time:
/give @p emerald 23
He walked into the first house with a cartographer, dropped emeralds like breadcrumbs, and walked out with a map to who-knows-where. It didn't matter. The point wasn't the reward — it was possibility.
Later, he spotted something gleaming in the ocean — a Drowned, trident in hand, lurking in the shallows.
Oliver hesitated, then shrugged.
/give @p potion{Potion:"minecraft:water_breathing"} 1
With a gulp of the blue-glowing bottle, he dove in. The water didn't slow him. The Drowned attacked, but this time Oliver fought back — shield in one hand, sword in the other. He didn't even flinch when the trident grazed him.
Because even underwater, even with danger floating inches from his face, Oliver had control.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I cheat.
And I don't feel bad about it.
Real life doesn't come with command prompts. You can't type your way out of hunger or debt or depression. You can't /give yourself a second chance when you screw up. You just sit in the dark and hope things don't get worse.
But in here?
If I want a dog, I get one.
If I want emeralds, I summon them.
If I need to breathe underwater, I do.
It's not about power. It's not about ego.
It's about control.
Minecraft gives me a world where I finally have some.
And maybe, for now, that's all I need.
--------
[Oh come on man you really that scared?]
Chapter 10: The Midnight Retreat
Third Person – Narrative View
The moon rose high over the flower forest as Oliver wandered farther from his cherrywood cottage, venturing into the dense edge of a swamp biome. The trees grew thick and low there, vines hanging like curtains over still green water.
He should've gone back before nightfall.
But he didn't.
And now… they were coming.
Spiders skittered from behind the roots.
Creepers emerged silently from the mist.
Skeletons—plural—lined the tree line, arrows drawn and glowing.
And then came the Bogged—those eerie, moss-covered skeletons introduced in the latest update. Silent but cruel. One of them notched an arrow and let it fly.
Thunk.
Oliver gasped.
Green swirls wrapped around him.
Poisoned.
His heart dropped. His hunger bar was half empty. His shield was nearly broken. His wolf—Bitey—was nowhere in sight.
He panicked.
Oliver sprinted through the mud, dodging vines and lily pads, dropping torches behind him like breadcrumbs. His breathing grew frantic. Another arrow whizzed past his ear.
First Person – Oliver Reed
Why did I come out here? Why did I ever leave my house?
I don't care about loot. I don't care about adventure. I'm not built for this.
The second I saw those creepers spawn behind the mushrooms, I knew I screwed up.
And the Bogged? That thingpoisoned me with one shot.
Forget that.
Third Person – Narrative
In a blur, Oliver reached the water's edge. Slapping his keys in desperation:
/give @p boat 1
A boat popped into his hand. He dropped it onto the water, jumped in, and began rowing frantically across the swamp lake as skeletons loosed arrows behind him.
He didn't even hesitate this time.
He opened the chat.
/difficulty peaceful
Instantly, the world fell silent.
The skeletons disappeared mid-draw.
The spiders vanished like ghosts.
The poison effect lifted.
His hearts began to refill.
Oliver stopped rowing.
The boat drifted gently across the calm surface of the swamp lake, moonlight reflecting off the water like glass. The fear drained from his chest, replaced by shame, then relief.
First Person – Oliver Reed
Coward? Yeah, probably.
But I don't care.
I play this game the way I live life now—cautiously, on edge, always looking for the escape hatch.
And when things get too overwhelming?
I make it peaceful.
There's no shame in needing peace.
There's only shame in pretending you don't.
------
[I-I-I AM STEVE...I WANT A FLINT AND STEEL! THE NETHER, CHICKEN JOCKEY]
Chapter 11: Chicken Jockey Memories
Third Person – Narrative View
The real world was dark—Florida nighttime, thick and humid, windows cracked just enough to let the heat in but not enough to let the bugs out. The only light in Oliver's room came from the soft glow of his monitor, casting pale cubes of color across his tired face.
Inside Minecraft, it was nighttime too.
He was out wandering, again—peaceful mode off this time, torches flickering in his off-hand. The silence of the forest was broken only by the occasional groan of a zombie or the distant clack of a skeleton's bow.
Then… he saw it.
A tiny figure darting between the trees.
A baby zombie riding a chicken—the mythical, cursed, ridiculous creature that rarely spawned and never failed to startle. The infamous chicken jockey.
Oliver froze. He didn't fight. He didn't run. He just stared.
First Person – Oliver Reed
No way.
A chicken jockey.
That's rare. Like, crazy rare. And every time I see one, I can't help but remember… that insane moment in the Minecraft movie.
God. 2025. People went feral.
Flashback – Theaters, 2025
Steve, voiced by Jack Black, The scene that sparked this viral trend sees Jack Black and Jason Momoa trapped in a boxing ring, with Momoa facing an adorable baby zombie riding a chicken, a rare enemy that can be found in the game.
"CHICKEN JOCKEY!!!"
The crowd lost their minds.
