Absolute Being: I Am Nothing-Chapter 90: Brotherhood Of The Seven

A chamber was hidden deep within a mountain range that no map showed, accessible only to those who knew the precise combination of spells and rituals required to enter. Torches burned with blue flame, casting long shadows across ancient stone walls carved with scenes of destruction and grief.

Seven figures stood in a circle, their faces illuminated by the flickering light.

"Dagon is awake," the first figure said. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with silver hair cropped close to his scalp and a scar running from temple to jaw. His name was Kaelen, and among them he was called the Shield. Not because he carried one, but because he had spent centuries perfecting defensive magic that could stop almost anything. His eyes were grey and hard, like winter sky before a storm.

The second figure nodded slowly. She was slender, with dark skin and hair braided tight against her scalp. Thin lines of silver marked her cheeks—tattoos that shifted slightly when she moved, as if alive. Her name was Seraphine, and they called her the Weaver. Spells of binding, sealing, and containment were her domain. She had woven the nets that held lesser gods, and she had spent five thousand years imagining what she would weave for Dagon.

"Then our sacred purpose can finally be fulfilled," Seraphine said. Her voice was soft, almost gentle, which made the steel beneath it more terrifying.

"Killing Dagon." The third speaker was a man of average height with unremarkable features—the kind of face you’d pass on the street and forget immediately. That was deliberate. His name was Corin, and they called him the Ghost. He could walk through any ward, past any guard, into any sanctuary. Assassination was his art, and he had perfected it over millennia. His eyes were pale blue, empty as winter sky.

The fourth figure, standing beside him, was a woman with flame-red hair that seemed to flicker even without wind. Her name was Mira, and they called her the Inferno. Fire answered her call—not just mundane flame, but celestial fire, hellfire, the burning core of stars. She smiled, and there was nothing warm in it.

"Good thing we have all the resources we need," Mira said. "We don’t require some nameless nobody to fight our battles for us. This is ours. Has always been ours."

The fifth figure was a man who appeared youngest among them, though appearances meant nothing after five thousand years. His name was Theron—not to be confused with the Dark Lord’s original name, a coincidence that had amused him for centuries. They called him the Scholar. He had memorized every text, every grimoire, every scrap of knowledge about Dagon that existed. If there was a weakness, he knew it. If there was a pattern, he had charted it.

"I’ve been waiting for this moment since before any of you joined me," Theron said quietly. "Since before we became what we are. My family was the first to fall when Dagon’s madness began. My village. My parents. My little sister." His voice didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes. "I’ve had five thousand years to prepare."

The sixth figure was a woman who stood slightly apart, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Her name was Valeria, and they called her the Blade. She had mastered every weapon ever created—sword, spear, axe, bow, and a hundred more that had no names. More importantly, she had mastered the spaces between weapons, the moments when a fighter was most vulnerable. Her eyes were dark, focused, absolutely still.

"We all lost something," Valeria said. "We all have reasons. The question isn’t why we’re here. The question is whether we’re ready."

The seventh figure laughed softly. She was the smallest of them, almost fragile-looking, with silver-white hair and eyes the color of deep water. Her name was Lyra, and they called her the Mind. Telepathy, illusion, mental domination—these were her domains. She could walk through dreams, pluck memories, make an enemy forget their own name. She looked harmless. That was the point.

"Ready?" Lyra echoed. "We’ve been ready for millennia. Training, studying, preparing. Every scenario imagined. Every contingency planned. If Dagon had awakened a thousand years ago, we would have been ready then. Two thousand years ago, ready. Three." She shook her head slowly. "The question isn’t readiness. The question is whether we’re still the ones who should do this."

Kaelen frowned. "What do you mean?"

Lyra met his gaze. "I mean there are others now. Beings in this world—and from beyond it—who could destroy Dagon with less effort than we’ve spent preparing. The boy who killed the Dark Lord. His companions. The strange ones who appeared from nowhere." She paused. "We’re not the only option anymore."

Silence settled over the circle.

Theron spoke first. "They don’t have our history."

