The God of Nothing.-Chapter 32: After the Dust Settles

The scent of blood clung to the air like copper smoke.

The chamber beneath Veltharn Arena wasn't made for comfort. Its walls were cut from dark stone, etched with sterilizing runes that pulsed faintly every few seconds — each flicker killing the scent of sweat, dulling the sting of exposed wounds. Benches lined the room in precise formation, none padded. No beds. Just stone and discipline.

Healers moved between the injured in practiced silence, robes whispering against the floor. They didn't ask questions. They didn't offer praise. Only poultices, gauze, and silence.

Caelith brushed past the nearest one without slowing.

"You're limping," she said, her voice clipped but not unkind.

"I'm fine."

He didn't stop. Just moved to the far end of the chamber, beyond the main path of traffic. A few other candidates rested nearby, some pale with pain, others already asleep. One had his arm in a brace of rune-splinted wood. Another was shaking — not from wounds, but from having come too close to something he hadn't expected.

Caelith sat with his back to the wall, left leg bent, the other stretched out stiffly. His ribs ached where the hit had landed. A clean strike, heavy, nothing broken.

But it could've been avoided.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

That had been the point.

He'd held back.

Not just from Rejection. That was obvious. He hadn't touched the well of power coiled beneath his skin since the forest — hadn't needed to. No, today, he hadn't even fought with his full physical strength. Every step, every pivot, every strike had been measured. Muted. A fraction slower than his training demanded.

He could've ended it quickly. Three steps. A breath. That final knee to the side — it had landed with just enough force to drop the other boy, but not enough to shatter bone.

And still, he'd limped.

His fingers closed lightly around his left knee, pressing until the ache hummed beneath the surface. It would bruise.

Good.

The limp had to be real.

"They're watching the winners," he thought. "Weighing power. Predicting threats."

But he needed time. Space. Eyes turned elsewhere.

"If I'd ended him in three steps, they'd all be watching me now. I need the shadows more than the glory."

A loud chime rang through the walls — deep, resonant, punctuated by a flare of mana.

A voice followed, amplified through the arena's rune network.

"Preliminary Evaluation: Round One concluded. Total remaining candidates — one hundred and ninety-four."

Caelith's eyes opened slowly. So the number had dropped. Hard. More than half gone in a single day.

And now the real tests would begin.

A second voice — different this time, smoother, more performative — followed the announcement with practiced enthusiasm.

"Round Two commences immediately. All qualified candidates are to report to their assigned staging holds. Weapon allowances now permitted. Mana remains restricted."

Caelith stood slowly, testing the leg. It held. The limp wasn't bad — just believable.

A low murmur swept through the other candidates. Some still bleeding, others half-conscious. But the message was clear.

Rest was over.

The Gauntlet had only begun.

The ninth bell rang low and long, its echo dragging through the underhalls of Veltharn Arena like a chain being pulled across stone.

It wasn't just sound — it was signal.

A breath held across the arena broke.

From the rune-laced columns above, a voice echoed, magnified by alchemical projection. Not magical — that was banned in these walls. But the effect was just as sharp. Just as binding.

"Round One has concluded."

The words hit like a hammer. In the lower tiers, in the holds and passageways and shadowed alcoves, every fighter stilled. Even the injured stopped muttering. Even those bound in bandages turned their heads toward the voice. Everyone listened.

"Initial count: 924 registered candidates."

Caelith sat on a stone bench just outside the main infirmary. His wound had been cleaned and wrapped, but not healed. Not truly. He hadn't let them. He wanted the ache — needed it to linger. His eyes were hooded, his breath even, but beneath the calm was coiled steel.

A moment passed.

"Current count: 342 remain."

No scream followed. No groans or jeers.

Just silence.

A silence thick enough to taste.

The numbers spoke for themselves. Nearly six hundred candidates had been culled in the opening act — in a trial where no mana had been permitted, where weapons were stripped away. Some had fallen in the pits, beaten down or dragged out on stretchers. Others had surrendered. A handful had simply failed to move, frozen in fear or crushed under the weight of expectations too heavy to bear.

