This story is about how a Malaysian gamer’s online guild came together across borders to honour their leader, Mey, whose virtual worlds gave her freedom beyond illness.
I was standing at the arrival hall of KLIA, holding a sign, scanning the crowd for faces I’d only ever seen in Discord video calls. These weren’t just friends, but comrades-in-arms. People I had fought virtual wars with, laughed with until sunrise, and shared countless adventures in digital worlds together.
We had been friends for over a decade, yet this was the first time we would meet in person for the funeral of a friend and mentor: Our guild leader, Mey.
When the news of her passing hit the guild, it felt like a mid-game disconnect: Everything froze up. The games crashed. Our world was torn asunder.
The Discord server went silent as each of us tried to process the unbearable fact: We had lost our Guild Leader. Our Mom-Friend. Our Best-Friend.
That day, the last of our far-flung group arrived from across Southeast Asia—Penang, Singapore, Brunei, Hong Kong, Australia—and we had one member arrive on behalf of our three British guildmates. I was waiting for the last representatives of our guild to arrive.
Meeting Her Parents
Stepping into Mey’s family home in Cheras for the first time was surreal—and painfully bittersweet. Her parents recognized a few of us—we were mostly a Malaysian guild, with some who had gone to SMK and Pre-U with Mey. Others were total strangers, greeted with polite confusion and guarded courtesy.
Their eyes held the unspoken questions: Strange teenagers from Singapore? A man from Brunei? Mat Sallehs from the UK? Mey’s age—some a little older—but working adults who had flown across the world?! How could they possibly know her?
Slowly, as tea was served and introductions were made, her parents began to understand that while most of us were not classmates, and none of us were colleagues, we were her friends from the worlds we had created, built, and inhabited online.
Understanding What Gaming Meant to Mey
For Mey, gaming wasn’t a hobby. It was her freedom. In the real world, cancer had kept her housebound, sometimes tethered to a hospital bed. But in the game she was free: run, jump, fight, explore, slay the villains—sometimes even be the villain—and save the world.
There were no wheelchairs in Minecraft, no chemo in World of Warcraft, no physical limits in Black Desert Online. She could be as strong, swift, and fearless as anyone else. In-game, Mey wasn’t sick. She wasn’t handicapped or disabled by a disease. She was just… Mey,” explained Gene (anonymised).
I showed her parents what I could: Images of her creativity in Minecraft with the custom skins she made for every guild member, the banners she designed. I even loaded up Minecraft so they could walk through the guild hall she had helped build. I showed them YouTube clips of her leading raid parties and boss warbands to victory in World of Warcraft.
They didn’t fully grasp the prestige of in-game achievements, but they began to see her love for the game worlds she curated and treasured. I saw the dawning understanding that these weren’t just games, but worlds where she truly lived free, unchained by medications and painkillers.
Discord: Her Lifeline
Even when Mey wasn’t actively gaming, she never really disappeared. She stayed connected through Discord—checking in, sending memes, joining voice chats even when she was too tired to type.
Her parents began to see Discord not as just another app, but as her lifeline to a global circle of friends who loved her. We cared deeply, and did our best to give her reasons to smile—and to log in—even on her worst days. We messaged, sent jokes, provided updates about the games and our lives to keep her mind on something other than her illness.
The Request
Mey wasn’t just a guild leader. She was the heart of our guild, known as “The Debauchery Tea Party.” She borrowed the name from her favorite anime, Log Horizon. Like its fictional namesake, our guild was an elite group of players who were friends first and elite gamers second.
Mey made it clear that race, gender, and politics didn’t matter. All were welcome as long as the basic rules of civility and courtesy were followed. She built the guild until it was twenty strong – nineteen now.
I asked her parents, “Would it be okay if we streamed the funeral to the Guild Discord? For those who could not be here because of work, studies, finances, and visas.”
They hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Her friends deserve the chance to say goodbye, too.”
The Funeral & Live Stream
Three cameras streamed her funeral—from the church, through the eulogies, to the gravesite and her internment. It was a painful, private affair that we were grateful to be part of. On Discord, the chat was a steady flow of emojis, virtual hugs, and farewell messages.
No one spoke, yet we all felt the same thing: Rest well, Mey. See you on the other side. Needless to say, there are no videos, clips, or screenshots—just moments shared in real time, across thousands of miles, for our final farewell to our guild leader and friend.
The Wake
After the funeral, we gathered back at her home. The air was heavy; we spoke softly at first, but grief made room for laughter. Inside jokes began to surface. Someone whispered a number, and the room rippled with quiet laughter—old memes revived in honour of our founder.
The seven of us, seated in her parents’ living room, shared what stories we could. Tahara remembered how Mey stayed up to comfort her after a breakup. I spoke of her skills as a raid leader, as a friend. Others shared personal stories, recollections, and the inside jokes we’d been repeating for years.
“23-19! 23-19!” Kitten said, and the room erupted in laughter. Her parents didn’t understand the joke, but they smiled anyway, watching us remember their daughter in ways only we would understand.
Mey’s Legacy
I stayed behind to help her parents answer questions and better understand this side of their daughter. Meanwhile, on our decade-old Minecraft survival server, the guild began to build. It was a place to visit, to remember, and to honour her.
The castle towered into the sky, and because Mey was left-handed, a small signpost on the left-hand pillar reads: “Friends First. Gamers Second. Mey. 1998–2017.”
With Mey’s passing, new leadership was needed. The guild voted for me. “Mey’s choice,” they said. I could never fill her shoes—and I never want to. But the philosophy she left us still stands. We live it. We believe it. And we honour her legacy.
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