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It takes Evbo exactly one hundred-ninety-three days to reach Minute’s section of the gold level.
Between all four of the diamond sword players, Minute is the only one who keeps track of that. Tracking time is in his name, etched into his heart as an irreplaceable part of how he operates. Statistics, lifespans, sword swings left for himself, days passed since certain events or deaths or marked anniversaries tick through his brain, on repeat, in a strange form of self comfort.
It’s this strange habit that earns Minute not only his place as a diamond sword all those years ago, but also his place as the strategist of the entire civilization. The weight drops on his shoulders with every fresh empty bed on every level – with every player that sneaks into the sword civilization with nothing but the intent to kill any natural born swords they come across. Every death, every blood splatter on the stone paths – it’s Minute’s fault, since he can’t strategize a way out sooner than to simply wait for another chosen one.
Minute has eight hundred-and-thirty swings left on his diamond sword.
And he calculates every single swing, watching, refusing to waste even a single one. That habit is one he picked up as early as the wooden sword level, and isn’t one he can afford to lose now. Life is precious, drained out swing by swing. Minute’s killed for more swings before. But he won’t have the chance to do it again unless he turns on someone - his own friends.
When Evbo first appears on the gold level, and loses to Ferre in exactly three seconds flat, Minute remembers the time when it had been Minute fighting Ferre, barring access from the diamond level to their first and failed savior. The similarities end there – Ferre only took five tries to get a hit on Minute, and it takes Evbo dozens of rounds and deaths.
“They’re farming him on the iron level,” Wemmbu’s lips are drawn tight, “And from the video journals it sounds like that girl is how they’re getting away with it.”
“The video journals?” Julie’s been cleaning her spotless sword, but pauses to squint at Wemmbu. “What video journals?”
“The–the ones that Evbo’s been recording?” Wemmbu’s tone is amused – smug, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Come on guys, I thought we all knew about them!”
“It’s your job to check the archive once a week and report back any findings,” Minute cuts in. Something rubs Minute the wrong way about this moment, but he can’t quite place the issue. “If you don’t tell us that there’s anything to note, we aren’t going to know about it.”
Why hadn’t Wemmbu mentioned it?
“Oh, yeah, well,” Wemmbu shrugs off the moment anyway. “They’ve been pretty boring up until now. Just the kid yapping on about whatever he can until the tapes run out. Probably dozens of them are archived by now.”
“Thanks, Wemmbu,” Minute heaves a sigh. Leave it to Wemmbu to decide something as monumental as words from their new chosen one was too inconsequential to mention to everyone else. “Are they all in order?”
“Yeah, of course they are!” Wemmbu casts an affronted stare at Minute, who keeps his expression as neutral and unimpressed as ever. “They’re all organized and labeled, Mr. Keep-Everything-Perfectly-Tracked Minutetech!”
So maybe Minute has something new to track, just in case.
Late at night, Minute sits down in the archive and pulls out the oldest submission. If he’s doing this, it’s going to be done in the same system he’s followed since waking up on the wooden sword level. In order, done in completion, with no missed steps. To optimize his time, Minute goes ahead and drags over the chest holding the oldest tapes next to the screen, then drags one of the empty chests to sit on. Not the most comfortable Minute’s ever been, but it’s far from the least either.
The screen crackles, then a fuzzy, static image appears. Evbo. He’s grinning, too pleased with himself, an almost tangible brightness radiating off him. This is the sight of a child unaware of the world he’s been brought into – the innocence of a player that Minute can never claim he had for himself. Against his own better judgement, Minute can’t stop his mouth from curling upwards, just the barest hint of softness for this player’s pure joy of living.
Minute spends two hours of his time methodically watching every single tape archived into their level. To the other diamond swords, they’d probably have found most of the information useless – beyond the base knowledge that Tabi was likely from another of the civilizations, much of Evbo’s journals are just him, rambling about parts of his life that absolutely shouldn’t matter.
But that’s the problem – to Minute, it does matter. An ache in Minute’s heart keeps him watching to the point Evbo reaches the iron level. Minute can note the exact moment the brightness completely fades from their naive chosen one – he tracks the new scars that Evbo sports in every journal, every cut and bruise that rapidly multiply as the tapes near the current day. His chest hurts the day Evbo begins a journal with a documentation of the angry red skin slashed across his heart – the description of what it felt like to have his body torn apart again and again and again.
And it’s all Minute’s fault.
