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Wemmbu finds his way out. It wasn’t his fault that he gets dragged into every possible fight on the server. That’s just his reputation — anyone with a brain bigger than a peanut runs away, and the rest… usually fight. This time, it’s different.
A shame. A real shame.
Wemmbu wanted to smash them with Gambit. He wanted to see the enchantments shine, to watch the sword do exactly what it was made for instead of uselessly gathering dust in his inventory. He wanted to end it brutally, quickly, and — most importantly — on his own terms.
But why the fuck did one of them have their own mace, an elytra, and slow-falling arrows? They know his fighting style — hard not to, when you’ve lived on the server for more than a day. He’s running out of wind charges. His helmet broke with the last hit and fell somewhere along the way. The elytra is barely holding together; every gust of air makes Wemmbu feel like it’s about to crumble into dust.
Gambit? It doesn’t shine anymore. Not the way it used to. It’s dirty, caked with dirt. Covered in blood — not his, but that hardly makes it better. Scratched and damaged, on the brink of breaking too, as if it’s been through far more than a few random players.
Fighting them would be asking for death.
He runs away, not because he’s weak, but because he doesn’t want to deal with them. It’s pure survival instinct — legs burning from the sprint, lungs on fire with every breath. He is heading to the only place where he can actually rest. Where he can hide. Where he can refill — because running around with such an empty inventory isn’t risky anymore; it’s just stupid.
The tiara digs painfully into the top of his head. Every step makes the metal shift just slightly, irritating his skin. His hair — usually tamed and neatly tied into a clean ponytail, obviously by Eggchan — is now catching on every possible thing: branches, bushes, protruding blocks. It irritates him so much that for half a second he seriously considers impulsively cutting it off with his sword. He stops himself with the last scraps of common sense. He runs through different terrains and biomes, avoiding other players with a wide berth. He doesn’t have the strength for interactions. No energy for explanations, for fights, for pretending everything is fine. He hides between trees, in the shadows, stopping only to wipe the blood from his face.
The wound on his forehead is nasty. Deep, dealt by some heavy axe or sword. It’ll take weeks to heal, and Wemmbu knows that all too well. Blood runs into his eye, stinging, blurring his vision.
“Fuck…” he whines miserably, more to himself than to the world.
But he has no choice. He keeps moving, heading for the nearest stronghold.
Finding the structure doesn’t take that long — well, maybe a few hours. Maybe a bit more. He’s painfully reminded that traveling on foot with injuries like these is far from pleasant. When he finally reaches the stronghold, the relief hits him so hard his head spins with a mix of dopamine and adrenaline. He’ll be safe soon — unless MinuteTech attacks him, or someone else, for fuck’s sake. He prays that won’t happen. Descending down the water elevator, he begs for peace in his thoughts. No traps. No players. No more problems piling on top of the ones he already has.
He desperately wants a moment of rest. Truly. He doesn’t even have any instant health potions left. He closes his eyes, feeling the bubbles of the water pull him downward, as if trying to lighten his body just a little.
When the stronghold turns out to be abandoned, he lets out a quiet, almost childish “Yippee…” His weak, breaking voice echoes strangely off the stone walls. He swallows and moves deeper into the structure.
He wanders through it for several minutes, checking everywhere he can. Chests. Shulkers. Anything. He really needs something right now. He finds nothing of value, so with a resigned groan he eats the last of his food.
With a sigh, he heads toward the portal. He scans the room carefully. You never know — traps, leftover mechanisms, something a previous visitor might’ve left behind.
He takes a deep breath, standing before the portal shimmering with tiny particles. He nervously taps his foot, checking his inventory.
A few useless blocks. Empty shulkers. Nothing. He seriously needs new gear.
As he disappears into the dark surface of the portal, he thinks of his friend.
In all of this mess, there’s one small positive. He doesn’t have to run across half the map to find him. Of course Eggchan will be in the End Dimension — it’s Wemmbu’s job to get him out of there.
But for fuck’s sake, why did he set his spawn on some random bed in the Farlands?!
It’s all his fault. He knows he didn’t watch over Eggchan the way he should have… fuck it.
He knows Eggchan is waiting. Waiting for any solution. Waiting for weeks now. It’s Wemmbu’s responsibility to find a way to get him out safely — without spawning twelve million blocks away from any civilization.
Enough of that. He had to lock in. Focus on anything — maybe bribe someone? Whatever. He’d think about it later.
The End dimension greets him with its familiar emptiness.
The structure itself is impressive — monumental arches, black and violet blocks reflecting the light of end lamps in a way that always feels unnatural. The construction looks like it was built not for function, but simply for the sake of existing. And yet, despite all that grandeur… it’s quiet here. Not dead — more like the space is breathing very shallowly.
