The hull of the boat glides across the crystalline surface of the water, sending ripples out in every direction. Just beyond the misty horizon is my destination. Zinecraft. With every second I get closer, and anticipation grows. I’m just one of many to come to the thriving land, hoping to make their fortune as previous others have. I’ve received letters from my friend of many years, Aaron, who spoke of gold, diamonds, and untold riches in the fabled land. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Aaron in person. My livelihood as an intellectual has been made redundant in my homeland. Not even with magic can I support myself now.



So I did the only logical thing I could. I packed up what little material possessions I was to bring; my trusty iron sword, pickaxe, and a photo album given unto me by my mother. The precious memento is the one thing that links me to my heritage. I was, and am to this day, alone.



Coming closer, I begin to make out various features of the landscape. A thriving seaside town, complete with coastal defenses; a show of just how well off the people of Zinecraft are. However, something catches my eye: the prosperity lighthouse. A sign that all are welcome, and that there will be freedom and wellbeing for all, no matter who they may be.



I stride powerfully down the uneven gangplank towards my fate, and as I do so I note the caliber of my travelling companions. One seems very familiar to me, though I can’t quite place him. Purple and white clothes with a glum expression on his face. How uninspired.



My first thought upon setting foot on Zinecraft soil is that it’s evening, and I’m hungry as well as tired. My limbs are exhausted. Just because I was travelling did not necessarily make me a passenger, and indeed I had been taken on as a hired hand for the journey that brought me here. I explore the local area for a few minutes before finding an inn. The outside looked akin to a picture I saw before I left. Indeed, the not-so-grand windows and the drawn blinds only add to the menacing aura it emanates. Perfect. With a groan I drag my tired limbs through the entrance.



The inn itself is small and cosy. There are several warriors on the far side of the room, trying to settle who was in fact, “the bomb.” I sigh, but smile as I upset the drink the loudest is swigging from across the room without lifting a finger. I notice the drain in my already depleted strength, and for a second I worry that I may have gone one too far. However, the look on the face of the warrior is priceless. One suppressed snigger later as the warriors begin fighting, and I start conversing with the rotund innkeeper.



“Yes, I’d like to book a room for this evening.”



“I’m sorry, you haven’t reserved a room, sir.”



“But you have rooms spare?”



“Well technically yes, but-“



“I don’t care. I’ll only be one night, and I’m tired from a good day’s work.”



“Sir, it would be unorthodox for me to offer-“



I lower my voice conspiratorially, and get up off the barstool. It was uncomfortable anyway. I dwarf the smaller figure of the innkeeper, but not by too much. The look of intimidation on his face leaves little to be interpreted.



“I have just spent the last 3 days toiling on a ship that I believe was linked to your business, good sir. What I decided to ‘ignore’ was the collection of soon-to-be-slave prisoners kept in the hold. Say I was to spend the night out on the street instead. What if an authority were to come along, and ask me what I was doing? Would you be happy if I were to tell said authority what had happened to me? The choice is yours, good friend.”



The intimidated look at first becomes terrified, followed by anger.



“You can’t!” he simply retorts.



But he had already lost the argument, and he knows it.



“Room key, please.”



It wasn’t a request. It was an order. He grimaces, but hands me the rusted key.



“Get out by tomorrow afternoon.”



“Cheers mate.”



I ascend the stairs with a sigh, the pommel of my sword rubbing against my thigh. I knew I’d need to look at that. The room is bland and uninteresting, with a sea view. Sitting on the bedside table is a newspaper, clearly just a local spreadsheet but still useful for catching up with what’s going on. The bed is warm and comfortable, and better than the hammock I’ve just spent 3 nights on. With a sigh, I settle down and hope for a better tomorrow before falling to sleep.




I awake in less of a calm state. Pointed straight at my throat is a bright blue sword, glistening in the morning light of the sun. The thug holding it is muscular, and his two eyebrows are so long that they’re like two lovers, desperately trying to reach each other, but not quite forming the depressing monobrow. An expression of malice litters his face, but he doesn’t give the best impression of himself as a mercenary, considering there are still stains from the inn’s “continental” breakfast on his white shirt. I would have laughed if it wasn’t for the innkeeper sitting on the stool in the corner, bow trained on my neck.



“Well, what can I do for you two gents?” I question, rhetorically of course.



“You’ll pay, and then we’re going to bury your body!” replied the innkeeper.



The enthusiasm of his voice extinguishes any hope of some kind of compromise. The side of myself I had shown the previous evening is a side I aim to avoid.



“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I don’t have any money to give you.” I neglect to mention the wallet stuffed full of notes hastily shoved into my pocket last night. It was a good move. I do legitimately want to know why he didn’t kill me in my sleep, however. It would have been so easy.