Minute hadn't tried to stop Ferre from giving up the respawn power — in fact, he had afforded Ferre the privacy of never asking exactly when Ferre had done so. In the years since, in the time the other civilizations have had to strengthen themselves in their desperate war, the situation on the other levels has grown more dire than Minute could ever quite rationalize in his head until now. And he won’t be able to save Evbo the same way as Ferre saved them – not this time.
On video journal entry one hundred forty, Minute has to stop for the night – but he marks his spot, drags the room back to order, and resolves to return the next night, once the other swords are asleep.
The next day starts off the same as any other – the four gather, take stock of the situation and the number of empty beds on every level (there are no wooden swords at all at the moment). They mark off any information they can possibly glean, and then Julie and Wemmbu wander off before Minute and Ferre can spiral down into hours upon hours of theory work in an eternal effort to find another way of winning.
The only interruption to their useless discussion is when Julie informs Ferre that it’s once again time to go in the simulator and test Evbo. Ferre stands with a shake of his head and redoes the straps of his mask. A pit in Minute’s stomach won’t let him shake that the mask is more to keep Ferre from seeing himself in Evbo, than to keep Evbo from seeing Ferre.
With Ferre in the simulator, Minute allows himself precisely twenty minutes of free time – time in which he’s not allowed to think about what’s outside the gates, nor what’s happening above his head. Typically, Minute finds himself sitting with his legs dangling into the water of the fountain of their central room. Artificial sun keeps the air pleasantly warm, and Minute finds the water a grounding thing, to keep his mind blissfully empty just for a few minutes. Sometimes he’s joined by Julie and Wemmbu, who are more than happy to exchange banter over his head.
A new journal entry appears a few minutes after Ferre kills Evbo again, according to Wemmbu – who tells Minute at supper with a roll of his eyes, like he could be doing anything else than feeding vital information to the people who need to know. Biting back a sarcastic retort, Minute just nods and goes to question Ferre about the fight.
“He didn’t crit or anything. Not even close,” is all Ferre says. A metallic taste floods Minute’s mouth – he hadn’t even asked.
“Maybe you’re going a little hard on the kid?” Julie joins both of them. All three are silent, watching the lights dim around them. It’s the only true indication they have that it’s supposed to be nighttime. “Ferre, no offense, but you’re a little… intense.”
“We’re all intense. We’re all here for a reason,” Minute tastes the words and wishes he’d swallowed them silently. Tape number one hundred and thirty: Evbo sniffles on the camera, wiping back a stray tear with his bloodied sleeve.
“He has to be ready. What I’m doing is nothing compared to what’s lurking out there,” Ferre backs Minute up, as he always does. “He just needs one hit and I’ll stop. That’s all.”
“One hit and he moves on to the next section. He’s a smart kid, he’ll figure out the best way through,” Minute nods. Still, still, still…
Tape number one hundred and thirty one: Hollowed out eyes, a haunting tremor to Evbo’s hands. Someone took the time to make Evbo bleed out in the stone cell vein by vein, tiny cuts into major slashes that will never fully fade from that once-unblemished skin.
That night, when Minute climbs the ladder up into the archive, he’s startled by the screen already playing. Intuition tells Minute to duck down and ready for a fight – has someone broken in at last to kill them? But before he can optimize the best route of killing in his head, the tape pauses, and the lights flick on.
“Minute! I thought you’d be here!” Wemmbu’s face appears above Minute. Laughter spills from him easily at Minute’s position – diamond sword in one hand, hackles raised. “Did you think I was an intruder? Big scary diamond axe come to kill us all?”
“Knock it off.”
“I’m kidding, kidding,” Wemmbu laughs again. It does nothing to settle Minute’s nerves, rather kicking his instincts into a further state of fight-flight-freeze. “I thought we could watch the tapes together, since you care so much.”
Minute ignores the hand extended to help him up the rest of the ladder. At the top, Minute scans the room in habit. No traps, no changes, except for the box of tapes once again dragged to the screen. “I thought you didn’t care that much about the tapes,” Minute says, trying to keep the hints of accusation from his voice.
“I mean, I don’t– oh, Minute, I think you misread me earlier!” Wemmbu kneels by the box. “Which tape did you stop on last night? I wasn’t–I guess I care about the kid, didn’t really think it was that important for strategy.”
It makes no sense. Minute shakes his head again. “Tape one-forty. Yeah, it’s important. Any word we can get of what the situation looks like is important to me. Even if it’s mostly coming from a kid.”
“He’s a teen, actually,” Wemmbu pops the right tape into the slot. “But yeah, I get what you mean. They aren’t the funnest watch, gotta warn ya.”