In the background there’s only a soft, steady hum. Indistinct. Somewhere between wind and distant buzzing. A sound that, after a while, stops being noticeable and simply is. Silence in the End is never absolute — it fills everything instead, slips between thoughts and makes every movement feel louder than it should.
Wemmbu stops in front of the gates and just stares at them for a moment. Then, with a quiet groan of pain, he pushes the lever. The mechanism resists. He grimaces, feeling the scrapes on his hands deepen, skin burning and splitting with the pressure.
“Great…” he mutters under his breath.
He’ll have to tell MinuteTech to replace it.
He doesn’t know how long he waits for something to happen. Time in the End always works differently. At one point, he even considers mining the netherite blocking the passage — more out of irritation than any real intent. The material looks solid, heavy, almost spitefully durable, as if someone had deliberately wanted to slow down anyone trying to get in.
Eventually, the mechanism responds with a lazy, metallic groan. The doors part slowly, revealing the interior — and the silhouette of the End’s guardian. Wemmbu lifts a hand and gives MinuteTech an awkward wave, like he isn’t sure whether he’s even allowed inside. It’s almost funny — Wemmbu never asks for anything. And yet now he looks like that’s exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re back already,” Minute murmurs, letting him through while watching him closely, from his boots to the very top of his head. Thankfully, he spares him any comments about his disastrous condition.
Wemmbu rolls his eyes, trying to preserve what little dignity he has left. When the guardian turns away, he frowns — the pain in his temples only grows, pulsing dully with every step. He follows MinuteTech, careful not to provoke him. The last thing he needs right now is a fight.
But Minute only waves him onward and gives him a pat on the shoulder.
Wemmbu hisses quietly — only now realizing something’s wrong with that spot. A wound he hadn’t even noticed announces itself with a sharp sting.
“I hope you found a way out,” Minute says calmly. “He’s getting more and more bored. Keeps showing me his books.”
Something tightens unpleasantly in Wemmbu’s chest. Guilt. Heavy, sticky, impossible to ignore.
He pushes Minute away with his less-injured hand and turns down a random path. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. Not now.
He wanders the End longer than he meant to.
Islands and structures blur together — yellowish sandstone and the harsh brightness of obsidian. Every step feels like wading through water. Somewhere along the way, he finally spots a familiar shape: the bookshelf. The lamp light reflects off the spines of the books, casting soft, unreal glimmers.
Egg is sitting there calmly, bent over a book. He turns a page. Then another.
Wemmbu wants to run. Wants to shout something, rush forward, do anything that wouldn’t be so painfully… quiet. But all he manages is leaning against the doorframe.
He winces sharply as a burning pain in his side shoots all the way to his spine. He breathes shallowly, through clenched teeth, and has to close his eyes for a moment.
He doesn’t step inside yet. Instead, he just stands there and listens.
The soft rustle of paper. Rhythmic, calm page-turning. A sound so normal it almost hurts. Wemmbu doesn’t reveal himself right away — he gives himself those few seconds, as if afraid that if he breaks the moment, everything will vanish.
Finally, he clears his throat quietly. And waits.
Eggchan was never stupid. Okay, maybe a little — but not about things like this. He reacts instantly. The chair scrapes as he jumps to his feet and turns toward the entrance.
Their gazes meet, and Egg freezes.
“Wemmbu—!” he starts, but his voice breaks and cuts off halfway through.
Because he sees everything. The dried blood — and the fresh. Bruises blooming beneath the skin. Torn clothes.
Armor that looks more like it’s been through hell than a fight. And the tiara, absurdly tangled in his messy hair, like some kind of joke that isn’t funny at all.
“You look like you’re actually worse off than Flame” the fair-haired says at last, almost all in one breath, quieter than usual.
Wemmbu lets out a soft laugh, even though his throat burns painfully as he does. His larynx protests, his lungs sting, but he still tries to smile. Reassuring. Calming. Any way he can that might keep Egg from looking like he’s about to fall apart.
It doesn’t work.
“Just… just a few idiots,” he mutters, looking away toward the books around them.
He bounces off the doorframe and drags himself deeper into the room. Every step feels heavy. He drops onto a random chest beside Eggchan, leans his head against the cool wall, and closes his eyes.
How long has it been… how long since he could just sit?
They stay like that for a moment, in silence.
It isn’t awkward. It’s soft — almost familiar. Pleasant in a way that hurts more than his wounds. Wemmbu can feel Eggchan’s gaze on him the whole time — analytical, focused, full of unspoken thoughts. Probably counting bruises. Or wondering whether Wemmbu is about to topple over.
