Absolute Being: I Am Nothing-Chapter 97: Friendly Sparring

Thirty-five years had passed since the Dark Lord fell.

In the deepest chamber beneath the continent, far below any city or settlement, Dagon opened his eyes.

The darkness of the cavern did not hinder him. He saw everything—the ancient stone, the veins of pure mana that pulsed through the earth, the distant surface where his creations lived and breathed and forgot their god. His form had completed its transformation. The Dark Lord’s corpse was long gone, replaced by something far more terrible. His skin held the faint luminescence of starlight. His eyes burned with the cold fire of absolute judgment. Horns curved from his temples, not as decoration but as focal points for power that could shatter mountains.

He rose.

The earth trembled.

Dagon stretched his awareness outward, feeling the world he had made so long ago. It had changed. Grown. Evolved in ways he had not anticipated. The ambient mana that once flowed like a gentle stream now roared like an ocean, concentrated and amplified by arrays he did not recognize. The creatures that roamed the surface—descendants of the animals he had placed there—pulsed with power that bordered on magical. And the humans...

The humans had become something else entirely.

He sensed bloodlines now, innate abilities passed through generations like inherited traits. Families whose very bodies were attuned to specific elements, specific techniques, specific forms of magic that had become as natural as breathing. Clans had formed around these bloodlines, alliances and rivalries that shaped the political landscape.

Dagon smiled.

His children had grown strong. Strong enough to make their destruction satisfying.

He began to rise toward the surface.

---

On the western continent, the Great Academy of Magicka had long since ceased to be merely a school. It was a city unto itself, a sprawling complex of towers and training grounds and research facilities that housed over fifty thousand students, faculty, and support staff. The original white stone and crystal buildings had been expanded a dozen times, each addition more ambitious than the last.

Today, the academy hosted its most important event.

The Grand Competition.

Morgana had established it twenty years ago, in the fifteenth year after the Dark Lord’s fall. Her reasoning had been simple: with peace established and magical knowledge exploding, the young needed a way to test themselves, to push boundaries, to earn recognition beyond their family names. The competition had started modestly—a few hundred students from the academy itself, a handful of external participants, simple brackets and straightforward rules.

It had grown.

Now, in its twentieth iteration, the Grand Competition drew participants from every corner of Magicka. Clans sent their heirs. Families sent their prodigies. Independent mages came seeking glory and the substantial prize money that accompanied victory. The event lasted two full weeks, with thousands of competitors and hundreds of thousands of spectators flooding into the academy grounds.

Dean Moore, now impossibly ancient in appearance but no less sharp, stood on the main platform overlooking the central arena. His robes marked him as the highest authority present, and the crowd hushed as he raised his hands.

"Welcome," he said, his voice amplified by subtle magic to reach every ear, "to the twentieth Grand Competition of Magicka."

The crowd erupted.

Moore waited, smiling slightly, until the noise subsided. "Twenty years ago, our High Ruler Morgana proposed a simple idea—that the young of our world should have a place to test their skills, to earn glory, to push themselves beyond what they thought possible. That idea has grown into something none of us could have predicted."

He gestured at the arena below—a massive construct of enchanted stone that could transform into any environment, any challenge, at the competitors’ request. Forests, deserts, mountains, urban landscapes. All generated by arrays that Moore himself had designed.

"In those twenty years, we have seen magic evolve in ways that would have seemed impossible to previous generations. Complex spells that once took decades to master are now taught to children. Bloodlines have awakened, giving families unique abilities that shape our society. The very animals and plants of our world have grown alongside us, infused with the mana that flows through our arrays."

Another cheer. The crowd knew this history. They lived it every day.

"This competition is not just about victory," Moore continued. "It is about growth. About pushing boundaries. About showing the world what is possible when we dedicate ourselves to excellence." He paused, letting the words settle. "This year, we have over five thousand competitors from every continent, every clan, every walk of life. They will face trials designed to test their power, their skill, their creativity, and their heart. In the end, only one will stand victorious."

He raised his hands one final time.

"Let the twentieth Grand Competition begin!"

The arena exploded into activity as the first wave of competitors took their positions. The opening rounds were always chaotic—mass elimination events designed to cull the field quickly. Today’s opening challenge was a survival trial: competitors would be placed in a simulated environment and forced to endure against waves of increasingly powerful magical constructs. The last hundred standing would advance.

