The sky was the color of bruised flesh—purple and red bleeding together as the sun descended toward the horizon. Locke stood at the edge of their reinforced compound, staring at the Suspicious Looking Eye cradled in his palm. The fleshy sphere pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, veins of crimson energy coursing through translucent tissue. It was warm. Disgustingly warm, like holding a piece of something freshly excised from a living body.
"You're really going to do this," Nice King said from behind him. It wasn't a question.
"We don't have a choice." Locke's voice was quiet, almost lost in the evening wind. "Every day we wait, the world changes more. This morning, I woke up and couldn't remember Jace's face for almost five minutes. Five damn minutes, Zing. She's my friend—practically family—and I forgot her."
Nice King's emerald eyes flickered with something dark—recognition, perhaps, or a made up fear. "I've been having dreams. Not memories—dreams. Like I've always lived here. Like Adelaide never existed. Like the Hero Industry was just a story I told myself."
The confession hung between them, terrible in its honesty. They were ready terrified, but neither would say it aloud. That was the unspoken rule between warriors—you could admit doubt, but never fear.
Sakuta emerged from the armory, his silver hair loose and catching the dying light like spun glass. He'd strapped on every piece of armor they'd managed to craft—iron plates over leather, mismatched and crude but functional. In his hands, he carried his silver spear, its blade sharp enough to catch reflections of the darkening sky.
"The Guide says we have maybe an hour before full dark," Sakuta reported, his turquoise eyes scanning the treeline with military precision. "After that, the normal night spawns will complicate things. If we're doing this, we do it now—controlled summoning, controlled battlefield."
"Where are Zmin and Orit?" Locke asked.
"Finishing the arena platforms." Sakuta's expression was carefully neutral, but tension radiated from him like heat from a forge. "They're both... struggling."
Locke understood. Zmin's flames had been growing stronger, yes, but inconsistently. Sometimes he could incinerate a target with a thought. Other times, nothing but sparks. The unpredictability was eating at him, wearing away his confidence like water on stone. And Orit—gentle, anxious Orit—was fighting a different battle entirely. His starlight powers had always been defensive, protective. But this world didn't reward protection. It rewarded violence.
The Arena
They'd constructed the battlefield over three days of backbreaking labor. Wooden platforms at multiple heights created a three-dimensional combat space, allowing for mobility and tactical positioning. Campfires burned at regular intervals, their regenerative properties a crucial advantage. Heart Lanterns hung from chains, stolen from the underground and repurposed. Star-in-a-Bottle jars lined the platforms, ready to restore mana for those who still had any connection to their powers.
It was a killing ground dressed up as preparation. Everyone knew it.
The Guide stood at the compound entrance, watching them work with an expression that might have been respect or pity. It was hard to tell with NPCs—they were becoming more animated, more human-like, as if the team's presence was bleeding reality into the game's code. Or perhaps the game's unreality was bleeding into them.
"The Eye of Cthulhu is an ancient evil," the Guide said, his voice carrying across the arena. "It exists between dimensions, watching countless worlds simultaneously. When you summon it, you're not just calling a monster. You're inviting the attention of something vast and incomprehensible."
"You're really selling this," Zmin muttered, his stick-figure form flickering nervously. Orange flames danced across his limbs, sputtering like dying candles.
"I'm being honest," the Guide replied. "Most who face it die. Those who survive are changed. The Eye doesn't just kill bodies—it devours certainty, consumes the illusion of safety. After tonight, you'll know something fundamental about this world and your place in it."
"Oh my, you're cheerful," Nice King said, adjusting his iron sword's grip. Sweat already beaded on his forehead despite the cooling evening air. "What happens if we fail?"
The Guide's expression was answer enough.
Orit appeared from the crafting station, his orange form glowing with blue starlight that seemed dimmer than usual, almost sickly. "I've prepared healing potions. Twenty each. It's... it's all we have."
His voice trembled. Of all of them, Orit wore his fear most openly. There was no shame in it—fear was rational, human, appropriate. But in a world that rewarded violence and punished hesitation, his gentleness felt like a liability.
"Hey," Locke said, placing a hand on Orit's shoulder. The starlight was warm beneath his palm, pulsing like a second heartbeat. "We're going to survive this. All of us. I promise."
It was a lie. Locke knew it was a lie. You couldn't promise survival in combat—too many variables, too much chaos. But sometimes people needed lies more than truth. Sometimes a false promise was the only thing standing between a soldier and complete breakdown.
