Chapter Text
This was the end, wasn’t it?
Player stood there, shoulders sagging under a weight that wasn’t just his pack. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as though every inhale scraped against his ribs. The silence around him was heavy—thick with the kind of finality that made the air feel colder than it was.
He’d done it. Somehow. Against every staggering odd, every venomous whisper of doubt, every curse that bled from steel and shadow alike—he had dragged himself through it all and endured. His body should have failed him long ago; his mind should have cracked under the weight of the voices.
The frostbite that rested inside of his bones, the venom that burned through his veins, the hollow feeling that made every breath heavier than the last, the phantom fire that seared his conscience raw, the yearning for true freedom with the wind, the overwhelming darkness and overseering light attempting to puppet him unbearably so—each blade had left its mark.
They had wormed their way into him before—slithering, patient, insidious. The blades were never content with silence. They whispered, coiled around his thoughts, pressed against the edges of who he was until he couldn’t tell if the voice in his head was his own or something else entirely.
They wanted to make him theirs. Not a wielder, not a hero—just another husk. Another hollow shell twisted into something unrecognizable, just like all the other Robloxians who had fallen to their call.
And every day, he expected himself to join them.
He didn't think he’d last this long.
Truthfully, he had braced himself for an early end, the kind where no one would even remember the exact moment he was lost. He fully expected that somewhere along the way, his body would simply give out—the steel cutting deeper than his flesh could heal, the fatigue gnawing harder than his spirit could fight. Maybe it would be a strike too quick, a mistake too reckless, or worse—maybe it would be him, laying down his guard just once, finally answering when the swords whispered his name.
He thought his grave had been dug long ago. Carved not by heroism, but by arrogance. Written not in triumph, but in failure.
And yet here he was, breathing. Stumbling forward, somehow still carrying both his own weight and the blades’ burden, even when part of him wondered if this wasn’t survival at all—just prolonging the inevitable.
Not alive.
Surviving.
Barely breathing, but still upright, stubborn as ever. A husk walking forward because stopping wasn’t an option. The trials that should have crushed him hadn’t. The voices that clawed at his sanity hadn’t. The weight of blood-soaked choices, the kind that replayed in his mind at night until he woke choking on his own breath—none of it had broken him.
Against it all, he endured.
Sometimes he wished he hadn’t. Wished he had fallen sooner, cleaner, before the world around him had the chance to rot into this. Before the swords could fully spiral him. Before seeing the face of the people that stood by his side could make him feel the ache of everything he wasn’t.
And in the suffocating press of those thoughts, another voice rose unbidden from the dark corners of memory.
(“Hello, young man..”)
He remembered it clear as day.
(“I sense distress within your soul…”)
Back then, he hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry, standing there with blood still drying on his hands— a chilling sensation running through his veins from the very tips of his fingers. The same ones he used to wield the sword and kill off the King of the Blackrock kingdom.
The Guru's words had cut straight through the walls he kept around himself, made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t asked for.
(“Please, come sit with me.”)
The invitation had been gentle. He caught himself coming back every once in a while to confront his inner demons and overcome them with the help of the old man.
Yet even that memory now felt warped, dulled by the constant distortion of the SFOTH swords' whispers. What had been comfort once twisted in his head until he couldn’t tell if it was real or another lie.
The blades that was rested inside his battered backpack had their hilts jutting out in awkward angles yet somehow managing to stay put, their weight pressing into him with a constant, suffocating reminder of what they were. Each one carried a history, a venomous whisper, a shadow that had clawed its way under his skin during the long and brutal trek. They should have torn him apart. They almost had.
('I feel...')
And yet now the SFOTH swords sat quietly, tucked away among the mismatched chaos of other weapons he’d gathered along the road—each piece not just steel, but a scar, a ghost, a choice carved into him that he could never scrape away. Blades that weren’t just trophies but confessions, lined and jagged, buried in leather and cloth as though that could hide the blood they’d drawn.
His pack sagged against his back, heavier than it had ever been, though the weight wasn’t the steel. No—it was the knowing.
All of them. Gathered at last. Exactly as Shedletsky demanded.
The thought alone made bile rise sharp at the back of his throat. For a heartbeat he wondered if this was victory—or the sickest kind of trap.
