Author's note: Hello, everyone. This is my first Minecraft story and also my first fanfiction. It's about a Testificate who wants to get rid of the tyrannical player. I've completed a few chapters but I'm not sure about the later plot developments of this story. So, you're welcome to provide any ideas or give comments. Thank you!

Chapter 1

It had always been my dream to become a magician of words. Such magician exists in every civilization, witnesses its historic events, and then commands his languages to move his people to tears. So, one thing of great interest to such magician is to inform the generations to come of the glories as well as ordeals of their ancestors. However, most of my people have chosen to become either hard-working blacksmiths or peace-loving farmers. You probably have seen a librarian strolling around in our village before and he was wearing a white robe that gives him an aura of intelligence. But I have to tell you. He knows nothing but food, and all the books he has are food recipes. Why no one in my village, the once-peaceful village of Testificates, has ever thought about becoming a poet?

In addition to personal passion for poetry, there was one more important reason behind my yearning to write something for our descendents: We had been ruled by a tyrant. We lived in disgrace, believing that those who came after us would live on without dignity. Like a few wise elders in the village, I was clear about our situation. Yet, we were much afraid that our suffering and glories would be lost to the memory of our descendents. Try to imagine this: someday the tyrant could put saddles on our children, who were all as defenseless and compliant as pigs!

I think I eventually lived out my dream on the day when I was about to attend the Great Conference for the first time. The Great Conference was a secret meeting held annually to find out good ways to dispose of the tyrant by the Four Sages in our village. Nevertheless, we had only three Sages at that time, the missing being my dear father. My father, my only family, suddenly left me last year. After his death (which is something I don't want to mention anymore), all my father's duties fell upon me. So, I needed to attend the conference on behalf of my deceased father. And since it would me my debut, it occurred to me that I could impress the three respected elders with something other than my proposal: a poem, or at least something that rhymes. Then, on the pleasant morning of that crucial day, in my small wooden room, I picked up a book and a quill and began to write:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue—

"Wait a minute, what are 'violets'?" I thought to myself, erasing the line and re-wrote:

Roses are red,

Lapis are blue.

The tyrant will be dead!

Because he ate my—

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH, FREEEEEEE PATATO!" An unexpected shrill cry came straight into my room, pierced through my eardrums, and penetrated my brain. Scared out of my wits, I dropped the quill and accidentally squeezed an ink sac with my elbow. All of a sudden, the ink splashed onto my handsome face and the book. My book was stained with ink blots; my magnum opus was ruined!

I dashed toward the window frame, and through the glass pane I looked outside. In my father's old farm there was a cranky man, in a pair of ugly pink leather pants and with a raw fish in his hand. He was stealing the potatoes, chopping off the wood blocks, trampling on the farmland, and galloping around like an idiot. I could recognize him: He was the player. However, the title "player" failed to describe how menacing and evil he was. Now—I have to tell you—He was the tyrant! Yes, the tyrant I've described to you, the tyrant who came and turned this serene village into a living hell!

"That goddamned player—" I said in a low voice, glaring at him. "Must die!"

I watched him destroying the farm until he left; this was all I could do. It was not because I lacked courage, but because clearly understood that I should refrain from making a fuss before the Great Conference began.

Letting out a deep sigh, I turned and looked at the book stained with patches of ink. I lost the poem. I had lost TOO MUCH due to that player! The only comfort was that I still had my proposal. I opened my chest, taking out two books. One was my written proposal; the other was an old and filthy pamphlet, which was disinterred from my father's bookshelf several weeks before. I was about to present them and share my idea with the Sages in the upcoming meeting.

"They will like it," I said, with a confident smile.

Right at that moment, there was somebody knocking at the door.

"Here they came," I thought, leaving my room to answer the door.