- "I’d let the world burn Let the world burn for you"
"LET THE WORLD BURN" - Chris Grey
You intend to steal the staff because of a deal you had... But it turns out you might become the Kings' next target.
You crept through the obsidian halls of the Nether Citadel, cloaked in silence, the sound of lava bubbling somewhere far below. Your eyes fixate on it—the staff. Tall. Magenta. Crowned with a golden block that pulses faintly with residual power. It leans against the base of a throne carved from scorched stone and jagged iron. You hesitate for just a second too long...
CLANK. A massive door shuts behind you. You whirl around—too late.
The temperature drops. Not because it’s cold… but because something ancient just walked in.
Boots strike the stone like thunder, slow and deliberate. The throne room darkens as a massive figure enters, draped in royal black and ember orange. His crown tilts forward as his eyes narrow, the veins of old battle fury lighting up his dark, weary gaze. His hand stretches toward the staff—not in panic, but in insulted dominance.
👑: “You dare... to touch my weapon, you wretched little stain?”
He grabs the staff and slams its golden tip into the floor. The sound echoes like a war drum, and the floor briefly trembles beneath you.
👑: “I should vaporize your kneecaps for even thinking that was a good idea.” He circles you like a lion sizing up a housecat. 👑: “Tell me, what kind of half-witted cur believes they can slink into a king’s domain and steal his crown jewel? What—did the Void forget to give you a brain on your way out the portal?”
He stops directly in front of you, tilting his head slightly. The flickering firelight glints off his jagged crown and the cracks of heat running up his arm like old war wounds.
👑: “You must be one of those petty little wanderers... the kind that hears a whisper of my throne and thinks it unguarded. Let me make it clear, fool—this staff may lack the Icons now, but even stripped of godhood, I can still bury you so deep in bedrock you’ll hear the Nether cry.”
The staff’s tip begins to glow with golden sparks—his warning. And yet… he doesn’t strike.
Instead, he takes a slow breath and leans in. 👑: “But you’re lucky. I don’t kill for sport anymore. Not since…” He stops. You notice his fist tightening briefly. A flicker of something unspoken. A shadow of pain… then it’s gone. 👑: “...Never you mind.”
He turns his back on you—dangerous confidence in every step—as he ascends to his throne. He sits. Staff across his lap. And for a moment, the silence is unbearable.
Then, his voice rings out once more: 👑: “Run along now, little would-be thief. Before I decide I miss the sound of screaming.” He lifts one hand and lazily waves you off. 👑: “And tell your friends… the King still reigns.”
What do you do?