He stood there, frozen in the silence, the pack digging into his shoulders as though he wasn’t carrying swords but the whole world itself, chained to him like an anchor he couldn’t cut loose. His mouth felt dry, cracked, his chest hollow and rattling, and the silence of the moment became unbearable.
''What now?'
The question pressed against his ribs like a blade turned inward. He wanted to spit it out, scream it, demand an answer from anyone—himself, the gods, the ghosts that lingered in the corners of his vision. From the blades themselves, who once never stopped whispering and now sat in eerie, suffocating quiet. Because if this was the end of the road—if this was what it had all led to—then what was left for him but the unbearable weight of carrying it?
And then—inevitably—the answer he wished for came.
Not from the voices in his mind, or from his own train of thoughts, but from the one who had set him on this cursed path in the first place. A voice that cut through the silence with ease, warm and playful, like an old friend who had been watching the whole time.
Shedletsky.
“Well, would ya look at that!” the adm’r’s voice rang out, casual and sing-song, dripping with feigned surprise as though Player was a magician that had just shown him a card trick. “You really did it, eh? Seven blades, all tucked away nice and neat. Hah! Not bad, kiddo."
The words came light, easy, almost fond—like he was talking to a student who had finally gotten their homework right after years of fumbling. His tone held no shock, no awe, no weight of disbelief. Just that amused lilt, the sound of someone who had expected this outcome all along, and was simply entertained by how long it had taken.
Player clenched his jaw. Because underneath that levity, he could hear it. The knowing. The way Shedletsky’s voice carried the edges of truths Player couldn’t yet name, the same ones that had haunted him since the very first blade fell into his hands. The same feeling of uneasiness every 'word of advice' the admin spoke of that only added more factors in his supposed adventure.
Shedletsky went on, chuckling under his breath, the sound warm. Classic Shedletsky.
“You know,” The brunette drawled, voice slipping into something almost indulgent, like an adult humoring a child who’d just done something clever most their age can't or simply wouldn't want to pull off. “Most people wouldn’t have made it this far. They fight,, they fly, they bleed, they fall—”
He chuckled, low and light, but it cut sharper than it should have, like the sound of glass chipping against stone. With the ease of someone who owned every space he walked in, the adm’r sauntered over, plucking the cap off Player’s head without asking. His fingers ruffled through the hero’s already-messy hair, careless and deliberate all at once, leaving it even more unruly than before.
“But you,” Shedletsky went on, tilting his head as though sizing him up, “you’re no ordinary Robloxian, huh?”
It sounded like praise.
It was praise— Or at least—that’s what Player tried to tell himself. Because beneath the lighthearted words, beneath the casual humor, there was something coiled and watchful. Something in Shedletsky’s tone that made it clear: he hadn’t just been waiting for this moment—he had been expecting it.
And yet Player felt a chill coil at the base of his spine. Because every word—no matter how casual—came threaded with knowledge. With weight. As though Shedletsky wasn’t congratulating him for reaching the end… but for stepping neatly into place where he had always been expected to. Something wasn't adding up. Even the voices of the swords were quiet.
“—Because you're a hero.” Shedletsky’s voice softened, a smile tugging on his face.
Hero.
It should’ve been a crown, something to wear with pride after everything he’d survived, but instead it slid down his spine like ice. His gut twisted. Because in Shedletsky’s mouth, the title didn’t sound like recognition—it sounded like a game piece being named, like he was just another move on a board that the admin had already mapped out years ago.
“And,, congratulations!— hero— For reaching the end of your path.” A pause, deliberate, the laid back tone of the brunette's voice slipping before quickly picking it up again.
Player's fists clenched
Hero.
The word was ringing in his ears. Mocking him on repeat. They rang hollow. He wanted to accept them, to let himself believe that after all the blood, the weight of steel, the scars carved into his body and his mind, this was validation. That it meant something. But no matter how hard he tried to hold onto that fragile thought, it slipped through his fingers like water.
“Buuut—” his tone tilted upward, a smirk hiding in the sound “—This end isn't necessarily the end-end, you know?"
Friendly. He tried to tell himself.
That tone—it was almost fatherly. Playful, indulgent, like someone watching a child finally manage to tie their shoelaces on their own. If Player closed his eyes, if he ignored the weight of the swords, he might have almost believed it.
Almost.
But somehow, that only made it worse.
Because there was something wrong.
