The Edge of MINECRAFT (Being the Second Volume of the Minecraft Trilogy)

Prologue: A Boy

The sun was setting, and fifteen-year-old Steve listened for the sounds of the night creatures. He had just finished chopping down some trees, and he rightfully deserved a rest. He stacked the last chunks of wood into a pile and then turned back toward his house. The squat wooden structure stared at him. It was a nice house. Of course, he could only assume that. He had never seen another house. He just got the feeling that it was nice.

For some reason, Steve also knew that it was private. He knew with certainty that other people existed. He had seen them pass through. But something told him that, in this world, people normally lived close together. Steve's house was nowhere near another soul. It didn't matter. He had tools, a farm, a massive quarry, and everything else someone would need.

Steve knew he hadn't always been on his own. He had fuzzy memories of a loving mother and a caring father. The first year he knew he had been alone was shortly after his eighth birthday. For seven years, he had survived by himself. He did not hold onto any hope that he would see his parents again. For some reason, they were gone. When he was old enough, he was going to go see the world. But until then, he would survive in this humble abode.

Steve rather enjoyed his existence, though. He was never bored. He got up at six each morning and knocked out the chores. He had breakfast at eight and lunch at twelve. He always started cooking dinner at five. Between four and six he had free time. After dinner another hour of chores, and then free time until bed, usually ten. He loved to read. His father (he assumed his father; his mother could have equally been a book lover, too) had left a large collection of books. Steve extremely enjoyed spending hours reading books about the history of Minecraft. That was the name of his world: Minecraft. He loved the legends, the discoveries, and any other fact.

To summarize, Steve was unsummarizable. It would take every sentence in the universe to even begin to describe him. He was something else, at least by Minecraft's standards. But to some, he would have very closely resembled heroes of the ancient days from other worlds.

Darkness was coming fast. Steve lit some torches, hung his lantern in a post by the door, and headed inside. He settled down in his comfy chair and opened a book by the author Pigmallion. The book, titled Profile of a Hero, described the adventures of the warrior Alexis and her band of adventurers. Though reaching his mid-teens, he still possessed the fantasy of gathering a group of friends and setting out on an epic quest. He also had the fantasy of being smitten with Alexis. He wished that she wasn't fictional (to be accurate, Steve was aware that Alexis did at one time exist; he possessed several of her books, but he knew much of the facts about her life were simply legend), that the two of them could go on an adventure and maybe become good friends along the way.

Something rustled outside. He peeked outside the window. Nothing. A few more minutes of reading. The book was getting good.

Steve heard some twigs snap. He paused, and his ears honed in on the sound. Some group was moving through the forest. It's just some travelers, Steve thought to himself. Maybe a group of wanderers. He listened for a few more seconds. There were a lot of people in the forest. It didn't sound like a group of travelers. It sounded like an army.

Steve grabbed his hunting bow down from the peg that attached it to the wall and put some arrows in his quiver. He opened a chest and pulled out an iron sword that he had only had to even pick up twice, once against a pack of wolves and once to convince some salesmen to move along. He also felt his pocket to make sure his father's dagger was still there. Any citizen of Minecraft would have classified its make as unfamiliar, but as Steve had no standards of comparison, it was a commonplace weapon or tool. The knife was a rusty old tool. He only used it for heavy-duty cutting jobs; he had smaller knives for smaller jobs.