Absolute Being: I Am Nothing-Chapter 98: Fighting Lesson 101

"Interesting, what you folks have here."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through the arena’s noise like a blade through silk. Every person in the stadium heard it clearly, as if the speaker stood right beside them.

The crowd went silent.

Competitors froze mid-spell. Spectators stopped cheering. The magical constructs in the arena flickered and dissolved as their power sources suddenly became unstable.

A figure descended from the sky.

He landed in the center of the arena, exactly where the duels had been taking place moments before. The stone beneath his feet didn’t crack—it simply... accepted him, as if recognizing its creator. Dagon stood tall, his starlit skin gleaming in the afternoon light, his horned head turning slowly to take in the stadium, the crowd, the competitors frozen in place around him.

He looked at Lysandra Ember, whose flames had sputtered and died the moment he appeared. He looked at Theron Frost, whose ice constructs had melted into harmless puddles. He looked at Kael, the spatial manipulator, who had teleported instinctively to the far side of the arena and was staring with wide eyes.

Then Dagon smiled.

It was not a cruel smile. Not yet. It was the smile of a craftsman examining work done in his absence, finding it unexpectedly impressive.

"You’ve been busy," he said, addressing no one in particular. "Thirty-five years, and you’ve accomplished more than most civilizations do in millennia. The arrays alone..." He gestured vaguely at the invisible networks of power that surrounded them. "Elegant. Efficient. Borrowed from other worlds, perhaps, but adapted beautifully."

His gaze swept across the crowd, and everywhere it landed, people felt a chill that had nothing to do with temperature.

"The bloodlines," Dagon continued. "I didn’t design those. They emerged naturally, a response to the concentrated mana. Fascinating. You’ve become something I never anticipated." He paused, tilting his head. "I’m almost proud."

On the main platform, Morgana had risen from her seat. Her face was pale, but her hand was steady as it moved toward her pocket—toward the communication stone that could reach Merlin across any distance.

Moore’s hand caught her wrist.

"Wait," he said quietly.

Morgana stared at him. "He’s here. Dagon. The god. He’s right there."

"I know."

"Then let me call Merlin. He can end this before—"

"No." Moore’s voice was firm but not unkind. "Not yet."

Morgana’s eyes widened. "What do you mean, not yet? He’ll destroy everything. Everyone. We’re not ready for—"

"You’re ready." Moore met her gaze steadily. "You, personally, are more ready than you know. Merlin gave you power thirty-five years ago. Power you’ve barely tested. Power that’s grown with you, matured with you, become part of you." He gestured at the arena. "And them—this new generation—they’ve never faced a real threat. Never been tested. They’ve grown soft on peace and plenty."

Morgana’s jaw tightened. "You want them to fight a god."

"I want them to have the chance to fight. To struggle. To grow." Moore’s voice softened. "If they fail, if they’re truly overwhelmed, then we call Merlin. But if we call him now, they learn nothing. They remain dependent on a savior who may not always be there." He paused. "You, of all people, should understand that."

Morgana was silent for a long moment. Below, Dagon was still speaking, his voice carrying easily to every corner of the stadium.

"I didn’t come to destroy you," the god was saying. "Not immediately. I came to see what you’d become. To judge whether you’re worthy of the world I gave you." His smile widened. "So far, I’m impressed. But impressed isn’t the same as satisfied."

Morgana’s hand remained in her pocket, touching the stone. She could call Merlin right now. One thought, and he would come. She knew it with absolute certainty.

But Moore was right.

She couldn’t keep relying on Merlin forever. This world was hers now. These people were her responsibility. And this generation—these bright, talented, untested young mages—needed to learn what they were capable of.

She withdrew her hand from her pocket.

Moore nodded slowly. "Good."

"Lead the charge," Morgana said quietly. "I’ll be right behind you."

Moore raised an eyebrow. "You want me to—"

"You’re the most experienced fighter here. You’ve faced gods before, haven’t you? In whatever ancient life you lived before coming to us?" She met his eyes. "I’ve always known you were more than you appeared, Moore. Now’s the time to show it."

For a long moment, Moore simply looked at her. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his weathered face.

"You’re sharper than I gave you credit for," he said.

"I’ve had a good teacher."

Below, Dagon had finished his speech. The competitors were stirring, fear warring with indignation in their expressions. Lysandra Ember’s flames flickered back to life—weaker than before, but present. Theron Frost’s ice reformed around his hands. Kael the spatial manipulator had stopped retreating and was studying Dagon with calculating eyes.

Moore stepped to the edge of the platform. His voice, amplified by the same magic he’d used for the opening ceremony, carried across the stadium.

"Dagon."

The god looked up. His ancient eyes fixed on Moore with sudden interest.

"You know my name," Dagon said. "Few still do."

"I know many things." Moore’s voice was calm, conversational. "I know you were once beloved. I know something twisted you, turned you into this." He gestured at the god’s form. "I know you’ve spent thirty-five years recovering your strength. And I know you’ve come expecting easy prey."

Dagon’s smile sharpened. "And what do you intend to do about it, old man?"

Moore’s own smile was gentle, almost sad.

"Introduce you to my students."

He leaped from the platform.

The distance to the arena floor was considerable, but Moore didn’t fall—he descended, slowly, deliberately, as if walking down invisible stairs. When he reached the ground, he stood facing Dagon directly, separated by less than fifty feet of enchanted stone.

Around them, the competitors were moving. Not running—gathering. Lysandra Ember came to Moore’s left, flames now burning bright and hot. Theron Frost took the right, ice spreading across the ground in defensive patterns. Kael flickered in and out of existence, positioning himself for maximum flexibility. Others followed—Stoneheart, Thunder, a dozen more bloodlines and traditions.

They formed a loose semicircle around Dagon, their expressions a mix of fear and determination.

Dagon looked at them. Then he laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh. It was genuinely amused, genuinely appreciative.

"You’d fight me? Children who weren’t even born when I was bound? You have no history with me, no grievance, no reason to risk your lives." He spread his arms. "Why?"

Lysandra spoke first. Her voice was young but steady.

"Because you’re threatening our world. Our home. Our people." Flames danced at her fingertips. "That’s enough reason."

Theron nodded. "We didn’t ask for this fight. But we won’t run from it."

Kael appeared directly behind Dagon for a split second, then vanished again. "And honestly? We’ve been training our whole lives for something. Might as well be a god."

Dagon looked at each of them in turn. Then his gaze returned to Moore.

"You’ve raised them well," he said quietly.

"I’ve tried."

"It won’t save them."

"No." Moore’s voice was sad. "Probably not. But it will teach them. And that’s worth something."

Dagon nodded slowly, as if acknowledging a worthy opponent’s point.

Then the air changed.

The pressure that descended was physical, crushing, absolute. Every person in the stadium felt it—the weight of a god’s attention, the immensity of power that dwarfed anything they’d ever encountered.

"Then let the lesson begin," Dagon said.

And the battle started.