Steve had built himself a little matchbox-shaped house outside the village, though he couldn't shake the feeling it was pointless.
The monster spawn rate of this "Overworld" seemed to be set to zero. He had chopped trees through the entire night without seeing a single zombie, skeleton, or creeper. Not one.
That left him wondering if mob farms even worked anymore.
Time flowed differently too. Back home, a full day lasted twenty minutes. Here, it lasted twenty-four hours.
And to make things worse—he couldn't skip nights with a bed.
After lining the new wooden wall with torches, Steve climbed down the ladder built along the inner side and nearly bumped into a villager waiting for him.
It was the village chief.
The old man bowed repeatedly, apologizing, then cautiously asked what Steve planned to do with all the Wolf corpses.
Steve waited in silence for a while, realizing that the man didn't drop any trade items. Bored, he turned away and went back into his matchbox hut, leaving the chief staring blankly after him.
After thinking for a long while, the chief finally decided to keep the bodies for the village's use—better that than let them rot.
...
Inside, Steve's house was compact but efficient: one room for everything—storage, crafting, and living space.
His storage system consisted of four tall stacks of large chests, neatly organized.
The first column was for blocks: dirt, stone, and logs.
The second was for ores and materials. His inventory there was meager—just twenty emeralds, fourteen wolf fangs, and twenty lumps of charcoal.
Next came food and medicine. He stored all the black bread and only carried roasted Wolf meat with him. When cooked, it restored twelve hunger points—six drumsticks—far superior to most food in the vanilla game.
The last column was for miscellaneous junk: bugs, tree sap, and strange drops from mining or logging—things to analyze later once he unlocked JEI.
After pocketing only essentials—food, sword, pickaxe, axe, and a few planks—Steve set off to explore.
A dirt road stretched out from the village—the same one where he'd intercepted the wagon before. He figured it must lead to another settlement.
Maybe that one had a blacksmith's forge.
Not long after he left, the chief gathered a small group, including Jack, and prepared to visit Bardley Town. They needed to smooth over the previous day's incident and trade the wolf pelts for supplies—food, nails, and other essentials.
Elena, having recovered after a night's rest, joined them too, eager to learn the market value of high-grade furs. Together, they departed for town.
...
When Steve reached Bardley, his first thought wasn't awe—it was concern.
Can the player's hardware even handle this many entities?
The town was teeming with life—dozens of villagers bustling about, easily ten times the population of his small village. For a moment, nostalgia tugged at him. The Player used to love building towns like this. But now… there was only silence.
He sighed and trudged toward the gates.
Unlike the wooden palisade around his base, Bardley was surrounded by low stone walls. The buildings inside were mostly stone too, trimmed with wooden beams and tidy slate roofs.
The townsfolk all wore coarse linen shirts and pants, the occasional adventurer gleaming with light armor or a sword at the hip. He spotted all kinds—warriors, hunters, mages, merchants.
A world with classes and professions, then. Maybe trading with them was part of the mod's core gameplay.
But his arrival caused a ripple of panic. People whispered, stared, and backed away from the strange square creature walking through their streets.
So there's a reputation system, he thought. And mine's probably in the negatives.
He ignored the looks and kept walking, searching for a blacksmith. He didn't bother checking every villager's trade; there were too many. And when he did click a few out of curiosity, they squealed and ran, spreading fear like wildfire.
That confirmed it—reputation definitely existed.
Eventually, he spotted what he was looking for.
A squat stone building in the corner of town, its chimney belching smoke and sparks. A sign hung above the door: [Dwarven Forge].
Perfect.
Ignoring the alarmed stares, Steve pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Heat engulfed him immediately. A great furnace roared against the wall, flames reflecting off a blackened anvil and two wooden tubs filled with unknown fluids.
Tools and weapons lined the walls. In one corner stood a full set of iron armor.
Steve's mood lifted. Now this is a jackpot. Blacksmiths always had the best loot chests—and sometimes, even diamonds.
Beside the furnace stood a short, stocky figure—a dwarf, shirtless, muscled, his face creased with soot and worry. He scowled at Steve, brow furrowed deep.
"Honored Magus," the dwarf rumbled, sliding a half-forged ingot back into the flames. "Looking to have something crafted?"
So that's what he thought he was—a summoned construct. A mage's puppet.
That explained the sudden drop in tension. The dwarf relaxed, curiosity replacing fear. Unlike most villagers, he seemed to admire Steve's strange geometry—the perfectly square limbs, the texture of his armor, the precise angles.
Steve right-clicked him. A trade menu popped up.
Oh, a dwarf NPC. Nice.
[Holls – Blacksmith – Master]
[Gem ×3 → Iron Ingot ×1]
[Iron Ingot ×2 → Iron Pickaxe ×1]
[Ore ×5 → Mineral Longsword ×1]
[Emerald ×15 → Dwarven Greatsword ×1]
[Coal ×10 → Emerald ×1]
[Emerald ×32 → Runesteel Ingot ×1]
[Emerald ×64 → Artisan's Codex ×1]
He trades iron?! Jackpot.
Holls froze. For a split second, his limbs refused to move, a strange pressure holding him still. But the sensation vanished as quickly as it came.
Then he blinked. The strange square being had placed a massive block in front of him—so tall he couldn't see the top, its sides carved with tool patterns.
"What in—" he began, but then something else appeared—a boat, of all things. Before he could react, his body moved on its own, neatly sitting inside it.
"Hey!" Holls shouted, struggling, but his legs refused to move—as though cast in iron.
He could only watch in disbelief as Steve rummaged through his storage chest, pulling out his spare clothes, his ledger, even his personal diary.
"You damned—!" He choked mid-curse when Steve returned, holding a strange tool in his hand.
The golem tapped the anvil once. Just once.
A hairline crack spread instantly across the surface.
Holls' eyes nearly popped out of his head. That anvil could take a thousand hammer strikes without denting!
Just how strong was this thing?
His bravado vanished, replaced by cold sweat and dread.
If he wanted to live, he'd better start talking fast—and praying faster.