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Long ago, shortly after the final boss Mr Attwood became a playable character and got nerfed into oblivion, Mr Carter had been reduced to medium tier in the Kegs meta. One rainy night, Mr Carter met a shadowy figure in a rainy night. It was a rainy night as you can tell because it was wet. He struck a deal that night. Mr Carter, the fool he was, could never be prepared for what he was about to unleash. The devil smiled back. The most evil thing in this universe was not the ender dragon but the machinations of a human whose heart had been taken in the grips of the deepest hate.
There was a power vacuum in the school. After the Attwood incident, Mr Carter’s power was not what it once was. Mr Bishop, the previous head of Kegs ruled with an iron fist but back then Mr Carter had been the one to flay off his tyrannical head. Mr Carter reminisces. He is afraid. Afraid he could not do it again. The fight had destroyed part of the old sports hall and now, when he looks upon the theatre hall that he had built to replace it, he shivers. Mr Bishops body now lies in the westfield, looking down upon the old westfield lake, buried next to his secret lover: Mr Lowes 5G blocker. How would he react to know that he had been defeated by this pathetic writhing mess that Mr Carter was now. He puts his head in his hands. The deal had been too tempting. All this power, and all he had to do was give him a place among the higher echelons of the KEGS nobility. Mr Carter laughs to himself. What an easy solution to his world rending dilemma.
Mr Robert Ager walked into KEGS the next morning, ready for a lovely day at the prestigious King Edwards the 6 Grammar scho without the O and the L at the end. His smile was graceful and his manner was dainty. A skip in his step would not have been out of place. The students are not so amused however. Away from the public eyes, KEGS was a sweatshop used to run the 2nd fastest supercomputer on the east side of England. There, the main hall was filled with panicked year 11s who should have been studying for their GCSEs, instead were forced to generate crude AI images using a woefully inefficient pattern recognition algorithm where one A level art student would have sufficed (They love to draw naked women). One such child, Student A held his wobbling arm. The pencil he used to complete horrifying integration questions at home trembled as he struggled to compute the complex algorithms required to complete the woman’s bosom. In a dark and neighboring county, ilford, a gooner waited as his Hibbert prompt was processed. A drunk his next bottle of water and struggled not to pee his pants. The director of processing had no qualms about a wet floor but A knew that a far worse predator was about. Ms Wiltshire. He winced as he saw the doors to the school hall open, but instead of the anticipated hawk of the art department, he saw a very different sight.
Mr ager walked into the school Hall, his smile broad. The chaotic din of stressed year 11s hushed as he walked upon them. He radiated an aura of calm authority, an antithesis to the grinding despair that had permeated KEGS. "Children, children," he said, his voice melodious yet firm, "This is no way for the future minds of our world to flourish. Step away from your stations." His words spread like water to parched lips and one by one, the students hesitated, then stopped entirely. Tears fell from some of their eyes. Mr Ager moved gracefully through the room, his hand grazing the backs of slumped shoulders, offering murmured encouragement. His presence was magnetic, almost hypnotic. "You are students, not tools," he declared. "The art of education is to uplift, not oppress. I won't stand by… this”
Within the hour, Mr Ager had commandeered the operations in the main hall. The crude AI supercomputer project was dismantled; pencil-scratched algorithms abandoned mid-calculation. Student A, who had been moments away from collapsing, was carried to the infirmary by a cadre of relieved Year 13s. No matter what the headteacher would say, he couldnt force the students to work like this. Not like this anyway. The oppressive atmosphere began to lift, replaced by a cautious hope.
But hope, as it often does, blinded them to the truth.
Behind closed doors, Robert Ager stared at his own reflection in the tarnished mirror of the staff bathroom. The delicate smile that had graced his lips faded. His eyes darkened, as if shadows bloomed from within his irises. His body shuddered, convulsing slightly, and then a guttural laugh escaped him.
When Mr R. Ager emerged, he was no longer the benevolent educator. He was Mr Rager.
His first act was subtle. Detentions began to increase in frequency. At first, it was only the usual troublemakers - the ones caught chewing gum in class or running in the corridors. But soon, he began to cast his net wider. Students were sent to detention for the most minor infractions: a shirt untucked, a tie askew, an innocent laugh too loud.
The students began to whisper. Those who were sent to Rager’s detentions didn’t come out the same. They were... different. Quiet. Too obedient. Their backs unnaturally straight, their gazes vacant. Some heard faint metallic clicks when those students walked.
Deep beneath the school’s theatre hall - the very monument built atop the ruins of Mr. Bishop’s defeat-a nightmare had taken shape. The basement, once a forgotten storage space next to the music rooms, had been transformed into a grotesque factory. The air was heavy with the stench of oil and burnt flesh. Flickering fluorescent lights illuminated rows of students strapped to cold steel tables and others in bubbling glass tubes.
The Rager moved between them, his face a twisted mask of glee. In his hands, he held the instrument of his design: a long, gleaming metal rod. One by one, he drove the rods into the students' spines. Their screams echoed through the halls, unheard by those above. When the procedure was complete, the students rose, their movements stiff and mechanical, their wills no longer their own. They became Mr Rager’s obedient servants, their minds wiped clean of rebellion.
All of this was orchestrated by a greater power. Mr. Carter, in his moment of desperation, had invited this evil into KEGS. But the true puppet master was Mr. Seed. He operated from the shadows, his every move calculated to bring KEGS to its knees. The demon that now inhabited Mr Ager’s body was but a pawn in his grand design. Mr Seed’s vision was one of total control - a school where individuality was erased, and all served his dark will.
But not all hope was lost.
In a hidden chamber beneath the library, mr Maxwell Lyte and Mr Maxwell Pro met in secret. They were the last bastion of resistance, their group known only as the Henrywatch. Together, they had uncovered the horrifying truth of Mr Rager’s basement and Mr Seed’s ultimate plan.
"We can’t let this continue," Mr Maxwell Lyte said, his voice steady despite the weight of the situation. "If Mr Seed succeeds, there will be no KEGS left to save."
Mr Maxwell Pro nodded, his brow furrowed in thought. "We need to strike at the heart of the operation. The basement is the key. But we can’t do it alone."
mr Maxwell Lyteleaned forward, his eyes blazing with determination. "Then we rally the students. We give them the truth. And we fight."
The next morning, whispers spread like wildfire through the school. Students began to organize, their rebellion growing in secret. Armed with makeshift weapons fashioned out of pens and an abundance of wooden cutlery fashioned by a Fenton tun, they prepared to storm the basement and reclaim their school.
Meanwhile, the Rager continued his sinister work, unaware that the Henrywatch and the students of KEGS were on the verge of revolution. Mr Seed, watching from the shadows, smiled. He welcomed the chaos.
And so, the stage was set. The battle for KEGS - for its future, its soul - was about to begin.