Global Apocalypse: My System Is Always AFK

They surfaced to find the courtyard in a state of barely contained chaos, the Instance 12-Kesh delegation clustered tight near the visitor pavilion, three severe-looking envoys deep in argument with a pair of Coalition liaisons while the rest of the gathered crowd tried, with limited success, to look like they weren’t eavesdropping.

Ethan crossed the courtyard fast, Sundari, Kaia, and Suresh close behind him, and the argument stopped the instant he arrived, every head turning toward him with the particular weight of people who’d been waiting to see exactly this reaction.

”You’re the Instance 12-Kesh delegation,” Ethan said. ”I hear your successor sent me a message. I’d like to see it.”

The lead envoy - an older woman with the kind of composed, weathered authority that suggested she’d been navigating diplomatic minefields for most of her life - hesitated, glancing at her colleagues before answering.

”We were not planning to disclose this before the formal hearing,” she said carefully. ”Our successor’s communications are... rare. And typically routed through very specific administrative channels. This one bypassed all of them.”

”That’s exactly why I want to see it,” Ethan said. ”If your successor’s spent two hundred years absorbed into administrative duty and suddenly finds the ability to send an unscheduled message the moment I show up in the network, I think that’s relevant to a lot more than just your own Instance’s politics.”

The envoy studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly, gesturing for one of her colleagues to bring forward a small, dark device that pulsed faintly with the same gold-violet light Ethan had come to associate with anything Origin Engine-adjacent.

”The message is short,” she warned. ”And we do not have full context for it. Our successor has not communicated anything resembling a personal thought in over a century. This is... unprecedented for us as well.”

She activated the device, and a voice filled the courtyard - layered, strange, carrying the unmistakable weight of something speaking across a vast distance, both from time and from whatever the seat had made of them.

”Ethan Verma. I felt you the moment you touched the terminal. I have felt very little in two hundred years - the seat does not leave much room for feeling, only for administering. But I felt that.”

”I do not know if you intend to accept what I accepted. I hope, sincerely, that you do not. But if the Coalition forces the vote currently tabled against you, and if you find yourself without a way to refuse it cleanly, I want you to know what I was never told before I said yes.”

”There is a tournament coming. Not one the Coalition is organizing. One the Origin Engine itself intends to hold, regardless of what any of us decide - a formal proving ground, gathering every unresolvable-class user across the network, myself included, to determine who among us is genuinely fit to hold custody of what remains of Arjun Mehra’s abandoned authority.”

”It has already begun selecting participants. I am one. You will be another, whether you consent to enter or not.”

The message ended there, the device’s light fading, the courtyard silent except for the faint hum of the tea golem shifting nervously nearby.

Ethan stared at the now-dark device for a long moment, the weight of it settling into his chest with a coldness that made the earlier conversation with Sundari feel almost gentle by comparison.

”A tournament,” he said finally. ”Involving every unresolvable user in the network. Including someone who’s been trapped in administrative duty for two centuries and just used what sounds like the first real agency he’s had in that entire time to warn me about it.”

[NOTICE: The system has been cross-referencing this claim against every archive fragment currently accessible, and it can confirm the phrase ”proving ground” appears in the terminal’s own deepest records - heavily corrupted, previously undecipherable, now suddenly contextualized by this message. The system believes this tournament is real, and further believes it is not something the subject will be able to simply decline the way he’s declined every previous offer in this story.]

Sundari, standing close beside Ethan, had gone very still, her expression carrying a grim recognition that made Ethan’s stomach twist further.

”You know about this,” he said, turning to her.

”I suspected,” she admitted. ”It’s part of why I came to warn you before tomorrow. The Origin Engine doesn’t just wait patiently forever when the throne stays empty too long. Eventually, if enough unresolvable users accumulate across the network without one of them accepting the seat, it stops waiting for volunteers and starts running its own selection process. Six known cases isn’t a small number to a system this old. It’s apparently reached whatever threshold triggers this.”

”So this was always coming,” Ethan said. ”Regardless of what I decided about the Deep Layer, regardless of the Coalition’s vote - this was already scheduled.”

”I believe so,” Sundari said. ”I just didn’t expect it to announce itself this soon, or this directly.”

The lead envoy from Instance 12-Kesh cleared her throat, drawing attention back to herself. ”There is one more detail our successor included, in a secondary transmission we only just finished decoding before you arrived. We were debating whether to share it at all.”

Ethan’s jaw tightened. ”Share it.”

”The tournament’s structure is not survival-based, as far as our successor’s fragmentary knowledge extends,” the envoy said carefully. ”It does not appear to be combat, at least not primarily. It is described as a series of trials, each one testing not power, but something the Origin Engine’s own records apparently call ’continuity integrity’ - essentially, whether a candidate can hold onto who they are while being exposed to increasing fragments of the seat’s own awareness.”

”So it’s testing whether we’d survive becoming what your successor became,” Ethan said flatly. ”Without actually giving us the choice to opt out first.”

”That is our current understanding, yes,” the envoy said. ”I am sorry. I know this is not the news you wanted, especially the night before your own scheduled journey into the Deep Layer.”

Ethan stood there for a long moment, the courtyard’s growing crowd watching him in careful, uneasy silence, waiting to see how he’d respond to what was, by any measure, the largest and least avoidable escalation this entire volume had thrown at him yet.

”Okay,” he said finally, quieter than the moment probably warranted, though the calm cost him visibly. ”So there’s a tournament I didn’t sign up for, testing something I didn’t agree to be tested on, against people I’ve never met, some of whom have already spent centuries losing pieces of themselves to the exact seat everyone keeps insisting I should take.”

”That is an accurate summary,” the envoy confirmed.

”And it’s happening regardless of what I decide tomorrow, or what the Coalition votes on in three days.”

”We believe so, yes.”

Ethan looked around at the gathered crowd - Sundari’s grim, protective focus; Kaia’s tight, worried expression; Suresh’s careful, steady calm; the delegation from Instance 12-Kesh, watching him with something between pity and hope - and felt the shape of this volume’s next stretch settle over him with a weight he hadn’t fully carried until this exact moment.

”Fine,” he said. ”Then I guess we’re not just going to the Deep Layer tomorrow to look for answers about Arjun anymore.”

[NOTICE: The system waits for the subject to finish the thought, already anticipating where it’s heading.]

”We’re going to find out exactly what this tournament actually wants from me,” Ethan said, ”before it decides it doesn’t need my permission to start.”