“So why am I not dead?”



“You’re weak. I can tell by the way you talk.”



Wrong answer, scrub.



“I think you made a mistake then.”



As I said this, the hired hand in front of me cringes in pain, while the innkeeper’s bow catches fire.



“What…are you…?” he stammers in fright.



“Oh, me? I’m just weak. Don’t worry, us weaklings have been planning to seize control of this inn for years.”



“You only knew I existed 3 days ago.”



“Actually, I’ve been planning this for a while now. 88 days to be exact. Which is a year. On Mercury.”



“What…?”



“Relax, and just deal with the flames, my friend.”



I jump out the window, watching the innkeeper flailing about before doing so. What a moron. I walk down the street, regretting the actions that these extremes have pushed me to. But I have to keep going, as everyone does. In fact, maybe I will have ended the slave trade here today. Without an employer, the mercenary ships will probably just release the slaves.



That possibility is heartwarming.



I’m already tired from having used magic, so I trudge down the street to find somewhere that will serve me breakfast. It’s a lovely day, with not a cloud in the sky, and I can’t help smiling as I bring my hand to shield my eyes from the sun’s rays.



The promenade itself is very pretty. It reminds me of a bustling main street, sans the angry brawls people seem to get into everywhere else, and the litter. I hated the litter in my old home.



I find a café and sit down, ordering a glass of milk and cereal from the waitress who seems utterly baffled by my request, until I point out that the café does serve breakfast according to the menu. She jets off, and I take a look at the newspaper I found earlier.



The front headline reads in bold typeface “HEROBRINE REMOVED: PEOPLE REJOICE EVERYWHERE!”



I can’t believe it. I burst out laughing, drawing the eyes of a few other patrons of the café, but I don’t even care. Mojang had been lying about this for a long time; Herobrine used to be simply an urban legend. But it developed into more than that, and I’d heard the stories from my fellow travellers about the possibility of him roaming Zinecraft. It didn’t really affect me. I have the ability to teleport at will as long as I’ve got no magical equipment detaining me and no people in a 5 block radius, so when the going gets tough, the tough get going. That was more of a last resort though; it leaves me bedridden for days to use my magic like that.



Flicking through the newspaper, I don’t see anything of note until a small headline on the third page. “Apprentice to Emperor Ghostly WANTED.” A quick skim of the ad reveals he wants an apprentice to instruct in the ways of magic. Well. I secretly thank the fourth wall, and scan the newspaper for anything else of a value.



Nothing…except…what’s this?



“Today an aviator was arrested for stealing a goose near the capital city. It is reported that the goose is still missing. When the aviator was asked for his motives, he simply said “This is a free country, and we are able to take these resources if they are not owned by anyone. Is this not true?”” The rest of the article appears to be government propaganda, but what I do notice is the picture.



The aviator arrested, yes. The man standing beside him, and shouting down the media, though? That would be Aaron. A low-level goose thievery team? I shake my head and let out a chuckle. I thought better of him. If he was going to steal something, he could’ve at least gone for gold or diamonds, rather than a goose.



That was Aaron all right though, and I catch myself smiling. So I know where I’m going now. First and foremost, find Aaron. I now know I should be able to find him near the capital city, whatever it was called. Names interest me little; they’re an arbitrary label if you have nothing to associate with them.



I look up from my paper as my cereal arrives. It’s surprisingly bland, but at least it’s not poisoned. After having eaten, I take my leave from the café and move on. Walking through the side streets of the settlement is interesting. Everywhere you look, you can see a street performer, a busker, or more worryingly, a beggar. One man, with dirt encrusted teeth and a lazy eye hobbles towards me with difficulty.



“Please…sir…” he rasps.



I hand him a note from my wallet. He needs it more than I do.



“May you have good fortune evermore,” is my blessing, and I continue walking on.



The man starts to follow me.



“I don’t have anything more I can give you.”



“Please, take me with you. I’ve been here for longer than you’ve been alive. Even just take me to a hospital,” he pleads, and something in his eyes speaks to me more than his words ever could.



The ghettos in any place are not desirable to live in. This man seems like there is more to him than meets the eye. No one should end up in the filth and infection riddled area that the ghettos are. The decision is an easy one.



With a smile, I turn to the man.



“Ok. Let’s go. What’s your name?”



“Locus.”



“What an interesting name.” It isn’t really, but I feel the need to make some kind of conversation with him.


“My back…really hurts.”



I stare into his eyes and I know I’m going to regret my actions. I take a look at the red welts on Locus’ back hesitantly. It’s bad. They’re infection riddled and he’ll probably die in a few days. Two emotions come to mind…mercy, and kindness.



I could kill the man, and end his suffering.



