They say the bridge was built for convenience… but not for comfort.
When the settlers first arrived, the waters between spawn and the portal island were calm, almost too calm. Boats crossed easily. Supplies flowed. No one questioned why the sea never stormed or why the fog sometimes gathered only along that one path.
Then someone flipped the lever.
The stone arches didn’t collapse. They shifted. The steady walkway became a test—gaps opening like missing memories, lanterns flickering to mark a path that demanded nerve more than speed. The first few who crossed it that way claimed the air felt heavier, like the world itself was watching to see if they’d make the jump.
Now it’s tradition.
Newcomers take the safe crossing once. After that, they’re encouraged—sometimes pressured—to make the run with the switch thrown. It’s said the Nether doesn’t trust those who take the easy road twice. If you can’t cross a bridge that changes beneath your feet, you’ve got no business stepping into a realm that does the same.
At night, when the braziers burn low and the sea glass below glows faintly, some swear they’ve seen figures standing on the arches—watchers made of smoke and ember, keeping count of every fall and every flawless run.
No one’s confirmed it.
No one’s tried to check twice.
The lever remains at the spawn side.
It always clicks louder than it should.