People screamed, popcorn flew across the theater like confetti. Someone brought a live chicken in a duffel bag. Security tried to calm it down—didn't work. The thing got loose and flapped onto the projector table. A full brawl broke out in Row G. People started jumping. Literal mosh pit in the AMC.
Someone even shouted, "That's my emotional support chicken!" as police showed up with zip ties and tasers.
Back in the present, Oliver chuckled. Alone, sure. But it was a real laugh.
Third Person – Narrative View
He slowly walked up to the jockey, took a screenshot, then backed away. He didn't kill it. He didn't need to.
For once, something in the world—digital or not—felt like a strange kind of joy. A dumb, wild memory wrapped in pixels and popcorn grease.
It wasn't survival. It wasn't cheating.
It was just Minecraft magic.
And for that one moment, Oliver felt… okay.
-------
[Hah worst spawn yet]
Chapter 12: Welcome to Hell
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver crafted his obsidian portal near the flower forest, placing it carefully behind his cherrywood house, framed with lanterns and a single sign that read, in all caps:
"ENTER IF YOU DARE"
He lit it with flint and steel. The portal buzzed and rippled, purple and menacing. After a short breath and a half-second of doubt, he stepped through.
The screen loaded slowly—chunk by chunk.
He landed.
And instantly regretted everything.
Basalt Delta.
Smoke.
Ash in the air.
Jittery frame rates.
A monochrome hellscape of jagged black stone and splashes of glowing lava.
It was one of the worst possible Nether
biomes.
In Minecraft, Basalt Deltas is a Nether biome characterized by its volcanic landscape, primarily composed of basalt and blackstone. It features a jagged terrain with rivers and springs of lava, as well as hidden pits of lava. This biome is also known for its ash particles that drift through the air and a distinctive dull lilac fog.
First Person – Oliver Reed
No. Nope. This can't be real.
Of all places… the Basalt Delta?
I just wanted a Crimson Forest. Maybe a Warped Forest. You know, with trees, endermen, maybe some piglins I could bribe with gold.
But this?
This is the worst place to spawn in, who even likes thos biome?!.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver moved cautiously, barely able to jump between broken basalt platforms. Magma Cubes bounced in the distance—one, two, then suddenly a stack of them, flopping and squealing like squishy anvils of doom.
He tried to backtrack but slipped. A chunk of blackstone gave way beneath him, and he fell into a pit.
Splat.
Magma Cube incoming.
Oliver panicked, fumbling his hotbar.
/gamemode creative
He hovered. Just in time.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I don't care.
Call it cheating.
I'm not dying here surrounded by walking these walking bastards.
I'm not even mad.
Just disappointed.
In myself.
In the Nether.
In whatever mojang thought "Basalt Delta" should exist at all.
Third Person – Narrative View
He flew upward, surveying the bleak terrain below. No crimson trees. No blue fungi. Just pillars of smoke and magma cubes trying to climb walls like angry jelly.
Oliver hovered for a bit in silence.
Then typed:
/locate biome minecraft:warped_forest
If he was going to explore hell, at least he could do it in style.
This wasn't survival anymore.
It was curated endurance.
The game might throw him into the worst places…
But Oliver?
He would always find his way out—one command at a time.
-------
[Those time when we invaded the nether]
Chapter 13: Fortress of Overkill
Third Person – Narrative View
Floating above the Basalt Delta, Oliver zipped past walls of lava and half-rendered nightmares until a jagged Nether Fortress finally came into view. It loomed like a crooked ribcage stitched into hell, a red-black structure of ominous bridges and winding corridors.
But this time, Oliver wasn't scared.
He wasn't desperate.
He was armed to the teeth.
He had typed out his destiny.
Full Netherite Armor, enchanted to max protection.
A Netherite Sword with Sharpness V, Looting III, and Fire Aspect II.
A stack of 100 Enchanted Golden Apples, glowing purple in his hotbar.
Fire Resistance potions? Of course.
And for fun, a Silk Touch Pickaxe, just in case he wanted to steal the fortress itself.
He stormed in like a one-man raid boss.
First Person – Oliver Reed
If the world won't give me power…
I'll just code my own.
I used to creep through these halls like a rat.
Now I own them.
The first Blaze tried to hover out from its spawner — thwack — gone in one hit.
The next three followed — reduced to rods in seconds.
Wither Skeletons?
They didn't even touch him.
Their skulls dropped like confetti, courtesy of Looting III.
Oliver didn't block — he walked through attacks like an immortal, munching an enchanted golden apple between kills just for the flex.
Third Person – Narrative View
He approached the Blaze Spawner. The room glowed, crackling orange with swirling flame particles. In survival, players would build around it, turn it into a farm, defend it.
Not Oliver.
He stood in front of it, drank a Fire Resistance potion like it was soda, and pulled out his Silk Touch pickaxe.
Clink.
The spawner disappeared into his inventory.
Because why not?
First Person – Oliver Reed
I don't even need this.
