by Mark Mulle
about this and what he said was simple, “This task is too big for a young zombie like you, Damien. Helping the other communities should fall on the shoulders of the REAL Herobrine. What you did was a great feat, but we do not have the powers that the legends of old possessed.”
“What if he never comes?” I asked. I needed to know that the other monsters would be helped. I needed to be certain that the hero would come, that he would save the day, defend the weak, teach the adventurers to live in harmony. How could I be certain?
“Then you must find him and remind him of his mission,” my father said with a smile. “That is a task fit for a young zombie. That is the way that you can help the world, my son.”
“But I do not know where to even begin looking for him,” I groaned.
“I’ve heard rumors that he lives in the Nether.” Father smiled.
“Where did you learn that?” I asked.
My father laughed with a slow rhythm. “I may have asked the Enderman that I met the other day. Just in case,” he smiled.
I thought about this for a long while. The Nether was a dark and dismal place that only the meanest of zombies traveled to. However, my father seemed certain that this was the solution.
If I could convince Herobrine to jump back into the action, perhaps many communities could find peace. Maybe even the entire world.
I had to admit that I thought Herobrine was much more likely to be able to save the world than a lone zombie such as myself. With a sigh I nodded and steeled myself for the journey ahead.
I was going to the Nether.