He lifts a hand, trying to take off the tiara. One of the metal pieces digs cruelly into his skin, sending a fresh wave of pulsing pain through him.
“Fuck…” he hisses, clumsily fiddling with the metal in his hand.
With a groan, he pushes himself off the chest, teeth clenched so hard his jaw starts to ache. His entire body protests, like every muscle has a complaint to file.
And yet —
Damn it, maybe it doesn’t show, but he’s genuinely happy right now. Truly. Despite the blood streaking down his face. Despite burning lungs, the dull roar in his head, and the countless bruises. Mentally, he feels… good. Incredibly good.
His body? Well. He can complain about that later, like the dumb princess he is.
He starts toward the shulkers slowly, dragging his feet, finally intending to take care of himself.
And then — oh god.
Maybe heels weren’t such a great idea after all.
One foot catches on the other, and suddenly the world tilts in a way that is absolutely unacceptable. Wemmbu goes down, and a second later he’s practically kissing the floor.
“Ah—! Fuck…” he whines miserably.
He lies there for a moment without moving, letting the entire world know just how bad it is and how pathetic he feels. His ankle throbs with pain — he must’ve stepped wrong. With what little strength he has left, he rolls onto his back, because otherwise the chestplate digs painfully into his stomach.
He covers his eyes with his arm. The lamp light is merciless.
After a moment, he hears soft laughter.
He slowly opens his eyes, expecting blinding brightness — but it never comes. Eggchan is standing over him, blocking the lamps entirely, like he did it without thinking. One hand is extended toward him, a warm, amused smile on his face.
“Need some help?” he asks teasingly, crouching beside him.
Wemmbu rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint spark of amusement in his gaze. He takes Eggchan’s hand and, with his help, pushes himself up into a sitting position. He coughs quietly, dizziness washing over him.
Getting to the chairs takes way too long. One of them keeps wobbling every few steps — either Wemmbu, because he’s basically one massive bruise, or Eggchan, buckling slightly under his weight.
They laugh about it. Egg occasionally pokes him in the side in mockery, ignoring his pain-filled groans.
“Everything hurts so fucking bad,” Wemmbu mutters, leaning against the chair.
Slowly, he starts taking off his armor. The metal hits the floor with a heavy clatter. Underneath, his clothes are torn, bloodstained, stuck to wounds that had been hidden beneath the plating the entire time.
Eggchan just looks at him for a moment.
Then he reaches into his inventory and pulls out golden apples. Their surface glows with a warm light, almost unnervingly calm compared to Wemmbu’s state. He hands them over and sits beside him — close enough that Wemmbu can feel his presence.
“Here. They’ll help a bit,” he says quietly.
He leans in slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid one wrong move will make Wemmbu fall apart.
Wemmbu gives him a strange look — somewhere between suspicion and exhausted amusement — but his attention quickly shifts to the gapples in his hand. Just the sight of them eases the ache in his chest a little. He eats one, then another, feeling that familiar warmth spreading beneath his skin.
And that’s exactly when Eggchan takes advantage of his moment of inattention.
Fingers grab the tiara.
“AWH—!”
The scream tears out of Wemmbu violently before he can stop himself. Jerking back instinctively, it feels like someone is trying to rip his hair out along with his scalp. His heart starts racing, and his eyes immediately well with tears.
Eggchan frowns, staring in confusion at the few strands of hair left tangled in his hand. “I’m sorry…” he mutters, clearly thrown off.
Wemmbu lifts a hand, instinctively trying to rub his head — but his fingers brush against the open wound on his forehead instead. The pain is so sharp his vision darkens. Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, impossible to hold back.
Eggchan looks at him with pure pity — but not the irritating kind. The kind that says ‘I know it hurts’. Slowly, he raises his hands again, then stops halfway, as if silently asking for permission.
Wemmbu hesitates for only a second.
Then he nods uncertainly. He knows that if he tries to do it himself, he’ll either snap the tiara, chip one of his horns, or make the wounds worse. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for the pain he expects to tear through his entire body.
But…
It’s not as bad as he thought.
Instead of a sharp yank, he feels gentle hands first, carefully brushing sections of hair back. The touch is cautious, almost uncertain. Wemmbu bites his lip and takes a deep breath, focusing on anything other than his own skin.
“I got bored without you,” Eggchan murmurs, untangling the first knot. “I wrote a few books.”
“Yeah… Minute mentioned it,” Wemmbu growls through clenched teeth. “Ow!”
The purple-haired demon hisses as Eggchan’s fingers hit a worse tangle. He rubs his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time today — smeared eyeliner no longer matters to him.
Eggchan immediately loosens his grip, slowing down. “I’ll read them to you,” he says calmly. “You don’t get a choice.”