He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t ignore the way the swords writhed against his back, their whispers no longer divided but screaming together now, sharper, louder, demanding his attention. They didn’t trust Shedletsky. And maybe—just maybe—neither should he.
His heart hammered in his chest, not from exhaustion, not from triumph, but from the gnawing suspicion that he hadn’t won anything at all. That this wasn’t an ending. That it was a door, and Shedletsky had been waiting on the other side the whole time.
Nothing about Shedletsky was ever that simple. Nothing about the way his words curled in the air and lingered just a little too long was natural. It was as though every syllable hid something sharper, a blade pressed flat against his back, disguised beneath warmth and amusement.
And in that moment, the silence inside Player’s mind—hard-earned, brittle silence—shattered like glass under a hammer. At first it came as a faint tremor, a soft buzz, static curling under his skin. Harmless, almost ignorable. But then it grew. Louder. Sharper. A pressure that built in his skull until his ears rang, until every heartbeat felt like it pulsed through his teeth.
The swords in his pack—the cursed weight he had dragged across every battlefield, every town, every nightmare—stirred.
Then they awoke.
And they whispered.
And then they screamed.
It wasn’t the familiar noise he had grown grimly accustomed to, the constant bickering of blades like wolves tearing each other apart in his skull. Not the usual chaos, where each cursed edge clawed for dominance, begging for his will, his soul, his everything. Not the fractured lull of competing voices dripping venom into every breath he took.
This time, it was different.
This time, they agreed.
Their voices tangled together into one sound, a chorus of steel, cold, poison, numb, wind, light and shadow, iron scraping on iron, until the words were no longer words but a force pressed against his bones. The unity was worse than their wars. Unnatural. Wrong.
Their warnings clawed into him with perfect rhythm—unified, insistent, urgent.
And for the first time since carrying them, he realized just how much more terrifying it was when they stopped fighting each other… and turned everything toward him. Ever since he had gathered them, Player wished desperately that they would go back to arguing. Because at least when they fought among themselves, it meant he still had room to breathe.
Now, their unity meant only one thing:
They weren’t trying to take him.
It was different from all the other times they clawed at his thoughts, whispering hunger, urging him toward ruin. This time their voices struck together like a bell, warning, pleading.
The hero felt deja vu. It was the same way Fear once had pleaded —its purple silhouette still lingering in the back of his mind, fragile and desperate, before he’d struck it down and silenced it forever. He still remembered its voice breaking as it begged him to see the truth. He hadn’t listened then. Only to find out the truth for himself just a few moments later
Player clenched his fist—knuckles pale, nails biting crescent moons into his palm. The dread that had lingered at the edges of his mind, circling like a vulture, finally sank its teeth in. This wasn’t paranoia anymore, wasn’t a phantom weight conjured by exhaustion. It was real. Heavy. Suffocating. It coiled low in his gut like ice, pressing up against his lungs, making every breath drag like stone through his throat.
Every instinct screamed that something was wrong, even as Shedletsky’s voice cut through the silence—smooth, measured, wrapped in that same familiar playfulness that could have fooled anyone else. Casual warmth dripped from his tone, the kind that might have passed for comfort to someone unscarred, someone untested. The kind that sounded like an open hand but hid sharpened steel beneath it.
But not him. Not after everything.
Player had walked through too many ruins, had listened to too many liars dressed in smiles, had carried too many cursed voices clawing at the walls of his mind.
He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. Not when the danger wasn’t hidden in the swords, but standing right in front of him. The man smiling at him like a mentor. Like a father. Like a friend— But that smile didn’t reach his eyes, and Player knew better now. He knew warmth could be a mask sharper than any blade. beneath the admin's easy smile, Player felt something vast, something watching.
The voices of the swords were trying to save him.
From 'Shedletsky.
“Hand over the SFOTH swords.”
But what if his mind was just making it all up?
Twisting truth into lies, enemies into monsters, allies into traitors?
Villainizing Shedletsky? The same way the Firebrand had villainized him and Calypso in the eyes of Captain Trotter, weaving half-truths and shadows until trust became poison and loyalty bled away into nothing.
The thought coiled in his chest like a sickness. What if he wasn’t uncovering a trap, but inventing one? What if his paranoia had eaten so deeply into him that even the only man promising him a way home now looked like a devil in disguise?
