Below, a winding path of packed snow led to a sturdy, fortified cabin built into a hillside. Smoke curled from its chimney. It was Technoblade’s base.

You’d been here for hours. Your fingers were numb around the spyglass. You watched the empty path, the quiet door, the single, innocuous stone pressure plate set into the snow just before the entrance.

Then, movement. A figure in a deep red cloak emerged from the treeline further down the path, trudging through the snow with a steady, unhurried gait. Technoblade. A heavy-looking sack was slung over his shoulder.

He was getting closer. Thirty paces. Twenty. Your breath fogged in the air, catching in your throat. This was it. The walk he’d take every time. The final walk.