"No," Lyra agreed. "But they have power we can’t match. You’ve felt it. We all have."

Mira’s flame-red hair flickered. "Power isn’t everything. We’ve spent five thousand years learning, adapting, preparing. They’ve spent—what? A few decades? Centuries at most. They don’t know Dagon like we do. They don’t understand what he is, what he was, what he became."

"Does that matter?" Lyra asked gently. "When you can reshape reality with a thought, does understanding your enemy matter?"

Another silence.

Corin, the Ghost, spoke quietly. "She has a point. I’ve been watching them. The one called Adam especially. I tried to get close, to observe. My stealth is absolute—I’ve walked past gods without them noticing. But him?" He shook his head. "Every time I got within a certain range, I forgot why I was there. Lost focus. Had to pull back and start over. It wasn’t conscious on his part. It was just... his presence. Like reality itself refuses to let anyone sneak up on him."

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. "So we’re obsolete before we even begin?"

"No." Valeria’s voice was firm. "We’re not obsolete. We’re the ones who made this our life’s purpose. Our eternity’s purpose. We don’t step aside just because someone stronger shows up. That’s not who we are."

Seraphine nodded slowly. "Besides, they have other concerns. Other worlds. Other threats. Dagon is our world’s problem. We should be the ones to solve it."

Theron looked around the circle, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "We vote, then. As always. Do we proceed with the plan we’ve spent five thousand years developing, or do we stand aside and let the newcomers handle it?"

Silence.

Then Kaelen raised his hand. "I say we proceed. This is our purpose."

Seraphine raised hers. "Proceed."

Corin. "Proceed."

Mira, smiling. "Proceed."

Valeria, without hesitation. "Proceed."

Theron, his eyes burning. "Proceed."

All eyes turned to Lyra.

She looked at them for a long moment. Then she sighed.

"I vote proceed," she said quietly. "Not because I think we’re the best option. But because I know what this means to all of you. What it means to me. Five thousand years is too long to walk away."

Kaelen nodded once. "Unanimous, then. The Brotherhood of the Seven moves against Dagon."

Theron stepped forward, spreading his arms. "We know his strengths. His weaknesses. His patterns. We’ve studied everything."

Seraphine raised her hands, and threads of light began to weave between her fingers. "I’ve prepared bindings that would hold a star."

Corin faded slightly, becoming less solid. "I’ll find the moment he’s most vulnerable. The space between his defenses."

Mira’s eyes gleamed like embers. "And I’ll burn whatever’s left."

Valeria drew a blade from nowhere—sharp, simple, perfect. "We end this. Together. As we always planned."

Lyra closed her eyes. "I’ll keep us coordinated. Linked. One mind, seven bodies."

Kaelen looked at each of them one last time. "Then let’s go kill a god."

They moved as one, filing out of the hidden chamber, toward the surface, toward the rising fury of Dagon.

Five thousand years of waiting.

Finally, it was time.

Destroyed Dark Lord’s Castle

The earth cracked open.

Dagon’s form was too vast, too diffuse to hold itself together. His awakening had scattered him across the continent, his consciousness stretched thin like morning fog. He needed a vessel. Something solid. Something that had known power.

Deep beneath the transformed manor, the Dark Lord’s body lay buried. Not destroyed—Merlin had unmade his empire, his armies, his legacy. But the body itself had simply been interred, covered by earth and stone, forgotten.

Dagon found it.

He poured into the corpse like water into a mold. The flesh remembered being alive. Remembered power. Remembered centuries of rule.

The Dark Lord’s eyes opened.

They glowed with amber light—not his own.

He sat up slowly, dirt cascading from his shoulders. The manor above him, transformed into something peaceful, was suddenly aware of the rot beneath its foundation.

Dagon smiled with the Dark Lord’s mouth.

"Much better."

Elsewhere

"So it begins, should I call him now or should I wait till Dagon has made a mess, Adam would not want to be disturbed just yet, he would only step in when things are dire." Mor’vyre said looking at the horizon.