I had seen the Red Temple long before I ever set foot inside it.
It wasn’t the kind of haphazard structure you stumble upon while wandering — no, this place seemed placed with purpose. The coordinates alone—exactly at 4000 and 4000—were enough to stir the curiosity of anyone who hears the old tales. Travelers argued about it in taverns: some claimed the symmetry of those numbers was a natural alignment, a happy accident of geography. Others whispered that no such perfect balance happens by chance—that the builders had chosen it to mark the center of something much larger, a grid laid over the land by hands we can no longer see.
I didn’t believe the stories at first. But the idea of a perfect point on the map wouldn’t leave me alone. Eventually, I packed supplies, repaired my elytra, and headed out.
The journey was long, the terrain shifting from swamps to bamboo thickets that swayed in the wind like green waves. Late on the second day, I crested a hill and saw it.
The Red Temple.
It rose from the earth like a bloodstained fang, the last light of sunset catching the mineral veins in its walls. The surrounding land was almost unnaturally flat, as if the ground itself had been pressed into obedience. I could see no farms, no huts, no signs of life. Just the tower—watching.
The moment my boots hit the outer courtyard, I felt it. The air here was heavier, each breath carrying a strange taste of pollen and dust. My footsteps echoed louder than they should have, bouncing off the granite like whispers that didn’t belong to me.
The entrance led into a wide chamber lit by thin slivers of fading daylight. At the center of the granite floor, a single Redstone block gleamed like an ember. I crouched down, running my fingers over its polished surface. Not a trace of dust, though the rest of the floor was coated in it. Someone—something—kept it clean.
Looking up, I saw the inside of the tower rising in a hollow shaft. No stairs. No ladders. No signs of access to whatever might be above. Too narrow for a lookout. Too strange for a defensive position. If this was not a place of war, then it was a place of worship.
A faint sound drew my attention to a far wall—a soft tapping, like bamboo in the wind. When I pressed my hand into the vines, they shifted. A tunnel.
It led to a ladder leading down into a hidden chamber. Torchlight fell over dense walls of bamboo stalks, their leaves rustling gently even though there was no breeze. The smell was fresh and sweet, sharp against the dry dust of the temple above.
Between the pattern, I spotted chests—tucked away, half-buried, as though meant to be forgotten. Their lids were carved with looping patterns I didn’t recognize. I tried one. Locked. Another. Locked again.
This wasn’t just decoration. This was storage. The kind of storage meant for things not meant to be found.
Below the bamboo room was another trapdoor, nearly invisible. I pulled it open and stared into the dark. The shaft below seemed endless—my torchlight faded after only a few blocks. I dropped a loose stone, waiting. It took far too long before I heard the faint splash.
I hesitated only a moment before descending.
The air grew colder the deeper I went, the walls damp and slick beneath my hands. Somewhere below, water echoed in slow drips. My boots hit a narrow ledge partway down—and there, to my left, was a hidden door set flush with the wall. No handle, just stone hinges.
It took all my strength to push it fully open, the sound of stone screaming against stone.
The room beyond was bathed in the pale red light of old lanterns. The flames wavered even though the air was still. Against the far wall stood an armor stand—diamond filled, polished and pristine, etched with curling designs like vines dipped in blood.
However, this was not armor for battle. This was ceremonial.
At its feet lay a single arrow. Its shaft was blackened, and instead of a flint tip, a shard of emerald caught the light and fractured it into green fire.
I wanted to touch it. Every instinct told me not to.
A small chest sat against one wall, covered in dust. In it lay a half-burned book, its pages brittle but legible in places. I brushed it open, scanning the jagged handwriting:
“…the center must remain unbroken… the heart of the red… to hold back the tide…”
The rest was gone, eaten by flame and time.
I backed out of the room slowly, closing the door behind me. Whatever had been kept here had been important enough to hide, and dangerous enough to guard with secrecy.
Climbing back to the bamboo room, I noticed something new: a faint hum, just at the edge of hearing. It seemed to pulse from the direction of the central Redstone block above. My mind played tricks—I thought I felt it under my feet, like a slow heartbeat.
When I emerged into the main chamber again, the last light had gone. The Redstone block glowed faintly in the dark, brighter than before. The walls seemed taller now, leaning inward, as if the tower itself were watching.
I stood there longer than I should have, torn between leaving and staying. They say the Red Temple is a good place to stop for the night—a safe landmark to guide you when flying across the world. But I wonder how many who stop here leave the same as they came.
If you are reading this, and you come to the Temple, remember:
- The Redstone at the center is not decoration.
- The armor in the secret room is not for wearing.
- And whatever hums beneath your feet… it is listening.