David sat against the wall, closed his eyes, and, after a day of non-stop work, decided he'd earned a rest—body and mind alike.
Half an hour later, David was still staring blankly at the ceiling.
No sleep. None at all.
Without a bed, he simply couldn't enter sleep mode.
With a kip-up, David sprang to his feet.
In a night teeming with danger and gear still incomplete, what would you do?
For any Minecraft player, the answer is instant: mine, of course.
First, he sorted every scrap of food in his backpack.
Counting the rotten flesh and baked potato he'd already eaten,
David forced down raw sabre, cooked sabre, a raw potato, and the bread from a bonus chest—five foods in total.
[What a unique flavor—your max health +1]
He stepped to the crafting table, whipped up three fresh stone pickaxes, and headed for a wall beside the cave mouth.
Rather than the kamikaze vertical shaft, he went for the classic staircase: two blocks down, one forward, repeat.
It offered maximum exploration and left him a way back.
The narrow tunnel echoed with pick strikes; every few paces he dropped a torch behind him.
Clack, clack-clack, clack-clack-clack…
Nothing but stone. To kill the boredom he hummed a tune.
"Day is never finished,
Master got me working,
Someday Master set me free!"
...
A familiar loneliness crept in.
The world had its storms, its monsters, its dawns and dusks, but no other living soul answered back.
Every excavation, every build, every harvest—every danger—witnessed by him alone.
The inevitable fate of every solo survivalist: absolute solitude.
The thought made David grateful he'd landed in Warhammer, and not Minecraft.
At least in Warhammer he could talk to someone—even if that someone sometimes wanted to kill him almost 100% of the time.
[Inventory full—mod unlocked: Sophisticated Backpack]
He'd mined three full stacks of cobblestone; every slot was stuffed.
A JEI check showed the recipe: four leather, four string, one wooden chest.
He had everything; seconds later a plain Sophisticated Backpack appeared.
Dark-tanned leather stitched with thread.
It granted twenty-seven extra slots and an upgrade socket; later he could improve it with copper, iron, gold, diamond, even netherite.
David kept digging.
stone stacks hit six, torches half gone, three pickaxes shattered—still no ore.
Warhammer Universe-gen couldn't compete with Minecraft; finding ore was like hunting for a needle at the bottom of the sea.
Enough.
He set a hard limit: one more pick. If nothing showed, retreat.
As the final pick's durability blinked red, fortune smiled—a cave appeared on the edge of his minimap.
Game on. He swung toward it.
CRACK!
Stone gave way to open air.
A bottomless cavern yawned, water dripping from the roof, bathed in dim green light.
But the real prize sat at its center: iron!
[Hematite—composition: 70% iron]
[Mining level: stone]
The vein lay fully exposed, pick-marks clear on adjacent rock.
Someone had been here before—an abandoned mine?
David didn't hesitate; iron was iron.
Six swings, six iron ore.
He dropped a furnace, loaded charcoal and ore.
While it smelted, he tunneled outward—no other veins.
"Achoo!"
A tickle in his nose; he rubbed it, eyes catching another wall.
More iron—and a patch of coal.
Final haul: twelve iron ingots, sixteen coal.
First priority: protection. He crafted an iron chestplate.
It weighed a ton; an ordinary man would stagger.
On David it felt solid, reassuring.
In Minecraft, armor grants precious damage reduction—it was common sense.
Three ingots became an iron pick; the last plus planks formed a shield.
Crude wood rimmed with a band of iron—one of vanilla's few answers to ranged attacks.
In Warhammer, everyone carries a gun and walks softly.
Space Marines have Bolters, the Astra Militarum standard issue lasguns; the unprotected die in crossfire within seconds.
"Achoo!" Another sneeze—and a debuff appeared.
[Spore Infection I]
Icon: a green-skinned, tusked humanoid.
An Ork—Warhammer's favorite boyz.
Their most annoying trait: they reproduce like mold, scattering spores that sprout wherever they fight.
Ork ground is thick with the stuff, nearly impossible to cleanse.
Meaning this mine was an Ork dig; the tickle in his nose was their spore.
For humans, inhalation ends badly.
The spores root, feed, and eventually turn the host into compost.
Good thing David had milk. He chugged a bucket of beast milk; the debuff vanished.
Problem solved—for now. He tightened his grip and pressed deeper.
Danger or not, this cavern was his best shot at iron.