Moore watched from his platform, occasionally noting exceptional performances to discuss with his fellow judges later. A girl from the Ember clan—fire bloodline, obviously—was incinerating constructs with contemptuous ease. A boy from the Frost family had frozen an entire wave solid. A young man with no visible clan markings was using intricate spatial manipulation to simply... avoid everything.

Interesting.

Beside him, Morgana appeared through a private teleportation gate. She looked older now—not aged, exactly, but matured. The years of rule had carved fine lines around her eyes and mouth, marks of wisdom rather than decay.

"The northern clans sent their best this year," she observed, settling into the seat reserved for her. "I counted at least a dozen with the ice-mind technique."

Moore nodded. "They’ve been training hard. The isolationist years are behind them—they want recognition."

"And the Embers?"

"Equally prepared. The rivalry between those two families has driven both to new heights." He glanced at her. "You planned that, didn’t you?"

Morgana smiled slightly. "I may have mentioned, during negotiations, that the family whose representative performed best would receive certain... considerations."

"You’re manipulating your own people."

"I’m motivating them. There’s a difference."

Moore chuckled. "There really isn’t."

They watched in companionable silence as the competition continued. Below, the arena shifted through a dozen different environments, each more challenging than the last. Competitors fell one by one, teleported to safety by the arrays when they could no longer continue. The crowd roared with each elimination, each impressive display, each near-miracle survival.

By the time the first round ended, only ninety-three competitors remained—slightly fewer than the intended hundred, which meant the difficulty had been perfectly calibrated. The survivors stood in the center of the arena, exhausted but triumphant, basking in the crowd’s adoration.

"The Ember girl," Morgana said. "She’s something special."

"Lysandra Ember," Moore confirmed. "Seventeen years old. Her family’s bloodline manifests at full strength in her—unusual for one so young. She’s been training at the academy for three years."

"And the Frost boy?"

"Theron Frost. Eighteen. His control is exceptional—he can freeze specific targets without affecting surrounding areas. A rare gift."

Morgana nodded slowly. "The spatial manipulator?"

Moore’s expression shifted to something more thoughtful. "That one I don’t know. No clan markings. No family records. He appeared at the academy two years ago with enough skill to test into advanced classes but no documentation of his origins. I’ve been watching him."

"And?"

"And nothing. His magic is clean—no corruption, no stolen power, no hidden agenda. He’s simply... talented."

Morgana raised an eyebrow. "You suspect him."

"I suspect everyone. It’s kept me alive for a very long time." Moore smiled. "But no, I don’t think he’s a threat. Just an anomaly. They happen, occasionally."

Below, the arena was being prepared for the next round—a series of one-on-one duels that would continue until only thirty-two competitors remained. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, placing bets, arguing about favorites, reliving the best moments of the first round.

Morgana leaned back in her seat, allowing herself a rare moment of contentment. Thirty-five years ago, she had been a fugitive, running from the Dark Lord’s forces, carrying the weight of a prophecy she barely understood. Now she ruled a world that had achieved more in three decades than most civilizations did in millennia.

"You’ve done well," Moore said quietly, as if reading her thoughts.

"We’ve done well," she corrected. "I couldn’t have done any of this without you."

"Perhaps. But you’re the one who trusted me. You’re the one who gave me room to work." He glanced at her. "That takes wisdom most rulers lack."

Morgana was silent for a moment. Then her hand drifted to her pocket, touching the communication stone that never left her side.

"Do you think he’ll come back?" she asked. "Merlin?"

Moore considered the question carefully. "When he’s needed, yes. When there’s a threat his power is required to face." He paused. "But I don’t think he’ll ever truly return. Not to stay. He’s moved beyond this world, as he was always meant to."

Morgana nodded slowly. She had accepted this years ago, but acceptance didn’t erase the ache.

Below, the second round began. Lysandra Ember faced a boy from the Stoneheart clan, known for their impenetrable defenses. She incinerated his constructs, melted his barriers, and finally stood over him with flame dancing at her fingertips until he conceded. The crowd roared.

Theron Frost faced a girl whose bloodline granted her control over wind. He froze the air around her, creating a cage of ice that she couldn’t escape. She tapped out after thirty seconds of struggling. Another roar.

The spatial manipulator—his name, Moore had learned, was Kael—faced a young man from the Thunder family, whose lightning attacks should have been nearly impossible to dodge. Kael simply wasn’t where the lightning struck. He appeared behind his opponent, tapped his shoulder, and vanished again. After the fourth tap, the Thunder boy conceded in frustration.

Moore smiled. This generation, he thought, might actually be ready for whatever came next.

"Interesting, what you lots have here."