Astel spent several weeks hunting scorpions, only returning to his cave when he was on the verge of collapsing. Inside, he would drink some water before crawling into a particularly cool corner and falling asleep.
At first, he cried himself to sleep every night. But as the days passed, he began to adapt to this new way of life. Slowly, the memories of everything before the desert started to fade. The trauma still lingered, haunting him and sometimes paralyzing him with dread. On some days, he didn't leave the cave at all, surviving solely on water and circulating his energy.
He spent those days in complete darkness, lit only by a single, unwavering stream of golden-white light spilling through a tiny crack in the cave wall. Occasionally, grains of sand would drift down through the gap and settle in the shallow pond below. Because of this, Astel always drank directly from the stream, avoiding the still water of the pool.
He still didn't know where the stream came from. But it didn't matter. It was the only thing keeping him alive—and sane.
His new life had a strange sort of peace. Repetitive, yes, but never truly boring. He didn't have time to be bored. His life was constantly in danger. If he failed to find food, he would simply collapse and die—his corpse left to decay in the cave or the cruel, shifting sands outside.
Even though survival consumed most of his thoughts, sometimes he'd stare out at the distant mountains. They were majestic, captivating. When he first saw them, it looked like the desert simply ended, and mountains rose from solid ground beyond. But as he drew closer over the days, he realized the desert didn't end. The mountains stood as an island amidst the sea of sand—untouched, unaffected.
There were shadows draping the mountains, shrouding them in darkness. It was as if night hung over them eternally, a stark contrast to the never-ending daylight of the sunless, brutal Prismarine Desert.
'How is it that there can be a night sky above the mountains, if they are surrounded by the never-ending day of this dumb desert?' Astel often wondered as he admired the snowy peaks.
Today was just another routine day.
Wake up. Drink water. Hunt.
Lately, Astel had been traveling deeper into the desert, searching for more consistent sources of food. For days, he had tracked a group of ants, studying their patterns, hoping they would lead him to a nest. This particular group was larger than any he'd seen before—a proper colony, maybe.
'These little guys will surely lead me to their nest. Then I can destroy it, kill them, and eat them all.'
He was practically salivating at the thought.
'I wonder how big the anthill is. Maybe there's enough to finally fill my stomach properly.' A massive grin spread across his face as he licked his lips.
Eventually, the ants entered a tiny hole in the sandstone and disappeared underground.
'Bingo.' He began planning how to wipe them out and collect his prize.
A small, odd-looking dagger appeared in his hand. As it did, he felt the ground shift slightly beneath his feet.
The dagger was new. Strange. During one of his earlier hunts, after killing scorpions, ants, and other insects, he had found something unusual: a tiny shard of crimson chitin. It looked nothing like the rest of the insect remains. Most bugs here were pale, sometimes tinted bluish to blend with the desert. But this fragment pulsed with a deep, blood-red hue.
He'd taken it back to the cave, unsure what to do with it. He left it in his damp corner, intending to examine it later. One day, he accidentally crushed it under a falling rock. That's when he felt it: a trickle of foreign energy seeping into his mind. It gravitated toward the part of him where he normally gathered his energy during circulation. Then it settled—solidified.
It didn't change anything. Not at first. When he tried to interact with it, nothing happened. No reaction. No feedback.
He assumed it was just a hallucination.
But he couldn't shake the feeling. It had felt real.
He spent days trying to activate it. Guided energy toward it, issued mental commands, even meditated on it. Nothing worked.
He began to think he was delusional.
Then, one day, during a particularly bad episode, he stayed holed up in the cave, starving and spiraling. He imagined himself holding food in his hand. He believed—for a brief second—that it was real.
That was when it happened.
The shard responded.
It coursed through his body and manifested in his palm: a small dagger fashioned from a scorpion's tail. The stinger was viciously pointed. A black, lusterless metal edge extended along one side, so sharp it looked like it could slice through stone. The deep crimson chitin wrapped around the handle like a natural grip, giving the weapon an eerie, alien beauty.
Astel was stunned.
"Could this be? There's no way, right? I have to be hallucinating," he whispered aloud, his voice coarse and trembling. A small note of joy tinged his tone.
He swung the dagger experimentally, marveling at its lightness.
'I've finally gotten one!' he thought, eyes shining.
For a moment, he forgot the pain. Forgot the hunger. Even the ever-present voices faded.
What he held in his hand was called a Notion.
When something died, and its energy didn't disperse into the environment, it could condense into a physical object—a Notion. These rare artifacts could be absorbed by Fragmenters. Most turned into armor or weapons, like Astel's dagger. Others were utility tools or one-time enhancements.
Notions were special. They could be summoned or dismissed at will—unless destroyed. They retained the essence of the creature they came from and often had unique properties. Most importantly, they were extremely rare, especially for first and second-category Fragmenters.
Back at the anthill, Astel sensed the subtle tremors under his feet. He stepped back and threw the chitinous dagger into the sand in front of him.
The dagger stirred the ants. Dozens—no, hundreds—of them poured out from tiny holes in the ground. Soon, the sand was covered in a writhing carpet of moving bodies. Shadows danced across the dunes, and the ground seemed to shimmer as if alive.
Astel had a plan.
He had prepared several hollowed-out scorpion carapaces filled with water. He had learned something odd: when exposed to the open desert, water vanished within seconds, evaporating under the sky's oppressive stillness. But if poured onto the sand, it solidified into something like sandstone. Soft enough to break, but solid enough for his purposes.
Using strands of his own growing hair, he'd tied the carapace bottles around his waist.
Now, as the ants swarmed the dagger, Astel sprang into action. He uncorked the bottles and poured the water onto the sand.
The effect was immediate.
The water pinned the ants down, making the sand harden and trap them. They slowed, struggled, then froze in place—encased in a soft, crumbly shell.
Astel had succeeded.
He retrieved the dagger, dismissed it, then began digging the hardened slab out of the ground. Hundreds of ants were encased inside.
Tonight, he would feast.