Absolute Being: I Am Nothing Chapter 37

"Mor’vyre," Rebecca said, looking at him without any edge in her voice, "were you born like that, or did something happen to make your face split that way."

Mor’vyre didn’t answer immediately.

He stayed still, then let out a quiet breath that sounded tired in a way only very old beings could manage.

"Neither," he said. "And both."

Rebecca waited. She didn’t rush him.

"It wasn’t an accident," Mor’vyre continued. "And it wasn’t a blessing. It was a choice. One I made when I still believed compromise was smarter than conviction."

He touched the side of his face that looked human. Then the bone half.

"I was whole once. One soul. One will. I ruled a small domain back then. Not a kingdom like the ones you know. A convergence. A place where dying concepts came to rest when they lost relevance."

Rebecca frowned slightly. "Concepts die?"

"They used to," Mor’vyre said. "Before Absolutes woke up. Before things like you and Adam existed. Concepts were finite then. Strong, yes. Dangerous, yes. But still bound by cycles."

He laughed quietly. "Death itself wasn’t absolute. It was a function."

Rebecca didn’t interrupt.

"The Night Regalia formed because of fear," Mor’vyre went on. "Not malice. Not at first. We were created by survivors. Concepts, gods, monarchs, priests. All of them terrified that one day they would fade."

"So they decided to rule the fading," Rebecca said.

"Yes," Mor’vyre replied. "They crowned themselves custodians of the cosmos. Not to protect life. To protect relevance. To make sure nothing new grew strong enough to replace them."

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. "And you joined them."

"I helped build them," Mor’vyre said plainly. "Before the crowns. Before the titles. Before the rot."

He looked at her. "Back then, the Regalia didn’t hunt Absolutes. There were none. They hunted unstable concepts. Fire that burned too freely. Time that fractured. Death gods who overreached their worlds."

Rebecca felt something twist in her chest. "So they weren’t always monsters."

"No," Mor’vyre said. "They became monsters because the universe stopped needing them."

Silence followed for a moment.

Rebecca finally spoke. "And your face."

Mor’vyre smiled faintly. "Ah. That."

He turned slightly so she could see both halves clearly.

"When the Regalia realized fear wasn’t enough, they sought permanence. They started merging concepts. Binding incompatible forces into single vessels. Bone with soul. Dominion with decay."

"That sounds insane."

"It was," Mor’vyre said. "But it worked. Sometimes."

He tapped the skull side. "This half is a fallen concept. A devourer of remains. The thing that eats what death leaves behind. It was dying. I absorbed it."

"And the other half?" Rebecca asked.

"Me," he said. "Or what I used to be."

Rebecca crossed her arms. "You split yourself."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because if I didn’t," Mor’vyre said, "the Regalia would’ve forced me to take something worse. Or replaced me."

Rebecca stared at him. "You became half a monster to avoid becoming a full one."

Mor’vyre nodded once. "And in doing so, I outlived them."

She exhaled slowly. "You said earlier that I’m not like the concepts you fought back then."

"You aren’t," he said immediately. "Neither is Adam. Or Alex. Or Order. You’re not functions. You’re not roles. You’re final states."

Rebecca’s gaze hardened. "So when the Regalia fought concepts before, they were bullying things weaker than them."

"Yes."

"And now?"

"Now they poked the ground and woke up the foundation," Mor’vyre said. "That’s why they died."

Rebecca stayed quiet for a long time.

Then she spoke.

"Can you tell me how big this cosmos really is," she said, voice low, steady, "and how much of it I actually govern."

Mor’vyre didn’t answer right away.

When he did, his tone was different. Not cautious. Not teasing. Honest.

"You govern all of it," he said.

Rebecca turned her head slightly. "That’s not an answer."

"It is," Mor’vyre replied. "Just not one you’re ready to accept yet."

She watched him closely. "Explain."

He nodded once. "The cosmos isn’t just this world. It isn’t just a collection of stars and realms stacked on top of each other. What you call the universe is only a room in a house that never ends."

Rebecca frowned. "So multiverses."

"Yes," Mor’vyre said. "And beyond that. Layers. Recursions. Failed drafts. Abandoned timelines. Collapsed realities. Conceptual afterimages. Echoes of worlds that were never fully born."

She inhaled slowly.

"And death exists in all of them," she said.

Mor’vyre smiled faintly. "Not exists. Happens."

Rebecca’s fingers curled slightly.

"In every world," he continued, "there is an end. It may look different. It may feel different. Some call it passing. Some call it return. Some pretend it isn’t there at all."

He looked straight at her.

"But when it comes, it answers to you."

Her throat tightened. "You’re saying I’m not just the death of this world."

"No," Mor’vyre said. "You are death in every world. Every universe. Every failed experiment and every perfect creation."

She shook her head once. "That doesn’t make sense. There are death gods everywhere."

"Yes," he said. "And they are all local."

Rebecca laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it. "Avatars."

"Managers," Mor’vyre corrected. "Caretakers bound to rules. Borders. Permissions."

"And me?"

"You are not bound," he said. "You are not stationed. You are not assigned."

Rebecca’s voice dropped. "Then what am I."

Mor’vyre answered without hesitation. "You are the final constant."

Silence stretched between them.

"You don’t govern a region," he went on. "You don’t oversee a system. You are not a throne-holder. You are the moment everything agrees it is over."

Rebecca swallowed. "That sounds... endless."

"It is," Mor’vyre said. "Which is why most beings never survive realizing it."

She looked down at her hands. "So when someone dies in another universe..."

"You are there," he said. "Not as a figure. Not as a face. As certainty."

"And when a universe dies?"

"You are there too."

Her breath hitched. "And when a verse ends."

Mor’vyre nodded. "You close it."

Rebecca pressed her lips together. "Then what about creation. Life. Order."

"They begin things," he said. "You finish them."

She looked up sharply. "And Nonexistence."

Mor’vyre hesitated for the first time. "Nonexistence is different. It is before and after. It removes the record. You... you preserve meaning."

Rebecca stared at him. "Meaning."

"Yes," he said softly. "Death is not erasure. It is punctuation."

Her hands trembled slightly. "So I decide when something is truly done."

"You already do," Mor’vyre said. "You just haven’t stopped pretending you don’t."

She laughed again, breathless. "That’s too much."

"It’s everything," he replied.

Rebecca closed her eyes. Images flashed through her mind. Her brothers. Her parents. Worlds she’d never seen. Lives she’d never lived.

"So when I killed those assassins," she said quietly, "that wasn’t power."

"No," Mor’vyre said. "That was instinct."

"And when I brought them back."

"That was curiosity."

She opened her eyes. "Then what happens when I stop holding back."

Mor’vyre’s expression darkened. "Then endings become absolute."

She stared at him. "Is that why the Regalia feared Absolutes."

"Yes," he said. "Because you are not part of the cycle they learned to manipulate."

Rebecca leaned back slightly. "So I don’t just govern death."

"You are the reason cycles exist at all," Mor’vyre said.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "And I’m still me."

He looked at her carefully. "That’s the dangerous part."

She let out a slow breath. "If I wanted to..."

He finished the thought. "You could end concepts. Gods. Systems. Stories."

She nodded slowly. "But I won’t."

Mor’vyre smiled. "That’s why you were chosen."

Rebecca looked away, eyes sharp now. "And if someone tries to take that choice from me."

Mor’vyre’s voice was calm. "Then the cosmos will learn what true death feels like."

Somewhere far beyond them, something ancient stirred.

Rebecca felt it.

And this time, she didn’t flinch.