Orit nodded, not believing but grateful for the kindness anyway.
The Summoning
Night fell like a curtain of black silk, sudden and absolute. The temperature dropped, their breath misting in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a zombie groaned its eternal hunger. An arrow trap clicked, mechanism whirring, before falling silent.
Locke stood at the center of the arena, the Suspicious Looking Eye hot in his palm. His heart hammered against his ribs—not with fear exactly, but with anticipation. This was familiar territory. Not the world, not the powers, but the moment before battle. That crystalline instant where everything hung in balance, where death and glory were equally possible.
"Everyone in position?" he called out. Four affirmatives echoed back.
"Remember the plan. Kiting formation—keep it moving, never let it pin us down. Focus fire when it charges, scatter when it retreats. And for fuck's sake, watch for the servants. They're small, but they swarm."
"Locke," Sakuta's voice cut through the darkness. "Whatever happens—" "Don't," Locke interrupted. "No goodbyes. We're walking away from this."
He crushed the Eye.
The world seemed to inhale. For one heartbeat, two, nothing happened. Then, from the eastern horizon, a red glow appeared—growing larger, brighter, until a colossal eyeball burst through the treeline with a sound like tearing fabric and screaming metal.
The Eye of Cthulhu was massive beyond anything they'd prepared for. Twenty feet in diameter easily, possibly thirty. Its sclera was a roadmap of pulsing veins, each one thick as rope and filled with something that glowed like infected blood. The pupil rotated independently from the iris, tracking all five of them simultaneously—an impossible feat that made Locke's brain hurt trying to process it.
Worst was the gaze itself. Looking at the Eye felt like being seen by something that understood you completely—every weakness, every fear, every secret shame laid bare under its scrutiny. It was violation made visual, the sensation of someone rooting through your mind with cold, clinical interest.
"SCATTER!" Locke roared, breaking the moment of paralyzed horror. The Eye charged.
Phase One - The Hunt
The creature moved with terrifying speed for something so large. It shot forward like a missile, trailing gore and malice, the air screaming around its bulk. Locke threw himself sideways, feeling the wind of its passage, the heat of its hatred.
It smashed through a platform, wood exploding into shrapnel. A splinter carved a line across Locke's cheek, blood hot and immediate. The pain was clarifying, snapping him fully into combat mode.
"RANGED ATTACK!" he shouted, nocking an arrow to his bow.
Nice King was already moving, his enhanced combat instincts—power or no power—allowing him to predict the Eye's trajectory. He leaped between platforms with athletic grace, his iron broadsword held ready. "It's following a pattern! Three charges, then it summons servants!"
The Eye rotated mid-flight, its pupil locking onto Sakuta. The ancient warrior stood his ground, spear braced, face carved from ice. As the Eye charged, he waited—one second, two—then moved at the last possible instant, his spear carving a deep gouge across the creature's surface.
Viscous fluid sprayed from the wound, steaming where it hit wood. The Eye shrieked—a sound that pierced their minds more than their ears, a psychic scream of rage and pain that made their teeth ache.
Locke fired arrow after arrow, each one finding purchase in the creature's flesh. But it wasn't enough. The Eye was too large, too resilient. Their weapons were toys against a god.
Then the servants came.
From the Eye's surface, smaller eyes detached—dozens of them, each the size of a human head. They swarmed like wasps, their movements erratic and aggressive. One latched onto Orit's arm, its teeth—why did it have teeth?—sinking deep.
Orit screamed. Not a warrior's battle cry but a genuine scream of agony and terror. His starlight flickered wildly as he tried to shake the creature off, but it clung with parasitic determination.
"ORIT!" Zmin's voice broke with panic. Orange flames erupted from his hands—real fire this time, hot and angry—and engulfed the servant eye. It released Orit with a dying shriek, falling to the platform in a smoking heap.
But there were so many more.
The battle devolved into desperate chaos. Locke abandoned strategy for survival, his bow singing as he fired until his fingers bled, the string cutting through skin. Nice King moved like a dancer, his sword a silver blur, each strike precise despite the pandemonium.
Sakuta fought with cold efficiency, his spear finding vital spots with mechanical precision. But even he was flagging, movements slowing, breath coming in ragged gasps.
A servant eye hit Locke from behind, fangs sinking into his shoulder. Pain exploded through him, white-hot and nauseating. He grabbed the creature with his free hand and crushed it, feeling its body rupture, ichor gushing between his fingers. The sensation was revolting.