But it's mine now.
This fortress?
Looted.
Emptied.
Claimed.
And I didn't do it the "honest" way.
Because in this game—like in real life—cheaters do prosper when they know what they're doing.
I'm not here for struggle.
I'm here to build my own myth.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver stood at the top of the fortress, Netherite armor shining red in the lava glow, overlooking the cracked landscape of the Nether like some exiled king.
In this world of code and chaos, he wasn't running anymore.
Not from mobs.
Not from fear.
Not from himself.
Not today.
--------
[Woah reaching the end]
Chapter 14: Shortcut to the End
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver hovered midair above the Nether fortress, glowing in full enchanted Netherite, practically invincible. The world of Minecraft had long since bent to his will—commands at his fingertips, power in his hotbar.
He opened the console again.
He wasn't interested in exploration anymore.
He wanted to end things.
Or at least see The End.
He typed:
/locate structure stronghold
The coordinates blinked onto his screen.
Then:
/tp @p [coordinates]
In an instant, the jagged, flaming Nether vanished, and Oliver was teleported deep into the Overworld beneath layers of stone—inside a crumbling stronghold.
First Person – Oliver Reed
I could've thrown Eyes of Ender like everyone else, followed the trail for 20 minutes, pretended I was playing legit.
But who am I kidding?
This isn't about proving anything. This is about finishing something.
Third Person – Narrative View
The stone halls of the stronghold were dim and eerie. Moss clung to cracked bricks. Silverfish skittered in the walls.
Oliver walked past the library without even glancing at the shelves. He wasn't here for books. He wasn't here for story.
He followed the hallways until he reached the End Portal Room, the silverfish spawner whirring in the center.
He smashed the spawner with one hit, then typed again:
/give @p minecraft:ender_eye 12
The inventory flashed. He placed the Eyes of Ender, one by one, into the frame. Each eye lit up with a pulse, humming with dimensional energy.
As the final eye clicked into place—
FWOOM
The black void portal surged to life.
Oliver stood at the edge.
First Person – Oliver Reed
The End.
Literal and metaphorical.
It used to scare me. I remember the first time I saw it, years ago—I didn't even jump in. I just stared.
Now? I jump.
Because what's waiting on the other side isn't fear anymore.
It's control.
Third Person – Narrative View
Without hesitation, Oliver stepped forward and fell into the swirling blackness, leaving behind the fake world he had tamed, the Nether he had conquered, the Overworld he had looted.
The void whispered, then pulled him in.
Next Stop: The End.
---------
Chapter 15: End of the End
Third Person – Narrative View
The void gave way to obsidian beneath Oliver's feet. The End dimension sprawled before him—black skies, floating islands, pillars of obsidian stretching toward a purple-hazed ceiling. The air was thin, hollow, almost vacuum-like. The only sound was the distant, ominous screech of the Ender Dragon circling high above.
Endermen dotted the barren landscape, twitching and staring with glowing eyes. But they didn't bother Oliver.
They knew.
He wasn't just a player anymore.
He was a force.
First Person – Oliver Reed
So this is it. The final boss.
The thing that was once the biggest threat in the game.
I remember when this dragon scared the crap out of me.
I came here once, years ago, with iron gear, barely enough arrows.
I died in two minutes.
Not today.
Today I'm built like a tank and twice as petty.
Third Person – Narrative View
He looked up at the obsidian pillars, saw the End Crystals pulsing at the top, healing the dragon as she soared.
Instead of shooting them with a bow… Oliver typed:
/kill @e[type=minecraft:end_crystal]
A dozen small explosions echoed across the End.
All the healing points—gone in a flash.
The Ender Dragon let out a confused roar, diving aimlessly.
Oliver raised his Netherite Sword, glowing with enchantments.
He chugged a Strength potion.
He ate an enchanted golden apple—because why not.
Then he waited for the dragon to perch at the portal.
And when she did…
He unloaded.
Slash after slash, chunks of health vanished from the boss bar.
No mercy.
No flair.
Just brutal, mechanical execution.
The dragon tried to fly off, but Oliver launched after her with Elytra he summoned mid-fight, using fireworks to rocket up to her wings.
Final blow.
The dragon shrieked. Her body twisted midair, purple energy crackling across her spine. She exploded into light, the boss bar emptying with a hiss.
XP rained down like fireworks.
The sky flickered.
A portal appeared in the End Fountain.
First Person – Oliver Reed
And that's that.
The so-called hardest boss, deleted like a file.
Did I earn it? No.
Do I care? Also no.
This wasn't about challenge.
It was about closure.
About saying, "You can cheat your way to the end and still feel something."
Even if that something is just silence.
Third Person – Narrative View
Oliver stood alone at the portal, bathed in experience orbs and soft purple light.
He didn't jump in right away.
He just stared at the floating void around him.
At this strange, pixelated universe that felt more real than the one outside his window.
And then, quietly…
He stepped in.
The End.
And the beginning of whatever comes next.