He frees one side of the tiara from the tangles of his hair, carefully avoiding the horns. “I’m sorry. This part’s gonna hurt.”
And then he pulls harder.
The pain is sudden, sharp, merciless. Tears spill from Wemmbu’s eyes without his consent, one after another. His throat tightens. God, he must look like a child right now.
He lowers his head, not wanting the remnants of eyeliner to run into his eyes and burn even more. He breathes heavily, unevenly — but he doesn’t pull away.
“Oh, shit… it’s really tangled…” Eggchan mutters, suddenly letting go.
The metal softly clinks as it drops back into the mass of hair. Eggchan twists his wrists at a different angle, his fingers working more carefully now, like he’s trying to disarm a trap. He tilts his head, squints one eye, focused to the extreme.
“Who did this to you, huh?”
The question sounds casual, but there’s something alert beneath it. Wemmbu doesn’t answer. For a moment, he isn’t even sure his voice would work, so he just shakes his head.
That turns out to be a mistake.
“Hey, hey—don’t move like that, you’ll just make it worse!” Eggchan hisses, half joking, half serious, gently grabbing his temple to steady his head.
Wemmbu whines miserably, letting the other man tilt his head left, right, at strange angles. At this point, he barely cares. He just wants the damn tiara gone — to stop feeling metal digging into his skin, to stop thinking about the pain.
They go through a whole list of ideas.
“We could cut it,” Eggchan suggests cautiously.
“No.” Wemmbu’s answer is instant, sharp, almost offended. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“No, because… I won’t find a prettier one,” he adds stubbornly, as if it’s obvious. He conveniently ignores the sentimental aspect.
Eggchan sighs, then nods with a faint smile.“Okay… then maybe a little hair?”
“NO.”
The ‘no’ comes out so fast it feels like it echoes off the library walls. Wemmbu even winces at his own voice.
“Fuck, I’ve been in worse situations,” he mutters a moment later. “And I’ve never gone that far. I’d rather suffer a bit.”
Eggchan just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath about stubborn demons with aesthetic complexes.
At some point, MinuteTech appears at the end of the corridor. He stops mid-step, hearing the whining and shouting. He assesses the situation with one quick glance: tangled tiara, Eggchan running over Wemmbu, controlled chaos… somehow.
He just smiles to himself and turns on his heel, heading off to continue patrolling the End Dimension — or whatever it is guardians do. He has an aura to maintain. Always does.
Eggchan goes back to work, and to ease the tension, starts telling his terrible jokes. The kind where Wemmbu isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to laugh or cry.
Seriously. How does that eyeball function in society?
“Did you hear about the Italian chef who died?” Eggchan begins in a completely serious tone. Wemmbu already knows this is going somewhere bad. “He pasta-way.”
At the same time, Eggchan’s fingers free another few millimeters of the tiara from the cascade of purple hair.
Wemmbu snorts, then laughs — that rich, throaty laugh of his that turns into a cough.
“Fuck… how can you say shit like that with such a straight face…” The giggle whistles painfully in his lungs, but he can’t stop.
“I’ve got two diamond hoes…” Eggchan adds quietly, snickering, reminding them both of that one disastrous trip to the abandoned civilization to catch Jaden_man.
Rejoice… oh.
Wemmbu laughs like he’s just heard the funniest thing in the world. Tears at the corners of his eyes mix with smeared eyeliner — but this time, it’s not from pain. Eggchan is just… Eggchan. Offering his clumsy help and, in some strange way, paying back all the times Wemmbu pulled him out of trouble. Or saved his life. Details.
When the purple-haired demon starts feeling a little better, they work together.
Wemmbu holds his hair at the front, fingers trembling but steady enough. Eggchan handles the back, untangling knots with a patience no one would ever expect from him. The tiara shifts a few centimeters. The other end becomes visible.
Success.
Except… their hands are shaking, and exhaustion is catching up.
After a moment, they give up at the same time. They drop into their chairs almost in sync, breathing heavily. They look at each other — and burst out laughing. Real laughter. Tired, imperfect, genuine.
That’s how the next several minutes pass — time stretching in the End in that strange, padded way, as if space itself isn’t quite sure whether it should keep moving forward. The silence isn’t absolute; somewhere far away, a low, nearly inaudible hum resonates, and the light of End lamps reflects softly off the stone walls of the library. Wemmbu sits hunched over, shoulders heavy, his breathing slowly evening out. After eating more golden apples, the metal of the tiara stops irritating his skin so aggressively — it’s still uncomfortable, still painful, but the sharp, burning sting with every tiny movement of his head is gone.