"ITS HEALTH IS DROPPING!" Nice King shouted. "BELOW FIFTY PERCENT!" The Eye's movements suddenly stopped. Every servant eye froze mid-flight. Then, with a sound like ripping leather, the Eye's flesh began to peel back.
Phase Two - The Mouth
The transformation was obscene. The eyeball's outer layer tore away like a grotesque flower opening, revealing what lay beneath—a gaping mouth filled with concentric rings of teeth. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, each one sharp and eager. The thing that had been an eye was now a maw, ready to devour.
"Oh damn," Orit whispered, his voice small and broken. "Oh jeez, oh wow—" "FOCUS!" Locke commanded, but even he felt his resolve wavering. This was beyond nightmare. This was wrongness made manifest.
The transformed Eye shrieked again—that same psychic scream, but now accompanied by a physical roar from its tooth-filled throat. The sound was layered, discordant, as if multiple creatures were screaming through the same mouth.
Then it charged with doubled speed.
Nice King barely rolled aside, the teeth grazing his armor with a horrible scraping sound that set everyone's nerves on edge. "LOCKE! WE NEED A PLAN!"
Locke's mind raced, combat algorithms running at full speed. Back in his world, with his full powers, he could have ended this in seconds. Here, with just iron weapons and fading resolve, this single creature pushed them to the absolute edge of capability.
"ZMIN!" he shouted. "CAN YOU IGNITE MY ARROWS?" "I—" Zmin's flames sputtered. "I DON'T KNOW!" "TRY! WE'RE DEAD OTHERWISE!" Locke yelled. He wasn't sure if the same tactic—combining arrows to create flaming ones, like in the original Terraria—would even work here. The rules of this world were different. All he had were his own thoughts and the growing confusion of a new reality he needed to understand… but couldn't. And the same applied to the others.
The Eye charged again, aiming for Sakuta. The warrior tried to dodge, but his exhausted muscles betrayed him. The mouth caught his leg, teeth sinking through armor and flesh. Sakuta's scream was animal, primal—the sound of a warior feeling his body being destroyed.
"NO!" Nice King was there instantly, his sword driven deep into the creature's soft palate. The Eye released Sakuta, who collapsed onto a platform, blood pooling beneath him.
Desperation fueled innovation. Locke grabbed oil from their inventory, which somehow existed in this Terraria—they'd collected it for torches—and doused his arrows. "ZMIN! NOW!"
Zmin concentrated, every fiber of his being focused on the power that felt so distant. His stick-figure form trembled violently. Tears streamed down his face—not just from pain but from frustration, from the humiliation of weakness, from the terror that he'd fail his friends when they needed him most.
Then, like a dam breaking, the flames came. Not weak sparks but real fire, hungry and bright. It caught on Locke's arrows.
"YES!" Locke fired a volley directly into the Eye's open mouth. The creature recoiled as fire spread through its interior, its scream now tinged with genuine fear.
"KEEP HITTING IT!" Nice King rallied, despite his own exhaustion, despite the blood running down his arms from a dozen small wounds. He leaped onto a higher platform and drove his sword into the Eye's exposed side.
Sakuta, despite his mangled leg, forced himself upright and thrust his spear into a weak spot where flesh met tooth. His face was white with pain, but his hands were steady.
Orit created a brilliant flash of starlight, blinding the creature momentarily. In that precious second of confusion, Locke fired his final arrow—a perfect shot, flaming and true, straight down the Eye's center.
The creature convulsed violently, thrashing with the desperate energy of something dying. It smashed through platforms, sending splinters flying like shrapnel. One caught Nice King across the stomach, drawing a line of blood. Another embedded itself in Orit's shoulder.
Then, with a final, mournful cry that seemed to echo across dimensions, the Eye of Cthulhu exploded into a shower of gold coins and strange, pulsing tissues.
Victory's Price
They collapsed where they stood, none of them able to move. Locke lay on his back, staring at the stars through the shattered platforms, his stomach heaving. Blood ran from wounds he hadn't even noticed receiving. His shoulder where the servant had bitten him throbbed with every heartbeat.
Beside him, Nice King laughed—a wild, unhinged sound. "We... we actually did it. We killed a fucking interdimensional horror with iron swords and wooden arrows."
"Sakuta," Orit's voice was thick with tears. "Sakuta's leg—"
They crawled to where the warrior lay, his face gray with blood loss. The wounds were deep, bone-deep, muscle torn and hanging in strips. In their world, a healing chamber could fix this in hours. Here, they had crude potions and hope.
