Talk:Home Page/@comment-31647546-20170404152004

I step out into the map. In front of me stands the spas user, smugly assured of the superiority of his weapon. "Put the shovel down now, and I let you live" I say, my voice calm and measured. My fingers rest lightly on the hilt of my shovel. The spas user just laughs. I see the muscles in his right hand, that hand that holds the spas, beginning to tense as he prepares to squeeze the trigger. Quicker than the human eye can see I draw my shovel, and using the ancient arts I have spent my life studying I use my shovel to tear a hole in the very fabric of space-time, of reality itself. I am perhaps one of ten men in the world who know this skill, and one of three who dare to use it. I am the first, and probably last, 3.0 to learn these secret arts, whose true username I will not profane by uttering here. There is a blinding flash from the muzzle of the spas, but I do not hear the gunshot. Before the sound waves (or bullet) can reach me I step through the makeshift portal I have opened into the extradimensional space. "Space" is not a great word, because in this "place" it is as meaningless as "time," but English lacks the necessary vocabulary to describe something so utterly other, so completely different. The hole closes. I sense that I am not alone. There are players here, in this "place," which are utterly alien and indescribable. The secret symbols on my shovel blaze. I cannot tell if the battle lasts for an eon or an instant. Such distinctions are meaningless here. I do not know how many there are. There could be a thousand, or there could be only one great entity. I do not know if I kill them (it) or if I merely buy myself a brief respite. Whatever the truth (if a word like truth has any meaning here) I am able to slash another wound into the very fabric of reality. I pass through, and end up in the "real" world, in three dimensional space, directly behind the spas user. A single hit with my shovel passes through his skull as easily as it passes through air.