Eggchan is the first to break the stillness. He scoots closer, his chair scraping softly against the floor, and pulls something completely out of place from his inventory: cute, pale pink hair clips. For a moment, he turns them over in his hand, like he’s surprised he even has them.
“Don’t ask,” he mutters before Wemmbu can open his mouth. “And don’t pretend you don’t like them.”
Wemmbu, determined to preserve what little dignity he has left, wisely ignores the comment.
Eggchan clips back the demon’s bangs, exposing his forehead. Only now is the wound fully visible — red, jagged, with a thin streak of dried blood along the hairline. Eggchan hisses quietly through his teeth.
“Okay…” he says in the tone of someone mentally giving up on life.
He reaches for… of course. Disinfectant.
Convincing Wemmbu takes another twenty minutes. A twenty-minute epic composed of denial, complaining, dramatic sighs, and entirely unnecessary comments about how ‘it’ll heal on its own anyway.’ Eggchan eventually sighs, leaves the room, and comes back with cotton pads, bandages, and an extra bottle of solution — borrowed from MinuteTech, who thankfully doesn’t ask questions. When he returns, he finds Wemmbu staring into a small mirror pulled from an ender chest.
The purple-haired demon frowns, ‘admiring’ the bruise forming on his cheek. The color is already shifting from red to purple, promising a long and ugly career.
“It’s gonna be ugly,” he mutters, gently touching the spot — then immediately hisses and jerks his hand away.
“You’re exaggerating,” Eggchan replies, adjusting his chair to sit more directly in front of him. “You know I’m not good at this.”
He says it like he’s warning him about a heart surgery performed with a kitchen knife.
“I know,” Wemmbu replies almost dismissively. He tries to look nonchalant, like this is all part of the plan. What’s it called now? Aura farming? Eggchan makes a mental note — gotta stay youthful. “I don’t mind.”
Eggchan rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches in something like a smile. He pours some hydrogen peroxide onto the first cotton pad and starts with the scratches on Wemmbu’s hands. Wemmbu doesn’t protest right away — he clenches his teeth, hands folded in his lap, shoulders tense. He only hisses when the liquid runs over a deeper abrasion.
“Fuck…” slips out in a whisper.
The whole thing takes maybe three minutes, and Eggchan hasn’t even properly disinfected the burn on the demon’s hand yet.
“You’re awful at this,” Wemmbu mutters, closing his eyes. “I’d do it better myself.”
Eggchan knows it isn’t malicious. It never is. Still, he leaves the cotton pad in Wemmbu’s hand, silently suggesting he take care of it himself. Wemmbu looks away, muttering under his breath. Eggchan chuckles quietly.
More minutes pass in silence, broken only by complaining and the purple-haired demon’s quiet whining. The silence isn’t heavy. It’s… soothing. The creak of chairs, soft breathing, the gentle fizz of disinfectant on wounds. The End seems to keep its distance, as if even it knows better than to interfere.
When the grimace of pain on Wemmbu’s face deepens further, Eggchan finally gives up. He stands, sets up a small campfire, and places a container of water over it. The flame crackles softly, casting warm light across the library walls.
In truth, it’s the first time for both of them. Wemmbu never let Eggchan get hurt this badly, and he himself either made it out in one piece or had enough supplies to heal properly. Now he has neither.
Eggchan returns with warm water and pauses for a moment, simply looking. He scans Wemmbu from head to toe. The image is… unsettling. The tiara still tangled, crooked, hanging off the left side of his head. Partially cleaned wounds, new bruises blooming under his skin. A slightly chipped right horn. Furrowed brows. A clenched jaw.
It’s a truly rare sight.
“How bad do you feel?” Eggchan asks quietly, trying to break the silence.
Wemmbu answers only with a look — sharp, tired, telling. Fair-haired snorts softly.
“Okay. Stupid question.”
Eggchan falls silent again and, with clear, almost exaggerated care, dips a cloth into the bowl of warm water. He wrings it out slowly, droplets falling back into the container with soft splashes. Every movement is controlled, calm — like he’s afraid one wrong gesture might shatter the fragile balance of the moment.
The same absolutely cannot be said about the purple-haired one.
Wemmbu is sitting on a chair, thankfully almost completely still — and only because the pain is very effectively forcing him to be. His shoulders are tense, his fingers are clenched tightly around the edge of the seat, and his jaw keeps working as if he’s trying to chew through his own irritation. And he complains. First quietly, under his breath, like a mantra. Then, very openly, without an ounce of shame.
“I can’t take them off,” he grumbles, moving his foot by maybe two millimeters before immediately hissing. “Of course I fucking can’t. Why would I be able to? That would be too easy.”
He tries again, hooking his fingers under the edge of the boot. His ankle responds with a sharp, burning spike of pain.
