Inferna and I crashed through another End island, our battle reshaping the landscape with every exchange.
"THEY PRAYED TO YOU," she said. "FOR CENTURIES. AND YOU GAVE THEM SILENCE."
"I gave them stability," I countered. "Silence was more than they'd had before."
"SILENCE IS NOTHING."
"Silence is peace. Silence is absence of harm. In a world of monsters and raids and death, sometimes the greatest gift is to simply not make things worse."
"YOU CALL THAT A GIFT?"
"I call it the best I could do at the time."
---
Year 10-50.
The village that became Eterna was my first real home.
Not because I built it—I didn't. Not because I chose it—I hadn't. But because it was the place where I existed for the longest continuous period since arriving in this world.
The villagers accepted me without question. I was their god, their protector, their eternal watcher. They built around me, farmed around me, lived around me.
And they prayed to me.
Every day, villagers would climb the hill and speak to me. Not asking for things—though some did—but simply talking. Telling me about their lives, their hopes, their fears.
A farmer would describe his crops, hoping for my blessing. A mother would bring her newborn, asking for my protection. A young man would confess his love for a woman, seeking my approval.
I couldn't give them any of those things. But I could listen.
And maybe that was enough.
---
The Gray Time wasn't uniform.
There were moments—rare, brief moments—when the fog would thin and I would feel something.
A child's laughter. A couple's embrace. A village saved from a raid by their walls and guards.
These moments were like lights in the darkness. Not enough to illuminate the whole, but enough to remind me that there was something outside the gray.
I started paying attention.
Not actively—I still couldn't bring myself to move or speak. But I started noticing things I'd ignored before. Patterns in the villagers' behavior. Developments in their society. The slow, steady progress of a civilization building itself around a god who gave them nothing but presence.
They were impressive, in their way. Resilient. Creative. Hopeful.
They believed I was watching over them, and that belief gave them strength.
It was the first time in a century that I felt something like respect.
---
Year 65. The first crisis.
A massive raid descended on Eterna—hundreds of pillagers, organized and armed. They swarmed from the forests with war cries and crossbows, determined to raze the city to the ground.
I watched.
The villagers had built walls, trained guards, established warning systems. They'd prepared for this moment without my help, without my guidance.
They fought.
For hours, the battle raged. Villagers died—many villagers—but so did raiders. The walls held. The guards coordinated. The civilians evacuated to prepared shelters.
By dawn, the raid was repelled.
Eterna stood. Bloodied, diminished, but standing.
And I hadn't moved a muscle.
---
The aftermath changed something in me.
I watched the villagers bury their dead. I watched them rebuild their walls. I watched them console each other, support each other, continue.
They hadn't needed me. They'd saved themselves.
For the first time in decades, I felt something other than apathy.
Pride.
These were my people—not because I'd created them, but because they'd created themselves around me. They'd built a civilization from nothing, defended it against impossible odds, and emerged stronger.
They deserved better than a silent god.
But I didn't know how to give them more.
---
Year 70. The Gray began to lift.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. But slowly, gradually, I started to come back to myself.
I started noticing details I'd ignored—the quality of light at different times of day, the sounds of the village below, the feeling of wind against my armor.
I started thinking again. Not just existing, but thinking. Processing. Wondering.
How long had I been here? What had happened to the world outside this hill? Were there other players, other immortals, other lost souls?
I didn't know. I'd been too deep in the gray to pay attention.
But I was starting to care about the answers.
That was new.
That was terrifying.
That was hope.