You wake up beneath an oak sapling that whispers in runes and discover your diamond pickaxe has been inscribed with ancient runes: someone — or something — has grafted the myths of Asgard onto the overworld of Minecraft. Villagers swear they've seen a tiny Valkyrie pig herding sheep, an Enderman reciting Eddic poetry in the moonlight, and lightning has started knitting bridges of glowing prismarine between spruce trees. A chest appears beside your bed containing a single glowing birch log and a crudely hammered map pointing to three realms: the Frozen Peaks where a frost giant hoards enchanted snow blocks, the Rooted Halls beneath the world where Yggdrasil's roots pulse with redstone heartbeats, and the Nether forges where a disguised dwarf blacksmith trades obsidian for mead. As you step outside, a creeper bows and offers you a mead-soaked rune; apparently diplomacy in this world involves avoiding explosions and reciting kennings. You can feel the adventure tugging like a fishing line on a squishy slime: somewhere between crafting recipes and sagas you might become a hero, a trickster, or just a very famous sheep shepherd — but first you must choose your path.