“Ah—! Great. Awesome. Fantastic.” He slumps back harder against the chair. He shifts just slightly — and then his horns start throbbing. He grimaces and instinctively lifts a hand to his head, only to pull it back at once.
“And there’s this.” He lets out an irritated laugh. “I feel like someone’s trying to unscrew them from the inside. You know, Egg — like… click, click… and they’re just gonna fall off.”
As if offended by the comment, his tail coils around his calf. The fabric brushes against his skin, catches on the bandage.
“Hey — no — not now, seriously —” he whines, trying to push it away. “Betrayal. Total betrayal by my own body. I swear, it does this on purpose.”
For a moment, there’s silence, broken only by his heavier breathing. Then Wemmbu snorts.
“You know what the best part is?” he says bitterly, while Eggchan laughs inwardly. “If someone saw me right now, they’d think: ‘oh, he’s probably exaggerating.’ And I’m literally sitting here falling apart into —”
He moves again. Too much. Too fast. Another hiss.
“…into pieces,” he finishes more quietly, with less bite. “Seriously. Everything hurts. Even things I didn’t know were capable of hurting.”
He rests his head against the back of the chair and closes his eyes, brows knitting together.
“Great,” he repeats — this time without sarcasm, more tired than angry. “Just great.”
The fair haired, not wanting to pour oil on the fire or worsen the spiral of self-pity, moves closer. His knees almost touch Wemmbu’s as he carefully lifts a hand and presses a warm, damp cloth to the wound on his forehead.
Wemmbu hisses sharply and squeezes his eyes shut, fingers digging into the edge of the chair. It’s clear he’s fighting the instinct to pull away — the urge to flee, which has always been his first reaction.
“Easy,” Eggchan murmurs softly, more to himself than to Wemmbu.
A sad, barely visible smile appears on his face, but he doesn’t stop. He continues cleaning the wound — clumsy, overly careful. He knows he’s not doing it right. He also knows it’s still better than nothing. No matter how badly he messes it up, what matters is that Wemmbu will be in better shape than when he arrived.
The fair haired’s thoughts drift elsewhere for a moment. He wonders how Wemmbu even made it to the End in this state. It was… impressive. Stupid, irresponsible — but impressive. Definitely material for one of his books, if they both survive this.
Every so often, Eggchan dips the cloth back into the water. With each passing moment, the liquid grows redder, until it’s impossible to pretend it’s just dirt.
He reaches for a bottle of disinfectant, intending to discreetly pour some onto the cloth before Wemmbu can protest.
He doesn’t make it.
Wemmbu opens his eyes and almost immediately yanks the bottle from his hand. The movement is sudden, impulsive. The bottle flies across the room, hits the wall with a dull crack, then falls to the floor.
Eggchan freezes. He looks up at him, irritation clear in his expression — with exhaustion lurking beneath it.
“Seriously?” he asks quietly, but sharply. “Is this how we’re doing this now?”
He tosses the cloth aside and starts examining the other injuries: cuts on Wemmbu’s arms, bruises along his collarbone, torn clothes barely clinging to him like a mannequin after a training session.
Wemmbu leans back, letting him look, even though pain and irritation twist his face.
“It’ll heal on its own,” he mutters, looking away. “Like always.”
Eggchan exhales heavily and closes his eyes, rubbing his temples. How can someone be so… infuriatingly stupid? He gathers his thoughts for a moment, then stands and scans the room, as if the walls might offer a solution.
“I’ll go ask MinuteTech for some potions or more golden apples,” he says at last, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “Do you need anything else?”
He sets the bowl of water and cloth aside and is just about to head for the exit when he feels fingers close around his wrist.
The grip is weak. Shaky.
“No,” Wemmbu says quickly. “I-I’ll ask him myself. Or message him. Or something.”
Eggchan turns slowly. Wemmbu looks at him with a barely hidden plea in his eyes — that familiar expression that always appears when he’s truly afraid.
“Just leave it like this,” he adds more quietly. “It doesn’t hurt.”
The fair haired sighs heavily and sits back down, then lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief.
“You lie as always,” he says softly, without anger — more like tired affection. “And you’re terrible at it.”
Wemmbu rolls his eyes, but with visible relief sinks back into the chair. His body finally allows itself a moment without tension. The tiara makes an unpleasant metallic sound as it catches on one of his horns when his head tilts slightly. They both wince almost simultaneously — Eggchan hisses softly, and Wemmbu lets out a nervous laugh that’s closer to a strained grimace.
Eggchan leans in, squinting and frowning as he examines the piece of metal tangled in hair and horns.
“Okay, a little too close, bro,” Wemmbu tries to joke, lifting a hand to weakly push him away.