Locke forced a healing potion between Sakuta's lips. The warrior swallowed reflexively, and they watched as the magic—at least that still worked—began to knit flesh, seal wounds. It was slow, agonizing to watch, but it worked.
"I can't walk," Sakuta said quietly, once the potion had done its work. "Not for days, maybe weeks. I'm a liability now."
"Shut up," Locke said, his voice rough with emotion. "You drove your spear through that thing's brain even with your leg half gone. You're not a liability. You're a fucking hero."
Sakuta's eyes glistened, but no tears fell. "In our world, this would be a small wound. Here..." "Here, we adapt," Nice King finished. "We survive. That's what we do."
They gathered the loot—gold coins that felt heavy with significance, strange materials that would unlock new crafting options. And something else—a crystalline heart that pulsed with power.
As Locke picked it up, he felt something shift inside himself. A door opening. A connection re-establishing. His power—not fully returned, but stronger now. More accessible.
"Did anyone else feel that?" he asked. Zmin's flames burned brighter, more stable. "Yes. It's like... like the boss was a lock, and defeating it turned a key."
"The guardians aren't just obstacles," Orit realized, his starlight pulsing stronger than it had since they arrived. "They're tests. Trials that prove we deserve our power back."
The Guide approached, genuine respect in his eyes for the first time. "You've passed the first trial. But know this—the Eye of Cthulhu is merely a gatekeeper. Far greater evils stir beneath the surface and in the crimson depths. What you faced tonight was a guardian. What comes next are gods."
As they limped back to their compound to tend wounds and rest, none noticed the deep crimson cracks spreading through the ground miles away—cracks that pulsed with a heartbeat all their own.
Adelaide - Jace's Mission
Jace stood before the Hero Industry's hidden entrance for the second time in a week. The nondescript door in the alley shimmered slightly, visible only to those who knew what to look for.
She'd spent the past days gathering information, calling in every favor, speaking with underground researchers who dealt with dimensional theory and metaphysical mechanics. What she'd learned terrified her.
The dimensional barriers weren't just weakening. They were actively collapsing in specific patterns—patterns that corresponded to video game world architectures. A street in Tokyo had partially pixelated for three minutes before reverting. In New York, someone had reported seeing blocky terrain generation where a construction site should have been.
The game worlds were bleeding through. And with each boss Locke and his team defeated, the bleed accelerated. She knocked the secret pattern. Commander Yuna herself answered. "You're persistent. Come in."
The conference room was filled with dimensional readouts, energy signatures, and grainy footage of anomalies worldwide. Jace's research had been amateur compared to this. The Hero Industry had been tracking the problem for days.
"It's worse than you told me," Jace said, studying the data.
"Yes." Yuna's expression was grim. "Every time they defeat a boss, the dimensional barriers weaken further. At this rate, we have three weeks—maybe four—before the barriers collapse entirely."
"Can you pull them out?"
"No. Our dimensional scanners can barely locate them. It's as if they've become part of that world's code structure. Pulling them out forcibly might kill them or cause a catastrophic dimensional rupture."
Jace slammed her hand on the table. "So what do we do?"
Yuna slid a device across—a strange quantum communicator, more advanced than the prototype Jace had been working with. "We just established contact. Thirty seconds before the signal degraded. But it was enough."
She pressed play. Locke's voice came through, garbled but recognizable:
"...defeated the Eye... powers returning slowly... but something's wrong... the world is becoming aware of us... NPCs are changing, becoming more real... and there's someone watching us... a figure in armor... mentioned something called Moonlord... Plus I really do hope... that this get's through some connections... said we're anomalies that need to be eliminated before we corrupt the—"
Static consumed the rest.
"Moonlord," Yuna repeated slowly. "That's the final boss of Terraria. The ultimate evil. If there's an intelligence behind this—if something in that world is actively trying to kill them..."
"Then they're not just trapped," Jace finished. "They're being hunted. And every victory just paints a bigger target on their backs." She looked at the quantum communicator. "When can we re-establish contact?"
"Unknown. The dimensional interference is too severe. But Jace—" Yuna's expression softened slightly. "Your friend is the Number One Hero for a reason. If anyone can survive this and find a way home, it's him."
Jace nodded, but fear gnawed at her. Because she knew something Yuna didn't. She knew Locke's greatest weakness wasn't his powers or his combat skills.
It was that he'd sacrifice himself for his friends without hesitation. And in a world that rewarded violence and punished compassion, that nobility might be what will kill him.
TO BE CONTINUED...