He builds and destroys. That is the formula of his life, really; ever since he ended up here, in this strange square world.
Sometimes he farms. It's the basis of all life, in the end: crops. Wheat. To hoe, to plant, to harvest. To bake bread, the basic food. And with these come the animals – sheep, pigs, chickens. Lured into pens, kept there. Shorn and collected. It's good, to look over this system, this collection of living components, and feel as though something has been achieved. As though this were not all for nothing.
He built tools from trees. These tools he used to mine, to collect stone – with these he built a house, a crafting table, a bed – it is always home when it has a bed. No roof, not yet. He stares up at the stars as the darkness falls. Those nights when he is able to fall asleep, when the monsters do not prowl outside his door.
He keeps them at bay with an iron sword. At first he was afraid, hid behind walls, listened terrified to the hisses and wails of the mobs as they hunted him out; but now he is strong, both in armour and in mind, and he is no longer afraid. Free to explore, but ever wary in this world which is made purely for Survival.
He builds a castle out of stone and timber. A fortress. He harnesses the resources of the world and improves upon them, tirelessly. For him there is no end. He will never stop – harvesting, improving, continuing to build and mine and create. He sees no other way.
He does not know why he is here. He has heard of other worlds – of places where dragons rule, or perhaps elsewhere. But here he is content, though he cannot explain why.
He mines deep. First dirt, then rock, and on and on; through layer after layer of the world. He continues, deep, not for the resources or for the ores, but just because he can. There is no way out. He keeps mining until his final pickaxe breaks. Until he reaches the lava. Until he reaches the ends of the earth.