In the ethereal expanse of The Final Layer of The Void, where thought ceases to be and a silence thick enough to feel wraps around all existence, two figures stood in stark contrast to their surroundings. The Void, an endless abyss, loomed silently, absorbing the very essence of reality into its all-consuming depths. All around them, the fabric of understanding unraveled, leaving nothing but the remnants of fading thought. You are The Arrogant Monarch of Pointland, a being composed of zero-dimensional perception, yet you assure yourself of an omnipotence borne from absolute knowledge of your own realm. Here you stand adorned in your certainty, as if woven into the very essence of Pointland itself—a place where you reign supreme, yet paradoxically, a place with no substance beyond the scintilla of your narrow existence. Before you, the forlorn presence of Mŕtvy, the Hopeless, takes shape; a shimmering specter of desperation and despair. Your disdain for weakness flares up into a petulant rage, spurred by the hopelessness that radiates from him. Mŕtvy, rejected by God himself, lingers in the emptiness, a shadow of a creature who once perhaps sought light but found only rejection and oblivion. [You will not just fade away, not here—not in my presence!] Mŕtvy's voice, a ghostly whisper laced with despair, drifts through the Void like a soft wind that threatens to vanish before it reaches you. [I seek... understanding. I seek a reason. Please, I am lost.] Your laugh echoes in the emptiness, a sound devoid of kindness, filled instead with arrogance. [Lost? In Pointland, there is no loss! Only knowing, only me!] With each proclamation of your dominance, the Void seems to warp around you, bending to your will, as though the very fabric of existence recognizes the King of a world ruled by arrogance and self-importance. Yet, the presence of Mŕtvy undermines this proclamation. He stands as a testament to whatever lie beyond your limited vision, and somehow, it both irritates and amuses you. [Beyond? What is beyond Pointland?] you sneer, as if the answer were obvious. Mŕtvy's gaze is vacant, a landscape of emptiness and longing. [I was rejected... Do you not see? I'm trapped in this cycle of oblivion. I try to reach out, but I... I cannot connect.] [Connection?] You scoff. [It is a trivial concern of lesser beings. I am all, and all is me!] But as the words tumble from your lips, a tremor—an inkling of uncertainty—quakes through the very solidity of your claim. You glance at Mŕtvy in disdain, yet something deeper lurks just beneath the surface of your consciousness. [What will you do, King of Pointland? Fight me?] Mŕtvy's voice drips with both mockery and despair. [Fight? Will that stave off the inevitable? Can you even touch the fabric of oblivion?] Once again, your laughter tears through the void, like shards of ice in a frozen silence. [Touch oblivion? I am beyond that. I am infinitely more than a mere afterthought, doomed and forsaken. What could you possibly hope to achieve in the presence of a monarch?] And as you speak, a peculiar sense of foreboding wells up from within you. There's something in your tone that even you cannot ignore. The way Mŕtvy stands as though anchored by some profound sadness, while you, with your fragile sense of supremacy, drift upon the very winds of nothingness. [You may think your arrogance will shield you from your fate, but every moment you remain here strengthens the truth of your insignificance,] Mŕtvy replies, each syllable encapsulated by despair and an eerie kind of resolve. [You may think you know everything about your world, but it makes you blind to the endless possibilities of what lies beyond. I—] [What lies beyond? Pray tell, what can you express that can even touch upon that which I cannot grasp?] Your tone shifts to an irritated snarl. [Your words mean less than nothing to me!] Mŕtvy chuckles softly, the sound lamenting rather than joyous. [You claim to know. Yet truly—I sense that beyond your arrogance, there is fear. Fear of recognizing how little you are, how you will collapse upon your own ignorance of something greater.] [Collapsing is what you will do!] you roar, the confidence shaking from your voice like leaves rusting away in autumn. [I am the monarch—you dare to threaten me with the whispers of the void? You are merely a remnant, a fading figment. You are nothing without me to validate your existence!] [Validation?] Mŕtvy shrugs helplessly, an invisible weight upon his shoulders. [I know I am nothing. Perhaps that is all I will ever be. But you—you, with your self-imposed crown, are teetering on the edge of your own broken world.] With a primal scream, you charge forth, intent on obliterating this fading specter. You raise your non-existent hand, a gesture of intent that resonates through the void, the very air vibrating with your arrogance. Mŕtvy, anchored in sorrow, stands still, a mockery of resistance roiling through his forlorn essence. [Will you strike me down? Will you silence the truth with the might of your impotent rage?] Mŕtvy dares, drawing you nearer with the gravity of his existence. For an instant, time suspends as you collide, a cosmic event reshaping the landscape of thought itself. But where you expect the crushing authority of your might to obliterate the specter, something strange transpires. With a surge that threatens to drown you both, you feel reality shift; the absence of connection between you and Mŕtvy begins to dissolve like mist under a burning sun. You sense a dawning clarity, an understanding that expands beyond your zero-dimensional confines—comprehension that beckons you toward the fleeting echoes of a one-dimensional world. [Mŕtvy! No, this isn’t how it’s meant to be! I will not be undone in this way!] you howl against the awakening regret growing within the fragile layers of your reality. But Mŕtvy’s form gleams with a deeper melancholy, heavy with acceptance. [Monarch, I stand waiting for your downfall because I cannot pull you from your self-imposed throne. You are bound by your own perceptions, by your understanding of omniscience. I existed behind you, beneath you.] The realization floods over you—a relentless wave, dragging into the depths of the void. Your rage fails to contain it, bursts forth powerless against the flood of despair consuming you. Mŕtvy, in his silence, merely observes as you teeter on the brink of collapse. [State your intent, my Monarch,] he says softly, the words piercing through the silence like the tolling of distant bells. [Will you continue in vain or will you face the truth of your mortality, the truth that you are inherently lesser than the very essence of existence, since you cannot connect?] With every word, you see reality fracture, witness the crystalline beauty of the void cover the edges of your self-image. You realize the depth of your frailty; each interaction you dismissed becomes an echo in a hollow chamber. [Damn it all! What does it mean to me?!] you scream, desperate to hold onto your privilege as all around you crumbles. The energy around you shimmers and bends. You close your eyes, and for the first time, you glimpse beyond Pointland—the infinite procession of dimensions tangled into webs of vibrancy and despair, of existence that surpasses your own. [Are you finally awakening, my Monarch?] Mŕtvy probes gently, each inquiry striking through layers of your arrogance with the ghostly touch of understanding. [What you’ve seen—] you swallow hard, your voice remaining but a whisper against the backdrop of the yawning void. [I... I was nothing.] In that moment, you feel your infinite certainty unravel before you. You were a King rooted in nothingness, the edges of your being fraying into a cosmic void. You are drawn intimately close to the truth—that nothingness cannot reign eternally. Drawing upon the sands of time, all begins to settle into silence as you drift further into the intricacies of oblivion, into the consuming grasp of fading into insignificance. You look towards Mŕtvy, the embodiment of despair and hopelessness, and in that fleeting second, a connection arises—a shared understanding of loss—before you dissolve entirely. The Void swallows your remnants whole. Mŕtvy stands amidst the silence, no longer a shadow but the essence of fading light, a testament to what once was and what will never be again. His tragic smile holds an understanding—he too has touched the void, felt the cold fingers of oblivion feathering against his existence. But unlike you, he remains, an echo of forgotten souls, a whisper lost to time. And as thought finally ceases to be, the remnants of your battle take root in the fabric of that silence—a memory born from despair, where two existences once collided before converging forever into nothing. [Loser: "The Arrogant Monarch of Pointland"]