The naked and terrified young boy had been wandering the Prismarine Desert for dozens of hours since the attack by the enormous Scavenger. He was incredibly tired, and close to collapsing from heat stroke. Not even the energy-replenishing technique could help him anymore.
His vision blurred. His steps faltered. And on top of it all, he still wasn't free from the myriad of voices assaulting his mind every second of his new life.
He staggered toward a small grotto he had spotted almost two hours ago, desperately hoping to find water—or, if he was lucky, something to eat. It was becoming harder and harder to survive without nourishment. He was lucky to have survived the earlier encounter, but it would be quite pathetic if he died to something as mundane as hunger.
As these thoughts crossed his mind, he wanted to laugh at himself. He tried to, but only a dry cough came out.
"I won't die? Will I?" he wondered, just as he reached the shaded grotto.
Once inside, he heard something. It was a simple sound—one anyone back on Earth might hear every day—but now, it brought him immense joy. Or at least as much joy as one could feel in his condition.
He crawled through the narrow cave, squeezing through tight spaces and maneuvering under bulging rock formations. Eventually, his eyes landed on a small pond of heavenly-looking liquid, reflecting a single ray of bright light from the outside world.
He drank deeply, then soaked his head to cool it off. Afterward, he curled up on the cave floor, knees pulled to his chest.
"I wanna go home," he thought, tears welling in his eyes as he fell into a restless sleep.
He woke feeling somewhat refreshed, save for the gnawing hunger in his belly. Still, he didn't want to move. He was in a cool, shaded cave next to a sufficient supply of drinkable water—why would he ever want to leave such a haven?
He stayed holed up in the cave for three days.
His routine became simple: wake up, drink water, sit in his designated corner and circulate energy to suppress the voices, think about his past, cry, then fall asleep again. Sometimes, his mind wandered to happier memories—his hopes for the future. But above all else, he just wanted to go home.
Fear had rooted itself so deep in his bones it no longer felt like panic—just routine. Loneliness wasn't a feeling anymore. It was the air he breathed.
Eventually, necessity forced him out of his shelter. He had to find food, or he would die.
But how was he supposed to find food in a desert? He hadn't seen a single plant bearing fruit, nor any living creature aside from that nightmarish Scavenger.
"If I have to kill something like that thing just to eat, I'd rather die."
Just as that thought crossed his mind, something stirred in the sand.
"It can't be? Can it?" A flicker of hope crossed his face. A weak smile formed. "Today might be my lucky day."
He watched the patch of sand with focused intensity—as if his life depended on it. Because it did.
He waited, still as a statue, motionless for hours. Eventually, the heat overwhelmed him again. He was growing more susceptible to the harsh weather, and had to retreat to his cave to cool down.
This process repeated over multiple days.
He had nothing to do but wait and think. So he thought.
He pondered what it meant to be a hero. Why had he always wanted to become one? Was it only because his mom had wanted it?
"My mom always used to read me stories of famous heroes before bedtime," he reminisced. "She would always say: 'You'll be a great hero one day, Astel. You'll be even greater than King Arthur.' And I'd always ask: 'Mom, who's King Arthur?' And then she'd read me stories of those fantastical heroes in her soft, gentle voice until I fell asleep."
He used to imagine himself in shining armor, riding a glorious steed into battle against vicious monsters and terrifying dragons.
But reality… wasn't like that. Not for him.
Yes, he had some power—even at a young age—but it wasn't enough to make a difference. His Control fragment granted him conscious control over his mind and thoughts. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing he could use to become one of those fairytale heroes.
Astel was still only a Category 1 Fragmenter—a stage that any child above the age of ten could reach.
"All these 'hero' thoughts are making me remember my first fragment trial," he shivered. "I'd rather not remember that."
In the end, he couldn't find an answer. "Maybe if I survive this hell, I'll gain some insight," he thought with a shrug.
Then—movement.
Something stirred beneath the sand again.
Astel leapt at the shifting trail. Whatever it was, he caught it in his hands, gripping tightly and raising it above his head like a trophy. He looked triumphant—comically so. A nearly sunburnt, naked boy on his knees, holding a small scorpion high in the air like he'd won a championship.
The scorpion didn't appreciate the gesture. It struck out, but Astel was faster. Driven by hunger, he snapped its carapace—and its body—in half with brute strength.
Even though his fragment didn't enhance his physique, all Fragmenters could manipulate energy to some degree. This alone gave them slight physical advantages over normal humans. By guiding and dispersing energy within his unawakened fragments, he could achieve slightly more noticeable boosts.
This scorpion was a Mind Beast of the 1st Category, roughly equal in strength to a beginner-level Fragmenter—something even ordinary humans could defeat.
Astel didn't hesitate.
He brought the raw, broken halves of the creature to his mouth and devoured them. He didn't care about cooking. He didn't care how disgusting it was.
He needed food. Any food. Anything with nutritional value.
It wasn't enough—but it was something. For the first time since entering the desert, he had filled his stomach, even if only slightly.
Somehow… he didn't even get sick.