Those names were gone now — wiped from the board. Their tokens shattered. Their hopes, spent.

Another voice, different — perhaps a second proctor, picked up the decree.

"Final clearance has been issued. All surviving candidates are to prepare for Round Two."

A pause. One sharp enough to draw blood.

"Mana remains strictly forbidden."

There were mutters now. Curses. Frustrated exhalations. One boy, seated cross-legged on the tiles near the northern wall, slammed a fist against the stone and bit back a scream. He was young. Too young, maybe. He hadn't expected to get this far — and now didn't know what to do with the second chance.

"But weapons are now permitted."

That changed everything.

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The murmur in the arena turned to a roar. Above, crowds surged forward. Bookkeepers with enchanted ledgers scrambled to recalculate odds. Bracket scribes updated names and shifted placements with flicks of runed quills. Loudmouth gamblers screamed percentages, while nobles leaned into their private booths, eyes gleaming.

Now the blood would matter.

Veltharn Arena responded in kind.

The ground shifted — a faint tremor, followed by the groan of ancient stone mechanisms grinding into place. Across the coliseum, the central platform fractured into fifteen elevated dueling rings. Modular, rune-seamed, each one unique in layout. Some circular, some square, some jagged as mountain outcroppings. Weapon racks unfolded from compartments hidden beneath the sand, offering an array of blades, spears, and blunt instruments, all of them sealed until a candidate claimed them.

Each ring was a stage.

Each fight, a wager.

From his vantage point, Caelith observed without moving.

Several minor nobles had already been crossed off the lists — their names marked in red by the scribe tallymasters. A few sponsored warriors as well — mercenaries with too much pride and not enough preparation. Their crests cracked. Their slots reassigned. Their dreams, erased.

The Proctorial Board showed no favoritism. Not here.

This was a winnowing flame — and too many had come to Veltharn with waxen wings.

In the medical chamber, a few more healers moved between benches. Some offered salves or whispered blessings, mostly to the higher-ranked fighters or noble-tagged entries. Others carried weapon vouchers — thin metal slips marked with a rune and stamped with the board's seal. Some fighters received them with reverence. Others were denied. Quietly. Sharply.

No explanations were given.

Only the strong — or the promising — moved on.

From the tiered viewing balconies, banners rippled in the heat.

The five great houses still ruled the highest seats: crimson for House Stormont, violet for Selyth, ember-orange for Varendel, steel-blue for Vhaelor, and the pale gold-white of Damaris.

But now, new flags had joined them — minor houses, lesser lords, merchant syndicates hoping to attach their names to a survivor. A future champion. A future tool.

Above them all, in the Emperor's private tier, one banner did not ripple.

A single black cloth. No crest. No house.

Only the Imperial Seal — burned into fabric that didn't seem to catch the wind.

Caelith watched it a moment longer.

The crowd's excitement surged.

The Gauntlet's true trial had begun.

And this time, the shadows wouldn't be enough.

The walls of the viewing alcove were narrow and curved like a cathedral window, set just above the arena rings — high enough to hide the candidates, low enough to let them see the blood.

Caelith stood at the edge, arms folded, cloak drawn back over his shoulders. The scent of scorched stone still lingered from the earlier matches. Across the ring, spectators roared — a wall of voices, layered in coin, arrogance, and expectation.

Then the announcer's voice rang out, amplified by a lattice of sound-runes hidden in the arena pillars.

"Arena Ring Two. Round Two Match Three. Serika Varendel, Heir to House Varendel, versus Alren Vask, of House Vaskellan."

No cheering followed the second name. Just silence.

Everyone already knew how this would end.

Below, the ring began to shift. A dozen stone plates rotated inward, revealing a slope of cracked basalt at the center and two staggered elevations at opposite ends. The ground glowed faintly with residual heat — runes from previous matches still thrumming beneath the surface. This wasn't random. Each arena changed based on its occupants.

