God's Don't Bleed
I was a god over my realm. I could create and destroy at will. But I was alone in my world.
Then my brother created the mobs. Sheep, pigs, cows, chickens, squids, and the pigmen. I ruled over and protected my new subjects with kindness. The Pigmen made for excellent friends. But then they came.
The Players. They destroyed my perfect landscape with their horrid buildings. They began to slay every mob in sight without hesitation. The creatures that I spent so many years caring for were being slaughtered before my eyes. So I decided to fight back.
I armed my Pigmen and we went to fight the Player menace. We fought side-by-side, slaying hundreds of players, but they were merely hundreds out of thousands. All of my Pigmen were slain, and I was exiled to the Nether, a realm fire and lava deep under the bedrock.
The Nether was a lonely place. To stop the loneliness I created new mobs to serve me. I made the ghasts, squids that could fly through the air and shoot fire from their mouths. I tried to revive my Pigmen, but they were instinctive and violent. They were not the kind creatures I knew. I created blazes, beings of fire, to assist me with my work, recreating my kingdom.
One day, my ghast sentries found Players within the Nether. I hunted them down and slayed them, but one was able to escape from me through a portal made from obsidian. Knowing that the creatures of the Nether could not survive in the cooler Overworld, I brought the dead Players back to life, using the new zombies as hunting dogs.
We entered the Overworld and began to slay every Player we could find. Any Players my zombies killed turned into the zombies. After time, the zombies decomposed and turned into walking skeletons who were able to use the bows of the players. The only problem with my zombies and skeletons was that they would burn in the sun. Along with this, they were not the best of fighters. Though at a slower rate, the Players were killing them off as well.
If the players wanted death, I would give them death. From the TNT the Players used I created creepers. They would explode, killing themselves along with any Players they were near.
They Players began to rally, creating an army to fight me and my mobs. We met on the battlefield, causing chaos and destruction. These battles gave me the materials I needed to create a new weapon, the wither. The wither destroyed everything in its path. It fed on the energies of the Players to make them stronger.
My mobs and I managed to destroy every Player. But the cost was too high. The world was ripped apart by my mobs and was a shadow of its former self.
As I look over the wasteland that used to be Minecraftia, I can only feel the pain of regret. I feel my eyes, injured from the power of my beast. They will heal, but my world will not. But my brother says that even in the face off all this destruction, there will be hope. He says that we will remake the world, but with only one Player that will live in harmony with the land. Then, I will return to the Nether, so I will not repeat my past.
I am Herobrine. I once believed that I was a god, able to control every aspect of my world. But I know now that I am not a god, because gods don't bleed.