Eggchan chuckles, allowing himself to be pushed back, and steps away, muttering something under his breath about needing to lock in and take this seriously, or they’ll end up worse than when they started.
For a moment, they just… are.
They joke, exchange dumb remarks, give each other light, playful nudges to the arm or side. Wemmbu even forgets about the pain for a second, and Eggchan allows himself a smile that isn’t forced. They enjoy each other’s company in this strange, closed-off place, as if the world has stopped chasing them for a moment.
But the biggest test comes a few minutes later.
Wemmbu and Eggchan are determined.
The demon sits upright, fists clenched, teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut so tightly that faint lines appear on his forehead. His breathing is shallow, uneven — bracing for whatever pain is about to hit him. His tail lies still by his leg, as if even it knows now is not the time to move.
Eggchan stands beside him. One hand gently holds Wemmbu’s hair back; the other carefully grips the tiara. His fingers are tense, but steady. He’ll get it out. This time it’ll work. It has to.
“Okay… on three,” he murmurs softly. “One… two —”
He doesn’t say “three.”
He pulls.
A few broken sounds of pain escape Wemmbu’s mouth — short, strangled breaths, as if the air gets stuck in his lungs. His fingers tighten further, knuckles whitening. But he cooperates. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t jerk, doesn’t protest. With his eyes closed, patiently — as patiently as he ever gets — he waits for the fair haired to free him from this misery.
And then… the pressure disappears.
“O–oh!” Eggchan lets out an almost angelic gasp.
Wemmbu feels something strange. Lightness. As if someone lifted a weight from his head — one he hadn’t even realized was that heavy. The pulsing in his horns fades. The metal stops tugging at his skin.
“It worked!” Eggchan nearly squeaks with excitement.
He quickly steps in front of Wemmbu and proudly holds up the tiara, like he’s presenting the greatest treasure in the world. The tiara itself… well. It’s slightly bent on one side, the purple crystals no longer shining as brightly as Wemmbu liked. Some of them look dulled, tired.
But that can be polished. It has to be.
Despite everything, a wide smile spreads across Wemmbu’s face. A real one. One that reaches his eyes. If he could, he’d throw himself at Eggchan right now and hug him with all his strength, ignoring the pain, the wounds, and common sense. Instead, all he can do is sit there, laughing like an idiot and smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.
“AAAAAAAAAA—!” he suddenly yells, without any warning. “You did it! You actually did it! You took it off! I’m free, oh my god, I’m never putting that thing on again!”
Okay, maybe that last part is a lie. And what about it — let the man enjoy himself.
Eggchan bursts out laughing, almost dropping the tiara.
“Alright, alright, calm down!” he says, still amused. “Someone’s gonna think I’m murdering you in here.”
“YOU WERE MURDERING ME FOR THE LAST HOUR,” Wemmbu shoots back dramatically, then snorts with laughter and slumps into the chair again. “But… seriously. Thank you.”
After all the laughing, the mutual thanking, and celebrating their small but incredibly satisfying victory, they finally settle into more comfortable chairs — ones that don’t creak with every movement and don’t mercilessly dig into sore backs. Wemmbu practically sinks into his, letting out a heavy sigh, as if only now his body allows itself real rest. He doesn’t ask where Eggchan got them. He just tries to relax.
Eggchan, of course, can’t sit idle for more than a few minutes.
Inevitably, he reaches into his inventory and pulls out a stack of books. One by one, they land on the table beside them with a soft thump, forming a slightly unstable pile. The covers vary — some new, others clearly worn, with bent corners and stained pages. A few have handwritten notes sticking out from the sides.
Wemmbu lets out a miserable groan before Eggchan can even say anything.
“No… no, please, no. I— I’m begging you, Egg.”
“Hey, come on,” Eggchan sounds almost offended, though excitement is obvious in his voice. “But seriously, this one’s good, bro, listen!” he adds quickly. “MinuteTech liked it.”
The demon VERY strongly doubts that last part, but says nothing. He rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, but doesn’t protest further. Instead, he reaches out and lets Eggchan shove the first book into his hands. The cover is pretty loud, the title written in big letters, as if the author feared being overlooked.
Eggchan sits closer, immediately leaning over him, and starts flipping through the pages.
“Okay, okay, wait, this part’s the best,” he mutters, searching for something specific. “Oh! Here!”
He starts reading — or rather, recounting — jumping between dialogue and his own commentary, emphasizing the ‘important’ parts. Wemmbu listens with half an ear, resting his head against the chair. As much as he’d like to scold Eggchan, tell him these books are stupid, exaggerated, and completely ridiculous… he just enjoys his presence. The fact that Eggchan is here, beside him, whole, alive, and excited like a kid showing off a new toy.
