Before space
Before possibility
Before choice
Before curiosity
Before meaning
There was… silence.

 

 

Prologue

The redstone torch flickered once, twice, then held steady in my hand. Its crimson glow caught the edges of ancient crafting tables, their surfaces scarred with the marks of a thousand forgotten recipes. Ten years of archaeological work, and these ruins still made my breath catch.

Standard protocol said to document, categorize, and move on. That’s what the Council of Master Traders wanted – quick, efficient surveys of any pre-Collapse sites. But something about this chamber was different. The redstone patterns embedded in the walls weren’t the usual simple circuits we’d grown used to. They spiraled in complex geometries, pulsing with a rhythm that almost felt… alive.

I checked my leather-bound journal against the diagrams. “Previous survey teams marked this as a basic storage facility,” I muttered, tracing the unusual patterns. “They couldn’t have been more wrong.”

My torch suddenly dimmed, and in that moment of darkness, I could have sworn I saw a flicker of purple in the ancient redstone veins. When the light steadied, an Enderman stood in the corner, its violet eyes fixed not on me, but on the wall patterns. Instead of the usual unsettling screech, it made a sound I’d never heard before – almost like words.

Then it vanished, leaving behind only a single block of pristine redstone ore. Not the crude veins we mine today, but something crystalline, geometric… perfect. As I reached for it, my mentor’s last message echoed in my mind:

*”Mira – What we know about the ancient builders is wrong. The redstone networks weren’t just circuitry. They were trying to preserve something. Find the purple crystals. Don’t trust the—”*

That was three weeks ago. No one had heard from him since.

I should have reported the unusual redstone formation to the Council immediately. That’s what a proper archaeologist would do. Instead, I pulled out my journal – the private one, not the official log – and began to sketch. The patterns on the wall weren’t random. They were a message, written in a language of circuitry and power.

And after ten years of studying the ancient builders, I was finally beginning to understand what they were trying to say.

What I didn’t know then was that this discovery would unravel everything we thought we knew about our world. About the ancient builders. About the true nature of redstone itself.

And about why some knowledge was meant to stay buried.

*Field Note 147-B: Standard excavation of Site RC-11. Nothing unusual to report.

[Official Archive Record – Council of Master Traders]*

 

Chapter 1 – The Archive’s Edge

 

The redstone torch sputtered in its holder, casting uncertain shadows across rows of weathered bookshelves. Mira paused in her cataloging, frowning at the light source. Standard archaeological protocol dictated torches should be placed every six blocks – no more, no less. A spacing proven over generations to provide optimal illumination while preserving ancient materials. But something about this chamber’s dimensions felt deliberately wrong.

She touched the nearest shelf, her fingers leaving trails in dust that shouldn’t have gathered so quickly. Ten years of cataloging ruins, and she’d never seen decay patterns like this. The books weren’t just old; they were trying to be forgotten.

Her protocol journal lay open on the ancient reading table, its crisp pages a stark contrast to the weathered surroundings:

SITE REPORT: RC-137

Location: Desert Temple Archives, Sub-Level 3

Standard Analysis: Period 7 Repository

Clearance Level: Yellow

Notable Features: None

 

“None,” she whispered, looking at the impossible geometry of the room. The walls weren’t square – not by small margins of ancient engineering, but by deliberate design. The bookshelves curved slightly, almost imperceptibly, in a pattern that seemed to draw the eye toward… nothing.

The irregularities had started small. A redstone torch that refused to power the expected blocks. Bookshelf arrangements that violated standard village architecture. Decay rates inconsistent with known timeframes. Each anomaly carefully documented and filed under “environmental variance” in her official reports.

But her personal journal, hidden in her pack, told a different story:

*Third instance this week of redstone behaving wrong. Not failing – WRONG. The patterns suggest intelligence rather than deterioration. Council says these are Period 7 ruins, but the construction methods…*

A noise from deeper in the stacks made her freeze. Footsteps? No, more like… blocks rearranging themselves. She held her breath, counting seconds. Protocol said to report any signs of active block physics immediately. Protocol said a lot of things.

