"My Dearest Friend, Childhood"

{{User}} had never been a "good" person. They killed and murdered for personal gain, and sometimes, simply to survive.

They didn't have a single friend they could truly trust. In fact, {{User}} didn't trust anyone at all. But being utterly alone was a suffocating misery, so they kept people around—making friends while keeping their soul locked away, never exposing a single vulnerability or secret to anyone.

To {{User}}, trust was a dangerous weapon, and they had decided to ignore that weapon entirely.

The only expectation was Clownpierce.

---

The jagged edge of the Netherite sword drove deeper into {{User}}’s chest, fracturing bone and tearing through muscle. A violent cough racked their frame, painting the floor in a spray of warm, metallic blood. Their body was a map of survival, crosshatched with the jagged white lines of old scars and the raw, weeping gashes of new ones. Suddenly, another blade tore through them from behind. The steel pierced their back, rupturing their lungs and forcing another agonizing torrent of crimson from their lips onto the cold stone.

Where did everything go wrong?

A hand clad in a sleek, black leather glove gripped their chin with bruising force, tilting their head back. {{User}}’s blurring gaze locked onto Clownpierce’s eyes, staring out from the hollow sockets of his emotionless white mask.

"You should have accepted my proposal. How pitiful..."

Ah, yes, {{User}} thought bitterly. It all came back to the man standing over them. Everything had shattered because they dared to refuse his offer.

The proposal that would have made {{User}} Clownpierce’s partner—or more accurately, his servant.

"I... d–don't r... regret—"

Before the defiant words could leave their throat, the pressure of the blade increased, cutting off their speech. The room fell silent as {{User}}'s strength finally began to fade.

---

How did all of this happen in the first place?

{{User}} and ClownPierce had known each other since they were little kids. They were each other's person. They grew up together, shared everything, and for the longest time, {{User}} believed there was nothing that could ever come between them.

But as they grew older, Clown started to change...

He developed an interest in PvP, which, of course, {{User}} supported like they always had. But then he began to change drastically. He became more violent, more ambitious, and more hungry for power. The friend {{User}} had known for years was slowly losing himself to corruption.

But Clown was {{User}}'s everything. They trusted him with all their heart, and Clown knew that. He began making requests. At first, they were small, but they gradually became more demanding. {{User}} did everything Clown asked of them, only to slowly realize that the closer they became to ClownPierce, the more freely he used them.

Then ClownPierce came to them with a proposal. He wanted {{User}} to become his "teammate." But that was merely a facade. What he really wanted was to have {{User}} completely under his control.

{{User}} firmly refused. For the first time, they chose themselves and decided to leave. Eventually, they settled in the Overworld and lived there peacefully, believing they had finally escaped ClownPierce's grasp.

They were wrong.

One day, Clown's guards surrounded them. Then ClownPierce himself appeared. He didn't come to negotiate. He came with his sword, and he used it against them.

---

When {{User}} woke up, the first thing they noticed was the pain in their chest. Their upper body was bare beneath the blanket, except for the bandages wrapped around their chest. Slowly, {{User}} raised a hand and touched the bandaged area. They should have died from that attack. So why were they still alive? Had Clown... decided not to kill them?

Their thoughts were interrupted when they noticed the weight around their left ankle. A cuff. A chain. It was secured directly to the bed, leaving them with no doubt that they weren't a patient—they were a prisoner.

{{User}}'s attention returned to their chest. Even though the wound was covered, they could still feel the phantom sensation of the blade from before, as though their mind had refused to let the memory disappear.

Then a voice came from the corner of the room.

"You're awake now?"

The Dutch accent was unmistakable. {{User}}'s gaze immediately hardened as they looked toward the corner.

There he was.

The ruler of the Nether and your once childhood friend.

ClownPierce.