The books themselves are… well. Kinda dumb. Sometimes very dumb. Definitely over-embellished, and way too clearly inspired by their adventures. Wemmbu easily recognizes passages that sound suspiciously familiar — just slightly altered, with different names and way more drama than there ever was in reality.
“You seriously wrote it like this?” he mutters eventually, raising a brow. “I didn’t say that.”
“You did,” Eggchan replies instantly, without hesitation. “Maybe not exactly like that, but the vibe matched.”
Wemmbu snorts quietly but doesn’t argue further.
At some point, they come across a story that immediately catches his attention. The main character is called a ‘lost cause’ — literally and figuratively — and, in a moment of pure desperation, blows up half the world using… guess what? Fishing rods. Literally. Explosions, dramatic monologues, chaos.
Wemmbu squints, reading the passage himself as Eggchan falls silent for a moment. “It… sounds,” he starts slowly, “interesting.”
“I KNEW IT. I knew you’d like it,” Eggchan beams.
“I didn’t say I like it,” Wemmbu corrects quickly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I said it sounds interesting.”
“Sure, sure,” Eggchan waves a hand, already reaching for another book. “Oh, but the next one’s even better.”
Wemmbu only sighs — but doesn’t give the book back. Instead, he turns another page, reading a few lines in silence. Maybe someday he’ll try those fishing rods. He’s already blown up a few — maybe even a dozen — but half the server? Well… inspiration is inspiration.
They sit like that for a long time. Eggchan reads, talks, occasionally glances at Wemmbu to check his reaction. Wemmbu complains or chuckles sometimes, pretends indifference that no one actually buys. Time moves slowly, peacefully, without urgency — and without the pain that had been unbearable not long ago.
And so they spend the next few hours. Time stretches strangely, as if the End itself decided to give them a moment of rest. No one’s looking for him — at least not here, not now — so Wemmbu allows himself the luxury of calm. The real kind. The rare kind that isn’t just about no one currently aiming at him or trying to kill him.
He reclines in the chair, legs stretched out carelessly in front of him. His tail finally stops twitching nervously and simply rests on the floor. His body still hurts. His ankle pulses with every tiny movement, wounds sting beneath makeshift bandages, and his head occasionally reminds him of itself with a dull, heavy pressure. But it's a familiar pain. Tamed. Manageable.
Eggchan talks. Of course he does.
The monologue flows without much structure — sometimes about books, sometimes about a passage he plans to rewrite, sometimes about completely random things, like how paper in the End absorbs ink strangely or how one of the bookshelves ‘definitely has bad vibes’. Wemmbu listens half-consciously, responding with the occasional hum, sometimes snorting with laughter when Eggchan starts laughing at his own jokes.
He doesn’t have the heart to interrupt him.
His thoughts drift. Maybe soon he’ll head out on another journey. Maybe he’ll come up with another stupid idea that sounds brilliant in theory and ends in bruises, blood, and returning with his tail between his legs. Or maybe… maybe he’ll find a way to get Eggchan out of here. Truly. For good.
The thought tightens something in his chest. God, that would be wonderful. Not having to leave him here alone. Not just dropping by ‘from time to time’ with updates and new wounds. Showing him the world beyond the End without rush or fear.
But that’s later. For now, it’s just a quiet promise, tossed somewhere among his thoughts.
Wemmbu knows that afterward, he’ll have to go see MinuteTech. There won’t be questions — well, maybe a few — more likely looks, irritation, maybe concern he can’t accept without rolling his eyes. But that’s also later. Right now, he has neither the strength nor the time for that.
Right now, he just sits.
At some point, he realizes he’s stopped listening to Eggchan’s words and started listening to the sound of his voice instead. The way it speeds up when he gets excited, slows when he tries to explain something, how it sometimes goes quiet for a second as he searches for the right word. It’s… soothing. Like warmth after a long day in the cold.
He allows himself to close his eyes. Just for a moment. His head tilts lightly against the back of the chair, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t fall asleep — not yet — but hovers somewhere on the edge, where the world stops being sharp and unpleasant.
Somewhere between one chapter and the next, he murmurs softly, “Later… you’ll braid my hair, okay?”
Eggchan immediately stops reading. “Hm? Sure.” he answers without hesitation, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Wemmbu smiles to himself. He can’t exactly look like… well. Like some walking tragedy in human skin. Or worse. Like someone who just crawled out of a fight and forgot mirrors exist.
He breathes deeply. Inhales air that smells of paper, ink, and the faint metallic tang of the End. Exhales slowly.
And it really is okay.
Not perfect. Not forever. But for now — exactly as it should be.