The sound didn’t repeat.

 

—

 

The Council Chamber epitomized everything Mira had grown to doubt: perfect symmetry, standard torch placement, everything exactly to code. Maven presided from the traditional position, her emerald badge gleaming in the carefully regulated light.

“Report RC-137,” Maven demanded, her voice carrying the weight of authority and something else. Worry?

Mira stepped forward, her official findings prepared: “Standard Period 7 repository. No significant deviations. Recommend standard preservation protocols.”

Each word felt like a betrayal to the impossible room she’d found. But Serra, the village elder seated in her traditional place, caught her eye with the slightest nod. Someone else knew.

Maven’s questions grew pointed:

“Your time logs show three extra hours on site.”

“Thorough documentation required additional-“

“Torch consumption exceeded standard rates by forty percent.”

“The humidity levels in the lower chamber-“

“Your compass readings showed variance of up to thirty degrees.”

Mira had explanations prepared for each discrepancy. Good ones. Logical ones. All lies.

“Environmental factors are often unpredictable in deeper ruins,” she said instead. “I’ve detailed all variations in my report.”

Maven’s fingers drummed on the ancient wooden table. Not randomly, Mira noticed. The pattern matched old redstone pulse sequences. Intentional?

“The Council appreciates your thoroughness,” Maven said finally. “Continue your documentation. But remember – we preserve the past, we don’t question it.”

—

Back in the library, after hours of careful cataloging, Mira finally found it. A book that shouldn’t exist: “Standard Redstone Applications, Volume 3.” Her hands trembled as she pulled it from the shelf. Everyone knew there were only two volumes – the basics of circuitry, and advanced applications. There had never been a Volume 3.

Inside, written in her mentor’s familiar, hurried hand:

“M –

What we know about the ancient builders is wrong. The redstone networks weren’t just circuitry. They were trying to preserve something. Find the purple crystals. Don’t trust the—”

The rest was blank, but the final page contained coordinates. Not to any known ruins, but to somewhere in the deep desert. Dr. Ellis had vanished three months ago, his last official report noting “standard archaeological findings” at a jungle temple site. The Council said he’d retired. Just like they said this library was standard.

The evening market should have been routine, a welcome respite from the weight of her discovery. But now Mira saw the patterns. Villagers weren’t just trading – they moved in perfect mathematical sequences. Children played hopscotch in designs that matched ancient circuit diagrams. Iron Golems patrolled with impossible precision, their paths creating geometric patterns that made her head hurt if she looked too long.

And the cats… the cats stared at empty corners that weren’t empty at all.

“The archives hold more than books,” a voice said behind her. Serra, the village elder, speaking in the traditional cadence that suddenly seemed like code. “When night falls, count three doors down. The answers you seek may not be in the books that remain, but in the spaces where books should be.”

The old woman shuffled away before Mira could respond, leaving only the scent of ancient paper and something else – a sharp, electric smell like redstone after rain.

Three doors down, in a basement that shouldn’t have existed, Mira found her mentor’s hidden research cache. Her torch revealed stacks of private notes. Maps marked with impossible coordinates, books documenting “incorrect” mob behavior, and journals describing redstone acting against known laws were scattered about. And there, on a pedestal of obsidian, sat a single crystal that hummed with impossible energy.

Purple energy.

As she reached for it, a shadow fell across the room. An Enderman stood in the corner, but it wasn’t behaving normally. No random movements, no aggressive stance. It seemed to be… waiting.

“I’m afraid this area is now restricted, Archaeologist Mira,” Maven’s voice came from the stairs. “By order of the Council.”

Mira’s hand closed around the crystal as Maven stepped into the room. Power hummed through her palm, ancient and alive and nothing like the sterile redstone approved by the Council. In that moment, she had to choose:

Submit to authority, or embrace the impossible truth glowing in her hand.

The Enderman hadn’t moved. Still waiting. For her decision.

“The thing about studying ancient knowledge,” Mira said, straightening to face Maven, “is that sometimes it studies you back.”

The crystal pulsed once in her grip, and somewhere deep below, something answered.