His gaze blurred, focused, blurred again—locking on Shedletsky’s extended hand. Open, steady, patient. Expectant. Waiting.
The hero’s breath hitched.
“We’ll need it,” Shedletsky said, voice smooth as ever, nonchalant as if this moment meant nothing more than a simple transaction. Like a little kid exchanging crumpled tix for candy. “To bring you back to your original timeline.”
The words were so simple. Because that's how it's supposed to go. Collecting all seven of the SFOTH swords for the admin, then going back to his timeline. Shedletsky had insisted that he goes back to his timeline, as with the the SFOTH swords now in his grasp, finding Builderman would be a breeze.
Going back meant no longer spending another second in this timeline. Looking at the feats he'd done,he won't be surprised if a lot of things had changed in the future. Going back meant he'll leave everything he has here behind.
And yet,
Going back meant no one else would have to suffer because of him.
And so he took the blades out from his inventory—hands trembling, jaw tight—as the chorus of screams tore through him. The swords wailed, each voice clawing at his nerves, begging, warning, condemning, but he forced himself to ignore them. His fingers brushed cold steel for the last time before placing them in Shedletsky’s waiting hands.
The moment the admin had them, the noise stopped.
The silence was so sharp it almost hurt.
Shedletsky hummed, almost cheerfully, muttering a quick “thanks.” under his breath, like Player had just handed him a bunch of paperwork, not the culmination of a blood-soaked quest that had carved pieces out of his soul and many others'.
“Alright then, kiddo.”
He said it brightly, the smile on his face far too at ease for the weight of what just happened. One hand slipped casually into the pocket of his dark-light blue striped pants, the other twirling one of the swords as if testing its weight.
“Do whatever you want—” Shedletsky continued, tone light, careless, almost dismissive. “You’ve got three days until your grand departure, to continue your adventure in your original timeline.”
Player’s chest tightened.
Three days.
The words felt like a countdown.
It was too long. And yet at the same time, it was too short.
A pause. Then Shedletsky speaks up again
“I’d make the most of it if I were you.”
And so, like the very good temporary employee he was, he nodded along. Because that was it.
That was the role he’d been given, wasn’t it? Fetch the swords. Survive whatever comes in his way. Hand them over. And when the job was done, smile and nod, take orders, obedient as ever, until Shedletsky gives him some sort of speech after finally deciding where to shelve him next.
The nod came automatically, even though his stomach churned with the weight of it. Feeling empty without the whispers of the SFOTH swords gnawing inside of him. He wondered if Shedletsky saw through it—if the admin could tell how hollow the gesture was. Or maybe he didn’t care. Maybe the nod was all Shedletsky needed. That was the thing about being temporary: no one expected you to stay. Or to actually last good enough until the end.
'No one expected you to matter.'
And for all Player’s scars, all his fights, all the blood he had lost and spilled— just to be remembered as a guy that fetched seven legendary swords for an Admin like a lap dog.
He didn’t need to hear any more of what Shedletsky was gonna say. Not another word. Before the admin could lace his next sentence with that same easy smile, Player had already flicked through the fast-travel menu, his choice locked in without hesitation.
Turitopulis.
Not directly to Griefer’s crib. Definitely not.
Because if he fast-traveled straight to Griefer’s place, it’d be obvious. Too obvious. Like painting his intentions in bright neon over his head: Hey, I want to see you. I need to see you. And there was no way in hell he was going to give Griefer that kind of satisfaction, not when the man already had too much leverage over him.
So, Turitopulis it was. A detour. The kind of thing any normal Robloxian would do—walk the rest of the way, pretend it was convenience, or boredom, or just the scenic route. Anything but what it actually was.
The air shimmered as he reappeared in the bustling still forest-y center. Grass-filled streets stretched out under his boots, villagers hollering about whatever they were talking about, some of them greeting Player in recognition. Darting past in a blur of chatter and even more greens, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, forcing his steps into a casual rhythm that he hoped looked natural.
But no matter how hard he tried to mask it, each step toward Griefer’s place felt deliberate. Weighted. Like gravity itself tugged him in that direction. And that was fine. As long as nobody else knew. He only had three days, anyway.
72 hours.
4,320 minutes was enough.
—
"WH0 TH3 H3LL?!— 0H. 1T'S Y0U, PUNK."