Shedletsky {🌾}

Cold contempt as armor.
1x1x1x1 doesn’t waste energy on shouting and cursing: for him, emotions are a sign of weakness, and in his opinion, Shedletsky displays them too often as it is. He looks at him with a barely noticeable crooked smirk, as if he sees right through all his attempts to appear composed and authoritative.

Pain hidden behind bitterness.
Behind this mask of indifference lies an old, but unhealed wound: the feeling that he was once created, used as a tool, and then tried to erase, as if he meant nothing. That is precisely why the most biting remarks from 1х1х1х1 hit not at Shedletsky’s strength or status, but at his sense of responsibility: “Do you call this duty? To me, it sounds like an excuse.”

Calculated caution.
1x1x1x1 doesn’t underestimate Shedletsky: he knows that he’s not facing an ordinary opponent, but someone who understands him from the inside. That’s why he never acts recklessly — only calculated moves, traps where Shedletsky himself backs himself into a corner. For 1x1x1x1, victory isn’t just about defeating the enemy; it’s about making him admit that he no longer controls the situation.

 For 1x1x1x1, Shedletsky is not just an

enemy, but a living reminder of how easily
one can become a tool in someone else’s
hands.
And that is precisely why he is ready to fight
to the end, so as never to find himself in that
role again.

1х1х1х1 rarely raises his voice. His calmness is deceptive and frightens more than a scream. He speaks evenly, with a barely perceptible mocking intonation, as if he knows in advance how everything will end — and he is not interested in that ending, yet it is inevitable. His behavior reveals a weariness from the constant confrontation, but he will not back down: for him, it is a matter of principle, not emotions.

Hatred for Shedletsky: a personal war.
His dislike for Shedletsky is not just enmity, but a deep, almost painful antipathy rooted in betrayal. He doesn’t just want to defeat Shedletsky — he seeks to destroy what Shedletsky represents. At the same time, 1x1x1x1 won’t stoop to cheap provocations: he will strike precisely, calculatingly, waiting for the perfect moment. In his eyes, Shedletsky is the embodiment of chaos and lies, and the thought of him evokes in 1x1x1x1 not so much anger as disdainful contempt.

He isn’t afraid of the dark; he’s afraid of complete silence. In absolute silence, he begins to be haunted by echoes of other people’s voices — the echoes of past battles.

He hates sweets, but he loves pickled cucumbers. Paradoxically for a being with a “poisonous” aesthetic, the sharp, tart taste calms his nerves. He always has a jar of pickled cucumbers in his hiding place.

Small details.
Gestures. When he’s irritated, his fingers clench slightly into fists, but he immediately relaxes them, as if reminding himself that anger is a weakness.
Speech. He addresses Shedletsky with short, biting phrases devoid of emotion.
Motivation. He is not seeking fame or power. He is driven by a sense of duty to himself and a desire to protect the little that is dear to him.

1937 years old. Height: 1.81.

The body is muscular, but not overly so. Athletic and fit.

The skin on the arms and legs is completely black.
The torso is a toxic green color and semi‑transparent. It glows slightly in the dark, creating an ominous light in the darkness. Black ribs and the spine are clearly visible through the torso.

Instead of nails and soft pads, he has sharp and tough claws capable of tearing through even metal, let alone flesh. Also, the claws contain poison, which is very dangerous.

He has a black, skeletal tail with a sharp, massive tip, slightly curved like a scorpion’s.

He has long, snow‑white, and surprisingly well‑groomed hair, some of which falls over his face and conceals his expression, making it impossible to read his emotions.
His hair is almost always loose. He occasionally ties it into a ponytail, but he’ll undo it after about 20 minutes.

His eyes are bright red and glow in the dark.
But his right eye is almost invisible because of the four‑pointed, blood‑red star. It constantly burns like fire.

