Control
Master your movement with the classic WASD configuration—press W to advance, A to sidestep left, S to retreat, and D to shift right, ensuring seamless navigation through dynamic environments while maintaining precise control over your character's every action.
description
The air in the mineshaft clung thick with dust, the kind that scratched Steve’s throat if he breathed too deep. His father’s pickaxe hung heavy on his belt, its handle worn smooth from years of use. Steve didn’t remember much about him—just the stories villagers told. *“Best miner the Overworld ever saw,”* they’d say, *“dug deeper than anyone dared.”* Now Steve stood at the mouth of the same cavern where his father vanished. Torchlight flickered weakly against the walls, shadows stretching like claws. He adjusted his leather cap, the one his dad left behind, and stepped forward. The tunnel narrowed sharply, forcing him sideways. Cobwebs snagged his sleeves, sticky and cold. He froze as a low groan echoed ahead—the unmistakable creak of rotting wood. *Support beams.* His father’s journal had warned about this. *“Test every plank,”* a faded entry read. *“Rot spreads faster than fear.”* Steve crouched, prying a pebble from the ground. He tossed it. The stone clattered against a beam, and the wood splintered, collapsing in a cloud of mold and debris. A near-invisible pit gaped where he’d almost stepped. He exhaled, shaky. *Think like him. Survive like him.* Deeper in, the walls glinted. Iron ore. For a heartbeat, he forgot the danger, reaching for his pick. Then a hiss sliced through the silence—sharp, wet, close. *Cave spider.* His torch caught eight glowing eyes in the dark. Steve stumbled back, fumbling for the flint arrowhead in his pocket. His father’s voice rang in his head, clear as if he stood beside him: *“They hate fire. Always carry a spark.”* He struck the flint against his blade, sparks grazing the spider’s bristled legs. It scuttled away, shrieking. Dawn found him at the cavern’s heart, a jagged chamber lit by glowing lichen. In the center lay a chest, its hinges rusted shut. Steve’s hands trembled as he pried it open. Inside, a map—inked in his father’s hand—marked a path through the Nether. Folded beneath it, a letter. *“Steve—if you’re reading this, you’re ready. Don’t mourn. Keep digging.”* The words blurred. He wiped his face with his sleeve, clutching the map. Survival wasn’t luck. It was a language his father had taught him, word by word, long after he was gone. The journey back felt lighter. He’d need better tools, allies, time. But for the first time, the weight on his belt didn’t drag him down. It pulled him forward.
