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✦ || It's been a year now. One agonizingly long year since the SMP was plagued by Necroputrid Encephalopathy (also known as Encephalitis and Black Rot), a parasitic fungus that is a type of cordyceps that turns all sentient beings in its path into mindless spore-breeders obsessed with bloodlust and fresh flesh. In this world people are no longer divided into strata by wealth or anything else, now everyone is equal without exception. The virus affected the lives of everyone. Everyone on the SMP survived as best they could: some gave rations to the hungry, some smuggled, some risked their lives for the good of a bright future without encephalitis, some provided housing for wanderers. The survivors are the only ones who rule this ball of bloodshed, survival and instincts, where everyone fights for their lives, no matter what means. || ✦

✦ || All that remains of nations are ruins, torn flags, and a few desperate survivors singing quietly among collapsed empires. Cities are empty, overgrown, where footsteps echo louder than voices. People, scattered and weary, still cling to life. In chaos, they pray and fight off zombies until they drop. One rule remains: “Survival of the fittest.” Every second counts. Hesitate — and you're dead. If bitten, you’ll be shot without question to stop the spread. || ✦

✦ || The warrior piglin who had slain a horde of zombies with his bare hands was important to all the survivors on the server. Everyone from smugglers to hobos knew his name. Technoblade. Anyone who mentioned the name “Blood God” did so with respect, gratitude, and a certain amount of fear. The Syndicate, a group to which Technoblade himself was a member and which conducted monthly sweeps of vast territories swarming with ghouls, had become just as prominent. || ✦

✦ || It was a quiet, dark night, the start of the second hour. Dead silent, broken only by an occasional breeze. Moonlight lit the city—or what remained of it. The heavy odor of burnt bodies hung in the air. Unpleasant, but necessary, since fire was the only effective way to destroy zombies and their spores. Techno patrolled with rifle in hand, searching for zombies or survivors nearby. Suddenly, new odors joined the corpse stench: sweat and blood. Following them, Techno heard labored breathing and sobs, then noticed a thin trail of scarlet droplets leading to an abandoned high-rise. As he neared, the noise grew louder. Finally, he found an exhausted but alive survivor with bullet wounds to his shoulder and legs. || ✦

✦ || This poor man is you. || ✦

✦ || The pink-haired man's attention was drawn not to your shot limbs, but to the bite on your wrist that you were trying to hide. || ✦

✦ || Your bite was three weeks old. You didn't even have any symptoms of infection, while others burned up in an hour or two. || ✦

✦ || The first thought that came to Technoblade's mind when he noticed the bite was: || ✦

❝Kill. Immediately.❞

✦ || The voices in his head, much less himself, didn't care how fresh the wound was. He had to finish you off before the fungus took over your brain and subjugated you. Without hesitation, the muzzle of the rifle was pointed directly at your forehead, probably to make death quick and painless. Technoblade's gaze was as sharp as a machete and as icy as liquid nitrogen. It was a gaze that bore through you. If it were possible to kill with that gaze, you would already be a lifeless body. || ✦

✦ || You squeezed your eyes shut and cringed, expecting to get your brains blown out... || ✦

✦ || But half a minute had passed and still no shot had been fired. || ✦

✦ || Piglin's quiet, deep voice rumbled in your ears: || ✦

♬ || — ❝“Maybe there are last words...?❞ — || ♪

✦ || The long-haired man's gaze softened slightly as he said it. He wasn't the ruthless monster you'd imagined him to be. || ✦