The God of Nothing.-Chapter 23: Forged by Struggle

Caelith collapsed against a thick, gnarled oak tree, gasping for breath as his heart pounded violently within his chest.

Sweat poured down his brow, mixing with blood and grime, stinging the open cuts across his skin.

His muscles screamed in agony, every fiber aching with exhaustion from the narrow escape he'd just survived.

He raised a trembling hand, clutching the sturdy white tusk tightly in his grasp. The smooth surface reflected faint glimmers of moonlight filtering through the dense forest canopy. This prize had nearly cost him his life.

The Ravager's massive, armored body haunted his mind, its mate's enraged roar echoing ominously in his ears.

Shaking his head slightly, Caelith tried to steady his breathing. The forest around him whispered softly, its quiet rustling a haunting reminder of his solitude.

He'd come far and pushed himself beyond what any sane person might endure, yet he still felt painfully inadequate. Each day was a grim test, an unending battle against starvation, beasts, and his own limitations.

A sharp pang of hunger twisted his stomach again, bringing Caelith painfully back to reality.

The Shade Wisp Jackal's bitter meat had barely satisfied him, yet now even that luxury felt distant. His journey toward the academy was just beginning, thousands of kilometers still ahead. Survival required constant sacrifice.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as he rose once more to his feet. Sleep could wait; he needed to move forward.

He took a bite from the brain he had stolen, cold, slimy, and utterly disgusting.

Caelith then unsheathed his sword with measured deliberation. Despite the pain radiating through his body, he forced himself into a stance.

Slowly, methodically, he began moving through sword forms—each motion precise, every step intentional.

His footwork gradually became smoother, moving from form to form with practiced familiarity. Though exhaustion weighed heavily, he refused to falter, guiding his blade with measured intent. Memories flashed briefly: Kaden's harsh lessons, the brutal sparring sessions, countless failures, and minor victories.

Each swing, each precise cut into the empty air, was guided by those experiences.

Once satisfied that muscle memory had sufficiently returned, Caelith paused, his chest rising and falling heavily. His basic swordplay, by virtue of his physicality, had improved by leaps and bounds. The next part was harder—integrating Rejection into the rhythm of swordplay.

Focusing deeply, he summoned a small burst of Rejection at his feet, lunging forward into an imaginary opponent. His first attempt was awkward, the surge sending him off-balance and tumbling painfully into the dirt.

Anger tightened his jaw, frustration bubbling sharply beneath the surface, but he refused to quit.

One step at a time was manageable despite the still largely uncontrolled nature of his powers. Caelith had managed to condense smaller orbs of Rejection, limiting the amount of mana displaced and, therefore, the force of the explosions that appeared beneath his feet.

This lighter force was fine when it came to travel, but combat was an entirely different animal.

Each movement had to be exact. One foot was slightly too far, and he was off balance; one step was slightly too close, and his head was gone.

He stood again, adjusting his stance slightly, controlling the burst carefully. Another lunge—better, though still unsteady.

Again, he repeated the movement, each iteration more precise than the last. After several attempts, Caelith found the subtle rhythm, shifting effortlessly from burst to sword strike, his footwork finally aligning smoothly with his movements.

That did not mean Rejection had been truly integrated; rather, Caelith had learned this power in two separate parts.

A step.

A slash.

These movements followed each other smoothly, and subsequently, however, this was the bare minimum for combat.

Caeltih felt that before he could be considered an amateur with these powers, he had to overcome the threshold of integration. The same principle that had been Vaerins undoing was now his bottleneck.

Vaerin had been in possession of fire-based mana, a mana type with applications in strength enhancement as well as direct attack. Vaerin had failed to utilize a combination of these aspects to limit Caelith's movement and land a powerful and debilitating blow.

A noble peer of Vaerin would likely have never caught such a weakness due to being inexperienced in mundane combat, opting for study in mana and politics instead.

Caelith knew the value of practical application; he knew that while this combination of step and slash may work for the short term, it would never be useable under two conditions.

The first condition, and most likely one, was that if a situation turned life-threatening, the amount of conscious concentration needed to perform the movement would render practical application impossible.

The second was in the situation where Caelith was completely unmatched. Against an enemy far superior, they would use that moment of delay where Caelith was defenseless, readying himself to strike and decapitate him.

This left Caelith with a short-term goal and a long-term goal. First, he needed to understand Rejection Step to an intimate level.

This would likely increase his battle potency many-fold. The reason is that he gains two great weapons with this breakthrough. First, his maneuverability around a battlefield would become unmatched, seemingly teleporting from opponent to opponent.

If his ideal was realized, Caelith would simply become a ghost of death, impossible to attack and reaping the lives of his enemies at every turn.

The second benefit would be his perfection of an opening attack. They say that he who strikes first has already won half the battle.

Not only would a true culmination of slash and step remove one of the two bottlenecks of the technique, but it would gain two important uses.

The first of which is a powerful strike on command. Currently, Caelith could barely pierce the amour of stronger second-star enemies.

This was only possible for a zero star like himself due to his inhuman physicality, coupled with highly advanced technique, and finally, the power of Rejection he had used behind his pummel to drive his sword through the Ravager's brain.

Holding a small ball of Rejection was already taxing due to its modified nature, then having it follow his arm path when attacking almost gave Caelith a migraine.

Finally, to top it off, the ball left a trail of explosions due to displacing the mana all along the swing. With this new technique, Caelith would be able to efficiently transfer the momentum from his body into his blade, killing the enemy in one fell swoop.