This ring had been made for her.

Serika stepped into the arena with no flourish. No salute. No visible emotion. Her robes were plain but elegant — deep grey with charcoal trim, open at the arms, hemmed short to reveal fitted leggings and leather-soled boots. A glaive rested in her hand — obsidian shaft, the blade etched with curling ember-glyphs that pulsed like veins under skin.

Chains no longer bound her wrists. The mana-suppression cuffs had been removed moments earlier, as tradition demanded. Even so, she did not spark her flame. Not yet.

Across from her, Alren Vask braced himself. Younger, broader in frame, nervous but still proud. His sword was a twin-edged scimitar, well-crafted, gleaming with minor enchantments. He held it wrong — too far back, weight favoring brute swings. Caelith noticed it instantly.

So did Serika.

"She's not reading him," Caelith thought. "She's dissecting him."

Below, a small plume of dust curled around Serika's boots as the announcer gave the signal. A faint gong sounded, and the match began.

Alren moved first. A strong opening — aggressive, fast, sweeping his blade in a high arc meant to test range and pressure. It should've forced a retreat.

Serika didn't retreat.

She pivoted with a half-step, letting the blade pass behind her shoulder, and swept the base of her glaive toward Alren's left shin. It didn't hit. It didn't need to. He flinched and stumbled back, momentum disrupted.

Then the air around her shimmered.

Caelith saw it — faint, almost imperceptible: a thin trail of heat blooming outward from where her foot had landed. Emberflow. Not launched. Not flared. Released like water soaking into cloth.

The terrain began to betray her opponent.

Alren tried to circle — but the stone beneath him hissed. His boots dragged slightly with each step, traction fading. He adjusted. Raised his blade. Charged again.

This time, Serika shifted her glaive to a reverse grip and spun low. The blade kissed his thigh, not deep — just enough to cut skin and fabric.

That's when Caelith saw the true shape of her style.

It wasn't aggression. It was decay.

That single cut began to spread. Alren's stance weakened, not from pain, but from the creeping heat that refused to fade. His balance faltered. Every step sank deeper. His arms grew slower.

"She's a surgeon," Caelith murmured to himself. "She doesn't duel — she unravels."

In the stands, a chant started. "Emberborne. Emberborne."

Gambling criers shouted odds from the upper tiers. Her name, already a symbol, was etched into glamour-scrolls and thrown to the crowd like petals.

But Serika didn't acknowledge it.

She pressed forward, each strike precise, each movement designed to force a response — not to win, but to control. Her glaive curved in calculated arcs, not to break defense, but to corrode it. No wasted energy. No wasted thought.

Alren landed a hit — a grazing cut to her shoulder — but she didn't flinch. She didn't even pause.

Caelith watched as her Emberflow began seeping into the wound she'd made. It wasn't flame in the usual sense. There was no firelight, no roar. Just a glowing heat that clung to her opponent's gear, weakening joints, softening bindings, making every breath a task.

Within two minutes, Alren collapsed to one knee. He hadn't been broken — just worn down. Slowly. Methodically.

The match ended with him raising his hand in submission.

Serika didn't move to strike again. She simply lowered her glaive and turned toward the arena gates, her eyes never drifting toward the crowd, never acknowledging the praise that thundered from above.

She didn't smile.

Didn't speak.

Didn't need to.

Caelith let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"She's dangerous," he thought. "Not because she's stronger. But because she knows exactly how strong she doesn't need to be."

He looked away from the arena, mind already sorting through her flaws, her tempo, her blind spots. There weren't many.

But she bled once. That meant she could again.

Below, the announcer's voice echoed once more as the next names were read.

But Serika's words — the only ones she'd spoken that day, caught in a whisper as she passed the medical tier — lingered in Caelith's ears:

"Flame doesn't need to shout to end a fight. It only needs to burn long enough."