The God of Nothing.-Chapter 13: Culmination of Fates

The air crackled with tension, thick and suffocating.

The training yard, bathed in harsh midday light, felt smaller than usual. Its packed dirt carried the remnants of hundreds of duels fought before this one.

The estate walls loomed in the background, the distant sounds of the Stormont household continuing as if nothing of importance was about to happen. But for Caelith, this moment mattered.

This was inevitable.

Caelith had received a summons to the training yard during his regular training.

Vaerin and Selphira stood before him, dressed in the finest training attire noble brats could source.

Their golden hair gleamed in the sunlight, their expressions etched with smug certainty. To them, this wasn't a duel—it was an obligation.

A lesson they needed to teach, a reminder of Caelith's place.

Vaerin smirked, his fingers drumming against the pommel of his sword.

"You've been quite the talk lately, Stubborn Bastard."

He drawled, savouring every syllable.

"The guards have taken a liking to you. Funny, isn't it? That even rats can scurry their way into favour if they live long enough."

Caelith didn't flinch. He merely exhaled slowly through his nose, shifting his stance ever so slightly, feeling the dirt shift beneath his boots.

Selphira tilted her head, a faint look of amusement on her face. "I suppose he thinks if he trains hard enough, fights enough, he'll become one of us." She feigned a sigh.

"But a rat dressed in armor is still a rat."

Their words were meant to wound, but they barely scratched the surface.

Caelith had spent a lifetime building walls against them, against this very moment.

Vaerin's smirk widened. "Let's not drag this out, shall we?" He placed his hand on his sword and unsheathed it in one smooth motion.

Immediately, the air around him shimmered. Golden-red mana flared to life, crackling along the blade's edge, distorting the space around it like a mirage.

Heat pulsed outward, a promise of destruction.

Power. Unfair, overwhelming power.

"Show me, bastard," Vaerin said, his voice dripping with ridicule.

"Show me what all that training amounts to."

His eyes seemed to contain a perverse insanity, an overwhelming enjoyment for what he was about to do.

And then, he struck.

Vaerin moved fast—faster than any normal swordsman.

His mana-infused body cut through the air like a storm, the blade arcing downward in a brutal slash meant to carve through flesh and bone in one strike.

Caelith sidestepped.

Not by much, not by a grand display of athleticism. Just enough. The searing edge of Vaerin's sword sliced through the empty air, scorching the space where Caelith's shoulder had been.

'Slower than Kaden, but that's to be expected. He is using fire mana, after all.'

Vaerin twisted, recovering instantly. He brought his blade around for another strike, then another. Each movement was laced with fire, embers bursting from his swings, the sheer force behind them enough to shake the ground.

Caelith never met them head-on. He didn't need to. Furthermore, it would have been a death wish to try.

He flowed between the attacks, letting the Igarian style guide his movements. Small shifts, precise footwork, and just enough weight distributed at the right moments. His sword moved like water, deflecting without clashing, redirecting rather than absorbing.

Vaerin's strikes were powerful, but they were wasteful. He relied too much on his fire, on the brute force of his mana-enhanced movements. Most of all, he was inexperienced, naive, and seemed as if he had never been truly pushed.

Caelith saw it clearly now—Vaerin's swordplay was built around his gift. Without mana, his technique was crude and predictable.

And predictable things could be countered.

Vaerin pressed forward, frustration beginning to creep into his strikes. He threw a feint to Caelith's left, then pivoted into a downward strike, expecting Caelith to move.

Caelith didn't move.

Instead, he stepped into Vaerin's swing, catching the younger Stormont off guard.

With a sharp turn of his wrist, Caelith's sword flicked up, forcing Vaerin's blade wide. The moment the noble's balance wavered, Caelith followed through.

A sharp blow to the ribs with the pommel of his sword. A grunt of pain. Vaerin staggered.

Selphira's amusement was gone. Up until this point, to her unlearned eyes, it seemed that Caelith had simply been running like a hare caught in the eyes of a fox.

Vaerin clenched his teeth; his breathing labored. "You—"

He didn't finish the sentence. He lunged again, the blade roaring to life with even more mana. The flames pulsed brighter, licking up his arm now, desperation making him reckless.

Caelith smiled.

He let Vaerin swing.

Let him burn through more energy; let him waste his strength.

Another feint. Another predictable attack.

Caelith parried, spun inside his guard, and delivered a clean, precise slash across Vaerin's dominant wrist. Not deep enough to maim—just enough to make him loosen his grip.

Vaerin gasped, his fingers spasming.

The opening was there.

Caelith's sword came up, tip resting just beneath Vaerin's throat.

The training yard was silent.

Selphira's lips parted slightly, her nails digging into her own arm.

Vaerin's face was pale with disbelief.

Caelith didn't move. He didn't need to. The point had been made.

And then, Vaerin's hands twitched.

Caelith saw it.

A spark. A flicker of flame curled in his palm, so small it could be mistaken for a dying ember.

But it wasn't dying.

It was growing.

The air distorted as Vaerin, in his fury, summoned a compressed sphere of molten energy—a Blazing Rend, an ignis attack meant to be used in battle, not in training.

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Not in a duel where one party had already won.

A coward's move.

The fire shot toward Caelith's back, fast and wild.

And then—

It was gone.

Snuffed out mid-flight, reduced to nothing but ash before it could even reach its target.

Kaden stood a few feet away, sword still resting casually against his shoulder, but his presence was suffocating. His eyes, sharp as a dagger's edge, flicked from the dissipating flames to Vaerin's frozen form.

The older warrior exhaled, slow and measured. "Tch," he muttered. "I was hoping you'd have at least a sliver of dignity, but I guess that was too much to ask."

Vaerin trembled, his face burning with humiliation.

Selphira stepped forward, gripping his arm. "Enough." Her voice was firm and controlled, but even she wasn't smirking anymore.

Caelith lowered his sword, but the tension in the yard didn't fade.

Vaerin didn't speak. He simply turned, his hands shaking, his body stiff as he walked away.

Caelith let out a quiet breath. He had won.

An indescribable feeling flowed through him. Joy? Accomplishment? No, it was something more profound.

Almost nine months ago, he had felt worthless and was treated with indifference.

Now, without a mana core, he had defeated the main lineage of the Stormont family, one of the most prominent in the kingdom!

He had overcome the barrier of blessing that Kaden had taught him many months ago. If this didn't establish his position as a genius, he didn't know what would.

With talent naturally came preference.

Soon, he would be able to let his mother live worry-free.

Elsewhere, in the dim candlelight of her quarters, a woman with long, black hair and crystal blue eyes was working. Elysia ground the herbs into a fine paste, her fingers steady despite the exhaustion tugging at her bones.

The scent of crushed valerian and nightshade mixed in the air, forming a potent salve she had been perfecting for months.

A way to heal.

Not for herself.

But for Caelith.

Her son never spoke of his injuries, but she saw them. Saw the bruises that littered his body after every day of training, the wounds he tried to hide.

She had adapted.

Just as he had learned to wield a sword, she had learned to wield something of her own—her knowledge, her skill.

She dipped her fingers into the mixture, applying a small amount to her arm's bruises. The ones Alaric left.

The ones she had long since stopped wincing at.

The salve dulled the pain. It was working.

Not perfect. Not yet.

But soon.

Soon, she would have something to protect him.