There is a place, not on any map, where the world code settles into a gentle hum. The biomes do not clash here, but blend, like watercolors on damp paper.

This is the first whisper of the valley: a promise of peace. The hostile mobs—the groaning zombies, the clattering skeletons—they exist, you know, somewhere beyond the protective embrace of these hills. But here, for now, the night is safe. It is a night for stillness.

The first order of business is not grand, but simple. Sustenance. Your stomach, while not yet groaning, suggests that a breakfast of river water and air might not suffice for long. You remember the apple trees you glimpsed yesterday near the oak copse.