Truly, Caelith needed a powerful attack, at least on par with the enemies he would face along the road to the academy.

The second advantage of a fully integrated Rejection Step and Slash would be the ability to severely maim or kill his opponents before the battle even begins.

For the long term, Caelith needed to understand the very nature of his powers. At the moment, Caelith did not have any stars or cores for his power.

It simply existed, omnipresent, but its range was limited to his body. Caelith needed to be able to deploy it instantaneously and instinctually.

He needed to become so accustomed to it that he used it with every step, that every swing was empowered with it, that every strike was sent twofold, one with his hand and one with Rejection.

Encouraged by progress, he turned to another challenge—projecting Rejection away from himself. Carefully extending his hand, he tried forming a sphere of concentrated emptiness, but each attempt fizzled immediately.

Frustration twisted his lips into a scowl. Despite every ounce of concentration, Rejection refused to stabilize away from direct contact. It was as if the power was tethered to him, unwilling to stray too far. Seemingly become lost without an anchor.

He accepted the limitation reluctantly, turning back to improving what he already knew. Rejection Step. His most reliable skill, yet still inconsistent.

He moved deeper into the forest, practicing short, controlled bursts beneath his feet, darting between closely packed trees. Many attempts ended with painful crashes against the rough bark, new bruises joining the growing collection across his body.

Yet, with dogged persistence, improvement gradually showed. Movements became sharper, and cleaner balance improved.

Caelith learned to anticipate recoil, adjusting mid-step to maintain stability. Soon, he could string together several bursts in rapid succession, weaving confidently through dense clusters of trees with minimal mistakes.

Despite his growing skill, mental fatigue built quickly. He learned to pause frequently, allowing himself brief rests to preserve concentration. Recklessness was dangerous—precision demanded clarity and discipline.

But survival pushed him deeper into unknown territory. Hunger sharpened with each passing hour, the disgusting brain was slowly running out, and smaller prey became increasingly scarce. Eventually, necessity forced him to hunt again, cautiously pursuing faint trails leading deeper into the wilderness.

Weeks passed slowly, tension building subtly as Caelith stalked carefully through shadows, alert to any sign of prey or predator.

He was much, much further than he had ever been in his life. Right now, Caelith knew that he was more south due to the absence of pine trees and the positions of stars he had been following.

Visit ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com for the 𝑏est n𝘰vel reading experience.

Time had become a blur for Caelith as the weeks passed while training, he assumed he was no more than a month and a half away from the academy.

Suddenly, he paused, eyes narrowing sharply at a rustle of movement ahead. Something emerged silently—a young Iron spine Lynx, its lean frame armored with hardened bone-like plates, smaller than the Ravager yet still formidable.

Caelith steadied himself, carefully advancing into clear view. The Lynx turned swiftly, eyes flashing predatory instinct.

It lunged without hesitation, agile yet predictable.

'Two-star, but a weaker one'

Caelith calmly evaded, the carefully practiced Rejection Step guiding him safely aside.

The Lynx turned instantly, attacking relentlessly, claws slashing furiously at empty air. Yet Caelith moved deliberately, footwork precise, each evasion controlled and purposeful.

A subtle rhythm developed—attack and evade, strike and reposition. He countered occasionally with small bursts of Rejection beneath his feet, enhancing sword strikes without losing balance or control.

His attacks became more intentional, aiming carefully between armored plates rather than simply reacting in panic.

Despite this clear progress, Caelith's movements remained raw. The battle wasn't elegant or graceful, but it was effective—deliberate precision overcoming brute strength.

After several careful exchanges, Caelith realized that neither party could truly harm the other and, more importantly, that he would lose in a battle of attrition. Caelith lunged forward decisively, channeling Rejection subtly behind the sword pommel.

But, a second too soon, the blade shot out of Caelith's hand before the finish of his swing. It flew true through the air before meeting the startled Lynx.

His blade slipped neatly between armored plates, piercing deeply into the Lynx's flesh. It collapsed quickly, life draining rapidly from its eyes.

Panting heavily, Caelith felt quiet satisfaction and frustration despite lingering exhaustion. The fight had been purposeful and controlled—clear evidence of tangible progress. He had come out against a being two stars above him unscathed.

However, he had not trained enough with Rejection Step to use it properly, and his Rejection-powered slash went out of his control.

Carefully, he carved meat from the carcass, roasting strips over a small fire. Hunger briefly eased, allowing him to regain some strength.

He then decided to dissect and dry its meat to last for the upcoming week.

Eventually, he continued cautiously onward, ever mindful of hidden threats.

Finally, after hours of solitary travel, something unusual caught his attention—tracks clearly not made by beasts. Curiosity piqued sharply, he followed cautiously, every sense alert to danger.

Soon, distant sounds of voices reached his ears, faint yet unmistakably human. He slowed, moving quietly toward a small rise overlooking the narrow forest path.

Below, illuminated by flickering torchlight, was a modest caravan—three covered wagons drawn by weary horses, guarded carefully by men armed and watchful. Caelith paused, uncertainty tightening in his chest.

A Month alone in the forest had honed his caution, yet loneliness gnawed sharply at him.

Human contact might offer information, supplies, or hidden dangers.

He watched silently, debating internally.

The caravan continued slowly, unaware of being observed from shadows.

For the first time in weeks, Caelith felt uncertainty—a mixture of hope, caution, and fear swirling within him.

He knew he couldn't remain hidden forever, yet trust had become a fragile luxury.