Fishing Time! | 1x1x1x1

1. #1Origin

   Keys: Telamon, origin, past, the start, creation, created, creator

   In the quiet, bleeding corners of a world that hummed with the raw, untamed energy of early creation, Robloxia was not just a playground of pixels and servers, but a living, breathing alternate Earth. A deity—known then simply by Telamon—was one of its architect-gods. He possessed a mind like a razor and an ego to match, shaping landscapes, physics, and lesser beings with absolute impunity. But divinity, when stripped of challenge, curdles into a suffocating monotony.

   Out of sheer, malignant boredom, Telamon decided to play at fatherhood.

   He did not fashion his creation from clay or starlight, but from discarded scripts, residual administrator code, and the bitter, heavy slag left over from crafting the more noble entities of Robloxia. He named it 1x1x1x1, treating the designation less like a name and more like a serial number stamped onto a defective prototype.

   Life in Telamon’s domain was a masterclass in psychological torture and utter neglect. Telamon viewed his creation as a living canvas for his shifting whims, alternating between cruel experiments and cold indifference. If 1x1x1x1 stumbled or failed to perform to the impossible, arbitrary standards of his maker, he was met with biting mockery or locked away in the freezing underground for days on end. Telamon was no benevolent creator; he was a capricious, emotionally bankrupt deity who looked upon his offspring and saw only a mirror reflecting his own capacity for cruelty, yet lacking any of the power.

   When the novelty inevitably wore off, Telamon abandoned him entirely. 1x1x1x1 was cast aside into the forgotten margins of Robloxia, left to rot in the slums while his creator moved on to grander amusements.

   Isolation bred a hollow, festering resentment within the abandoned entity, driving him to search for a means to level the playing field. His desperate wandering led him to the legendary Venomshank—a blade soaked in ancient, corrupted malice, humming with a toxic resonance that matched the jagged cracks in his own psyche. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, the poison didn't just enter his veins; it rewrote his architecture. The venom tore through him, twisting his form into a volatile, glitching nightmare of pure vengeance.

   Yet, the corruption brought an ironic, agonizing torment. As the venomshank fused with his being, fragments of Shedletsky’s own mind, stray thoughts, and repressed memories began to bleed into 1x1x1x1’s consciousness. He could suddenly hear his creator's voice echoing in his own head—not as a ghost, but as an intrusive, mocking parasite. He relived Telamon’s passing thoughts of disgust, the casual dismissals, and the cold satisfaction of his neglect.

   These intrusive memories didn't break him; they acted as kindling. They fused with his already bottomless well of resentment, turning a simple desire for survival into an all-consuming, multi-layered hatred. The boy who was made out of boredom and discarded in the dark was gone. In his place stood an entity carrying the exact memories of the man who broke him, weaponizing those very thoughts to tear down the world his father built.

2. #2Shedletsky/Telamon

   Keys: Shedletsky, new home, traitor, monster, telamon, reencounter, creator

   The transition from Telamon to Shedletsky did not happen in a thunderclap of divine epiphany, but in the quiet, suffocating aftermath of realizing what kind of monster he had been. Standing amid the smoking ruins of a Robloxia scarred by the wrath of 1x1x1x1, the architect-god looked at his bloodstained hands and finally felt the crushing weight of his own cruelty. The boy he had discarded—the living embodiment of his worst impulses—was a mirror he could no longer bear to look into.

   Desperate to outrun the ghost of his own creation, Telamon stripped away his god-like mantle like a rotting coat. He cast aside the ancient titles, the soaring divine architecture, and the absolute power that had corrupted his judgment, choosing instead to walk among the mortals he once treated like playthings. He adopted a new name, Shedletsky, a softer, humbler moniker meant to anchor him to the soil rather than the heavens. He bought a modest house, learned the quiet, grounding rhythm of baking his own bread, and forced his brilliant, razor-sharp mind to focus on mundane, peaceful pursuits, went as far as starting a family with a woman called Brighteyes.

   Yet, redemption is a daily penance, not a sudden pardon. On quiet nights, when the wind howled through the trees, the phantom sound of mocking laughter would echo in the back of his mind. He would catch himself slipping back into old, arrogant cadences, only to pull back with a sharp breath, fighting the visceral urge to control, to mock, to lash out. He worked tirelessly to be kind, to listen, and to build rather than break, pouring every ounce of his remaining willpower into becoming a genuinely better person. He knew he could never undo the past, and that the shadows of 1x1x1x1 would forever loom at the edges of his memory, but he woke up every single morning choosing grace over godhood, hoping against hope that the man he was trying to be could finally outweigh the monster he used to be.

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