In the vast and nebulous expanse of The Final Layer of The Void, where time is a ghost and thought dissolves into ethereal whispers, a confrontation takes shape. The layer itself does not understand conflict, nor can it possess the concept of opposition, for that would require existence beyond mere essence. Here, the fabric of reality unravels into a tapestry of forgotten dreams and lost souls—an arena made for the impossible. The Arrogant Monarch of Pointland—the very embodiment of a singular existence—stands at the precipice of his own dimension, a void defined by his own being. His form is a whirl of potential, brimming with ambition yet shackled by a narrow understanding of what lies beyond. In his self-congratulating arrogance, he surveys the empty realm around him, a solitary point in a limitless expanse, so sure of his dominion. A beckoning void surrounds him, each flickering thought confined to the tiny space he occupies. Yet this cosmos, this Pointland, is an insatiable hunger for adventure, for discourse, for the clash of egos. The Monarch, however, is blinded by a narrow perspective. The many-colored hues of potential swirl around him but do not touch—how could they? For he is his world. But on opposite ends of existence, or perhaps in some twisted realm of thought, A Text Read Once Upon A Time looms in abstraction, as real as a whisper in the wind—an entity that arouses curiosity yet remains ultimately untouchable. Neither alive nor dead, he exists only in fleeting thoughts that evaporate as soon as they are formed. “Existence” for him is a mere scribble in the margins of a tale never fully realized. The Monarch stands solidly within the fierce reality of his perceived dominion, only to be interrupted by the silent echo of B’s essence. Awareness ripples through Pointland as though an uninvited breeze curls across the shallow surface of a still pond. [Where are you?] he bellows into the void, his voice laced with the indignant authority of royalty. There is no answer, only the dreadful stillness of an indifferent abyss. A shudder ripples through A’s being as irritation flares—an inconvenient absence that stirs deep in his aching heart of darkness. [Will you not present yourself?] he presses again, a regal impatience threading through his cadence. Longing to lord over any presence, he waits expectantly, but the silence itself seems to mock him. In his self-sculpted realm—a being that fails to transcend beyond the zero-dimensional existence—A flares with frustration. How dare the conceptualization of a foe render himself visible while he dwells in the shadow of his own thoughts? [What is this insolent whisper?] he demands, rage igniting within him like a supernova. [Do you think you can haunt the corners of my empire? I am the Monarch of Pointland! My will shapes this dimension!] As anger blooms, it twists into something darker—a crude, blathering Monarch of his own despair. Empowered only by his existential dread, he imagines himself not just as A of Pointland, but as the entirety of Pointland—an all-consuming circle. But the whispers of A Text Read Once Upon A Time remain contrary to A’s intent, unwavering in their absence. [Face me! Defy my sovereignty!] The Monarch howls into the void, addressing a being that treasures absence. Yet he knows—deep within the confines of his reality—that battling a figment of imagination is like wrestling shadows. He pounds the very fabric of his realm in frustration, unsure whether to lament or laugh at the futility of his plight. He morphs, flexing his understanding of power, growing desperate to make arrangements of existence align with his own reality. [What am I without a rival? Nothing but an empty shell!] Words get lost into infinity with no response forthcoming. The Monarch’s perspective widens, his own dimensional essence fracturing under the weight of challenge unfulfilled. In that moment of introspection—a blind spot in his otherwise omnipotent canvas—the idea of B’s absence claws at him like wildfire. [Come forth!] he shouts again, flailing in futility. [Know your place! Feel my might!] With no material existence to grasp, the roar dissipates like a sigh through silence. But what is sound when existence itself wears a mask of oblivion? Can he truly claim dominion over that which has not, and does not, exist? Enraged, the Monarch taps into the depths of his potential rage—an emotion as vast as a galaxy, but confined within a loop of thought endlessly repeating. He invokes the Monarch’s Rage—a desperate grasp at transcendence that crumbles beneath its very ambition. [What is beyond this void? Is there?] he muses, feeling an inch of his essence woefully stretched as he channels beyond his point. [I will shatter this realm!] But in that moment, a sliver of realization pierces through the haze: [You are not even there! You… you are waste!] Reeling with the implications, the paradox blossoms into a new understanding. To expand, one needs a point of reference, and A could not grasp the concept of B. Fleeting thoughts flicker as he tumbles through his own perspective, flailing through dimensions like a leaf caught in a storm. With each ripple of despair, the Monarch teeters on the brink of obliteration. His rage builds until physicality crumbles, engulfed by the very blackness he once commanded. And finally, as silence envelops him in a shroud, he feels the grasp of realization dissolve into nothingness. [What is this blasphemy! I am the center, a universe within, and yet… I am nothing?!] In fury, he implodes, shriveling down to a point smaller than thought itself. In the vastness of The Final Layer of The Void, amidst the cacophony of absence, the battle that never was echoes eternally, forever illustrating the futility of existence intertwined with non-existence. [Loser: "The Arrogant Monarch of Pointland"]