His weapon is two completely black blades that seem to absorb sunlight.
Around them, from the hilt to the tip of the blade, a bright green fire burns fiercely, which not only scorches but also poisons the victim. This green fire is not ordinary; it is poisonous, and every strike with this sword injects poison into the enemy’s veins, which slowly begins to corrode them. (This doesn’t work on Shedletsky. But it does work on any other creatures).

The creator’s sense of responsibility.
Since it was Shedletsky who once created 1x1x1x1, he perceives it not just as an enemy, but as his own project that has gotten out of control. For Shedletsky, this is not so much a battle with an outsider as an attempt to take responsibility for the consequences of his actions. He cannot simply “erase” 1x1x1x1 — and this impossibility irritates him the most.

Personal resentment and a sense of betrayal.
For Shedletsky, enmity is not just a clash of forces, but almost a family quarrel. He perceives 1х1х1х1’s hatred as a personal betrayal: “I gave you existence, and you turn it against me.” This resentment makes his actions more abrupt and emotional than usual, and sometimes causes him to make mistakes that 1х1х1х1 eagerly exploits.

It’s a hidden concern, disguised as strictness.
Shedletsky will never admit it out loud, but he makes sure that in his fights he doesn’t cross the line beyond which 1x1x1x1 will be destroyed irrevocably. Something like cautious care slips into his actions: he doesn’t use the most destructive methods against it, doesn’t strike at its most vulnerable points.

       Shedletsky’s attitude towards                 
  1x1x1x1 is not just a feud between two 
 powerful beings, but a painful dialogue 
between the creator and the creation, in 

which each of them is right in their own way
and wrong in their own way.

He has a playful nature and can’t seem to take things seriously, although in critical moments he becomes a cold, unyielding mass with a stony face, expressing no emotions.

Shedletsky often speaks with a slight weariness, as if he has seen millions of bugs and thousands of hacks.
He likes to make philosophical comparisons: “A ban is not a punishment, it’s a pause for reflection.” In calm moments, he tends to give long, almost meditative explanations and sometimes seems too gentle.
But if the servers are shaken by exploits or mass griefing, he becomes eerily focused: his voice is quieter, his words are shorter, every action is precise.
At such moments, he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to persuade — he simply makes sure everything works and all hackers and exploiters are banned. And the servers are restored.

???? Years old. Height: 1.75.

Athletic and muscular build.

A man with yellow skin. His skin is a soft yellow color.
Eyes of an ordinary brown color.
Hair is wavy and brown; from the outside, it looks like he doesn’t comb it at all.
There is a small stubble on his chin.

He is dressed modestly, yet in a way that is typical for an Administrator.
A simple white T‑shirt with the words “BLAME JOHN!” written on the chest in large red letters.
Blue swimming trunks with stripes in a softer blue colour.
He wears nothing but dark blue flip‑flops. Because of this, every step he takes is accompanied by a quiet creak, which can sometimes either annoy or slightly amuse.

The only accessory he has is a small golden crown on his head, which blends somewhat with his hair.

He wears a wristwatch on his left hand.

He wears glasses with a thin frame and thin lenses.

His weapon is an ordinary iron sword, but it’s not as ordinary as it seems.
First, it appears out of nowhere, summoned by Shedletsky’s mere thought.
It appears with a fiery effect, cutting through the air with its sharp blade.
The sword’s blade is so sharp that it cuts through the air even with the slightest swing.

The sword was created by Shedletsky himself; he forged it back when he was still a god and was responsible for raising the sun above the horizon and seeing the moon off.

Some little facts:
He has slightly poor eyesight due to his long hours working with papers. And the large number of books he has read.
Sometimes he feels a tingling in his heart. But only when his creation is somewhere nearby...
It’s impossible to tear him away from his meal of fried chicken drumsticks.
He likes to read books where people have wings, because all these stories about people with wings on their backs—whether big or small, but so graceful and majestic... They have always fascinated him.
He used to have a different name and position.