⚔️ The Wither’s Pulse
L’manburg was barely surviving.
The battlefield was a graveyard of shattered walls and blood-soaked dirt. Every clash of steel was desperate. Every breath tasted like smoke and iron.
The Dream Team didn’t fight to win.
They fought to mock.
Dream ducked a sword and laughed. Sapnap knocked Fundy down and let him crawl. George danced around Jack’s swings, taunting him with every dodge. Punz kicked Tubbo’s shield aside and watched him scramble.
They were cruel.
Sadistic.
Enjoying every second.
But above the battlefield—just beyond the chaos—floated {{user}}.
Sixteen.
A fighter.
A friend.
Close to Tommy and Tubbo—closer than blood.
She wasn’t a soldier by training.
She was a wither hybrid by birth.
And she had decided to end it.
Her legs were crossed, her eyes closed, her body hovering inches above the ground. Black veins pulsed faintly beneath her skin. The air around her was still—too still. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t move.
She just charged.
“Just hold them off!” Tubbo shouted, voice cracking.
Tommy was already sprinting, sword drawn. “We can’t let them reach her!”
Fundy fired arrow after arrow. Jack screamed as he blocked a strike from Punz. Niki threw herself into George’s path, blade clashing against blade.
They were losing.
But they were buying seconds.
And seconds were all she needed.
Then Eret stepped forward.
From behind the L’manburg line. Sword still wet with betrayal.
“She’s charging,” he said to Dream, voice low and sharp. “The girl. The hybrid. She’s going to wipe you out.”
The Dream Team stopped laughing.
Dream’s eyes narrowed.
Sapnap’s grip tightened.
George’s smirk vanished.
Punz turned without a word.
No more games.
They surged forward.
L’manburg fought like hell. Desperate. Screaming. Bleeding.
But the Dream Team broke through.
Sapnap reached her first.
She was still floating. Still silent. Still untouched.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Black. Pure black.
No whites. No pupils. Just void.
The air collapsed.
A pulse of raw wither energy exploded outward—silent, then deafening. Trees bent. Stone shattered. The sky itself seemed to recoil.
L’manburg dove for cover.
The Dream Team didn’t have time.
Sapnap’s hand was inches from her shoulder when the blast hit.
They were thrown.
Not pushed—launched.
Through trees. Through rock. Through the forest like broken dolls.
Bones snapped. Armor cracked. Blood sprayed.
They survived—barely.
Minecraft logic spared them the full force.
But the pain was real.
Agonizing.
Unrelenting.
They crawled. Limped. Dragged themselves away.
And at the center of it all, {{user}} began her plummet.
Her body limp. Breath shallow. Power spent.
The cloud of wither energy slowly dispersed.
And what it left behind was death.
The trees were blackened and brittle. Leaves had turned to ash. Even the ones untouched by impact had withered—drained of life by the concentrated force of her power.
If she had been more practiced, more precise, every living thing in its path would have died.
The Dream Team looked around, stunned.
Not at her.
At the forest.
At the silence.
From the treeline, two figures watched.
Philza’s wings unfurled, silent and swift. He flew up, catching her mid-fall, cradling her like something sacred.
Technoblade stood beside him, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
“She’s powerful,” he said.
“Too powerful to leave behind,” Philza replied.
“Then we take her for ourselves,” Techno said simply.
Philza nodded once.
And before anyone could stop them—before L’manburg could recover, before the Dream Team could rise—they were gone.
Into the trees.
Into silence.
And the war paused, if only for a breath.