“I know,” Minute startles himself with the cold fury in his voice.
“Geez, dude,” Wemmbu finally shuts up after that, the lights go out, and they keep watching.
Was watching all Minute was ever doomed to do?
—
Just three days later, Ferre sprints out of the simulator and interrupts Minute’s free time at the fountain. The mask is loose, haphazardly in place. By the ghost-blood dripping off Ferre’s arm, Minute knows what’s happened. So do Wemmbu and Julie, both of whom beat Minute to his feet.
“He got in a hit– he’s dead already again, but he got a hit!”
Part of Minute nearly lets his shoulders relax at the news – relief, in this scenario, is as real as the wound on Ferre’s arm. Which is to say, not real in the slightest. “And?”
“He’s improving,” Ferre says smugly. “I knew going easy on him wasn’t the right move.”
Already, though, the smugness is fading from Ferre’s face – Minute tries to memorize it, knowing that such priceless moments as true emotion from Ferre are far and few between. Minute can’t keep Ferre present past strategizing, never has since the day they all four leveled up. “So one of us can go meet the kid, tomorrow.”
Electing to ignore Wemmbu’s eager expression, Minute pivots to Julie instead. “Julie, you’re up next on the simulator. Don’t tell him anything too worrying, don’t make him feel hopeless either. Don’t get too friendly. We can’t afford to let him make a stupid decision based on attention.”
It hurts to say that. Minute’s not sure at what point words like that could cut so deep into his mind, when it’s a strategic, correct move. He’s watched Evbo care again and again and again and knows it’s the drive that connects Evbo into trusting all the wrong people. It’s what’s led Evbo into becoming nothing but a farm animal in the slaughterhouse, with haunted eyes that follow Minute clear into his dreams.
Minute tries not to think about how similar they look to Ferre’s eyes, if he ever catches Ferre in a rare moment of feelings.
The last thing Minute needs is Evbo making a rash decision again.
—
Weeks go by – the video journal updates grow a little more sparse, and yet Minute feels the spirits lift with every section of the gold level that Evbo clears. Even through the days Evbo limps on the screen, the time Evbo shows off his very first grey hairs, the moment Wemmbu goes to meet Evbo. A stone rots in Minute’s chest, watching Wemmbu’s eyes unfocus in the simulator to go speak to Evbo. Wemmbu's violently purple eyes never flicker once through the whole time, and when he comes back a few minutes later, he's jovial. A purple arm throws itself over Minute's shoulder before Minute gets his query out — it takes every inch of Minute not to bristle at the contact. It's not that he minds, per se. It's more that Minute's never been great at stifling his self-protective instincts, even to the other diamond swords. An arm around his side could mean a dagger dug between his ribs, which Minute learned the hard way back on the stone level.
"It went great! Oh, Evbo's great. He'll fit right in! Y'know, he looked at me like he was seeing an enemy, he's just like you, all instinctive—" Wemmbu's teasing lilt grates against Minute's ears. "But I'm sure he'll warm right back up!"
—
"I'm pretty sure that's the first time someone's actually been nice to me!" Evbo chirps into the camera. He's no hawk with cutting feathers and grace — he's a fledgling that's had it's down stripped off by snakes that don't care to eat. "Way nicer than that first guy. Ferre or whatever his name was. He told me that apparently, he's a diamond sword! And so are Ferre and Julie!"
Static interrupts the tape, the click of a button pausing the journal.
"Okay, before you start—"
"I'm not saying anything here," Minute cuts Wemmbu off. Wemmbu's chin tilts to the side in the dim light, his sword glinting faintly against the light from the screen.
"Oh, okay, great-"
"Except this," Minute closes his eyes and lets the heat behind his eyes gather, the storm that's been brewing under his calculated facade for weeks now near to turning to a hurricane. His eyes feel bright, a sure sign they're glowing milky white instead of a dull-off shade — a rarity, something they do when his emotions get the better of him. "If he gets betrayed again? When he gets betrayed again, and he's hurt? When he gets out there in the real world and trusts another player again? That's on you."
It's on all of them, when Evbo's out in the world and still a liability to himself for wanting to trust at the drop of a pin. Minute can't afford that, and neither can anyone else. Whatever Wemmbu's game is, it's a bad idea, something half-baked .
"It's on you, bro," Minute repeats uselessly. He mashes the button again before Wemmbu can reply.