Or I could heal him. The latter option would definitely make it impossible for me to travel quickly, let alone use magic again for a while. Still, life is valuable.



“Hold still Locus.”



He stops and doesn’t move, but I can tell he is scared.



“Just relax.”



I move my palm over his wounds gently, and direct energy from my body to heal the wounds and kill the pathogens.



“Agh-“



This…my strength is fading…was this advisable?



Just as I’m about to pass out, I feel myself losing no more energy.



I open my eyes to find Locus standing before me, marveling at his back. The welts are gone. There’s no more infection.



“There…you go,” I stammer, barely managing to force the words out. He doesn’t say anything. He just offers me an arm, and I take it. I hobble along the street, supported by the man I just saved.



I feel happy that my deed was able to help the man, but it also scared me. Improper use of magic can kill any sorcerer with ease. All you have to do is start and it can all be over. Magic itself is the manipulation of the world around you through mental power rather than physical exertion. Rather than swinging a sword or drawing a bow, you can incapacitate an opponent simply by making a small cut in the spinal cord, or damaging organs from the inside. Very few are blessed with the power of magic, and those who are end up being killed off by those around them, or by their own hands.



Fear is a powerful thing.



I stumble over a rock, but I’m not alone. Locus offers me a hand, and I take it.



I’m not alone, at least for now.




Some time later, Locus and I are walking upon an overgrown path out of the city.



“You never told me your name.”



“My name…my name is Astro.”



“How did you fix my back, Astro?”



I suppose I can’t lie about my blatant use of magic here.



“I used magic. I’ve been blessed with magic and I’m only an amateur. But I can do a few different things.”



I chuckle, as if to say “No big deal.”



His eyes light up, and there’s something there that I hadn’t seen before. Loyalty. I saved this man’s life, and I sense he’s not going to forget that any time soon.



The sunset is clearly near, and we’ve been walking for a while. I pose the question of accommodation.



“Do you know if there’s somewhere we can stay for the night?”



“We’re in luck. There’s a campsite to the East, if we continue for 10 to 20 minutes, I’d estimate.”



“Brilliant. It won’t be comfortable, but at least we’re less likely to get attacked in such a remote location.”



The rest of our trek, it seems, will be through the woods.



As I walk through, I mentally recall the species name of every tree we pass. It’s important to know your environment; if you’re ever in peril, knowing what can and cannot help you will decide your survival in most cases.



Trudging through the thick grass, we make our way towards the campsite. It’s a simple clearing in the center of the woods. The moon casts an illuminating glow over the clearing, and I briefly consider settling down here for good. It seems so peaceful. The promise of a peaceful life is indeed one I’d consider. But not for long.



We collect firewood, and set up a camp. Locus is surprisingly competent. Maybe you learn more than I’d have originally thought, just from living in the ghettos.



We lie under the stars, and I feel for my wallet. It’s gone. Damn. Why does this always happen to me?



“Locus, I can’t find my wallet. I’m going to go look for it. I’ll be right back.”



He nods, and tries to find a comfortable position to sleep in, failing and ending up curling up like a kitten. The sight is oddly comical.



Venturing through the forest at night isn’t easy, even with magic to aid your sight, but without it, this is hell. How do they survive without magic?



In a stroke of luck, I spot the bright red lining of my wallet from 3 metres away. They said I didn’t have a good fashion sense. Look who has found their wallet now.



Amidst my feeling smug for myself, I hear a cry from the direction of the campsite.



No.



No no no no no.



I run, using reserves of energy to bolster my speed of movement. I arrive back at the campsite, only it’s not the place it once was.



There’s a knife in Locus’ back.



He’s crying.



“LOCUS! Who did this to you? What did he look like?”



“He…. jumped me…. from behind. Thank you, Astro, for healing my back…you proved to me that kind people still exist in this world.”



With that, he is gone, and I feel rage boiling beneath the surface of my psyche. This is my fault.



“Guess whose fault that was?” comes a snide sneer from behind me. There’s a knife pressed against my throat.



“Don’t try anything funny magician. The innkeeper informed us of your violent tendencies and your plan to enslave Zinecraft.”



That squirming, lying *******. I’m more amazed by the fact that he survived than the fact that he lied to the law enforcement about me. This is wonderful.



“He lied,” I mumble.



“He what?” comes the reply.



“He LIED!” I scream. The knife draws blood. And I lash out with my mind, out of instinct rather than due to conscious thought.



The man behind me crumples, the knife clattering to the ground.



What is wrong with me? He was just doing his job, but I knocked him out.



My fresh start is a disaster. Magic is risky, not just because you can kill yourself using it, but you can lose yourself using it. It’s a well-known fact that most sorcerers ended up using their magic for bad, instead of for good.



Tomorrow will be better.