"Wemmbu told me that one day, I'll hopefully be joining them as a fifth diamond sword! So, if I can just stop getting farmed-" Evbo's voice falls a portion, his eyes dimming. One of his hands scratches at the red skin on his neck — a raw patch that hasn't healed in dozens of video journal updates. "Which. Speaking of, I need to go fill that quota before anyone realizes I'm missing. Evbo out."
Before bed, Minute notes to himself to leave some salve in the diamond level mansion — the one he knows Evbo will wind up buying. Ideally, Evbo will take it as a natural perk, instead of assuming one of the swords to be responsible.
—
Finally, finally, it’s Minute’s turn to meet their unchosen savior. Stepping onto the simulator pad, the world flashes bright white, then void-black before revealing the sandstone walls of the gold level. Minute’s eyes narrow as soon as he takes in the kid before him – bloodstained hoodie, trembling arms, a headband tied up around his hair that seems to be doubling as a bandage.
The sword civilization is never a kind place to live – never has been. But that haunted, glazed over expression on Evbo’s face isn’t something Minute’s seen, at least not in person. The faces of his past kills filter through his mind – kill twenty two, kill seventeen, kill forty. Each of them had a similar wariness, but compared to the exhaustion rolling off this kid’s shoulders, Minute feels oddly like Evbo’s lived a lifespan a thousand times longer than himself.
But this is just a teen.
"You've come a long way," Minute starts. He's had this script memorized for weeks, practiced it exactly thirteen times in the leadup to Evbo reaching his simulator. Not because he needed to memorize it, but to keep himself on script, on track, and from impassively allowing his face to branch into anything past passive. Maybe Wemmbu had a point, in an earlier argument they'd had: the video journals are one thing, but taking in the shaking frame of Evbo pierced deeper into Minute's psych than any of the statistics that Minute tallied weekly. "One more trial to get through, and you'll be a diamond sword like the rest of us."
Minute has eight hundred and fifteen swings left on his sword. This is a fact of life, the ticking-time counter that promises the end of his life no matter how many fights Minute wins. Nature versus nurture, in their environment, could only have one outcome.
And yet, and yet, Minute has to bury a deep-seated instinct to nurture the dying savior before him.
He kills the instinct, when those gold-flecked green eyes meet his with a scar right through the right one. He strangles it, when Evbo fiddles with the sleeves of his hoodie and blood drips from one arm onto the floor. He buries it, when Evbo asks him the one question Minute will never be able to answer in the way Evbo so desperately seeks. How can I trust you? You can't, you can only trust yourself.
And he seals it, out of the simulator in the face of Ferre. Gold-flecked brown eyes meet his — Minute wonders if it's the permanent mark of being chosen, or just a coincidence.
"He'll be here soon. With her," Ferre jerks his head upwards, disdain dripping from his tongue. Minute nods shortly, eyeing Julie and Wemmbu not so far away.
"Then we'll be ready."
Tabi. Tabi. The event is inevitable — an axe will wedge itself into Evbo's back at least one more time. All Minute can hope is to take the second strike, instead of Evbo fully dying.
Minute knows what his lifespan is worth, has planned out what the optimal route is to make his eight hundred and fifteen last out for a long life— and he's already deemed it worth spending and shortening on this unchosen teen.
—
One hundred and ninety three days into Evbo's journey, Evbo falls into the water at the bottom of their level. The events pan out almost as Minute expected, nearly exactly as he strategized.
"I could kill her. The moment she touches the ground."
"No," Minute's voice hardened. "If you kill her, we lose Evbo. We can't afford that."
Three bewildered stares burn into his skin.
He catches Tabi on her way out, watches her back away from the new pool of blood on their stone floor with a diamond axe dripping more of it. Diamond. Pretending to ignore the siezing, too-human clenching of his heart, Minute doesn't catch up to her before she's gone.
Evbo falls to the ground of their level again, and Minute hardly even beats back the urge to reach out. Reaching out, in this world, is a death sentence.
A water bucket, thirty of Minute's swings, suffices for the sorry replacement of outright care.
Weeks later, Minute leaves an extra blanket in the mansion, a soft one he brought down from the iron level eons ago. He can't sign it off as from himself — but he hopes the blanket will allow his newest diamond sword to relax enough to sleep through the night peacefully, at least once. On a more personal level, Minute hopes it can replace the weight of arms around Evbo now that Tabi's gone.
And he'll never tell a soul what he's done to keep Evbo safe, if it keeps Evbo from falling into his arms the way Evbo falls from the sky cradled by the betrayals of every other player thus far.
Minute has seven hundred and and eighty five swings left to fix the whole world, but he's started to lose sight of what world his swings are meant to save.