The God of Nothing.-Chapter 34: Where Mercy Ends

Caelith froze.

His breath stopped.

The wind shifted. Just slightly. Enough that even the crowd stilled.

Then — he straightened.

No anger in his face. No shout. No flash of flame.

Just silence.

His grip shifted. Not tightened — recalibrated. Ashthorn settled in his palm like it had waited for this. The strange blade caught the light and seemed to darken, not gleam — like it swallowed attention instead of demanding it.

Yarik blinked.

"What—"

Caelith moved.

One step.

Then two.

Not a charge. Not even an advance.

A correction.

Like a line snapping straight.

Yarik's guard rose — but it was already too late.

Ashthorn blurred upward, not aiming to kill, but to punish. The first cut came across the ribs. Deep enough to strip skin.

The second swept his thigh — shallow, but it carved through leather like it wasn't there.

Yarik's shout turned into a stagger.

The crowd leaned in.

Caelith didn't pursue. Not yet. He let the gap hold, the tension coil. He let them see.

Let them understand that something had changed.

The act was over.

Yarik snarled, red staining his coat. "You'll pay for—"

Caelith was already moving.

He dropped low, feinting left, then cut inside. His elbow smashed into Yarik's gut — hard. The noble choked, doubled over. Caelith didn't hesitate.

He caught Yarik's head with both hands, twisted, and drove a knee into the side of his jaw. Bone cracked. The sound cut through the noise like a clean snap of dry wood.

Yarik hit the sand.

Hard.

Dust billowed. Blood followed — a thick line from the corner of his mouth.

But Caelith wasn't done.

He stepped forward, eyes flat. Dropped to one knee and drove his fist straight into Yarik's cheek.

Once.

Twice.

A third time. The boy groaned, arms flailing, trying to push back — but it was clumsy. Panicked.

Caelith caught the wrist. Slammed it down. His other fist rose again.

He wasn't thinking of crowds. Of names. Of crests or odds or stages.

He was thinking of his mother.

Of her scream. Of the rope. Of the way her body swayed when they left her to rot in the dark.

Yarik had spoken her name.

Had spat it, like she was filth.

And that had cost him.

Yarik's hand found a fistful of sand. He threw it into Caelith's face — a desperate, messy swipe — but Caelith turned with it, letting the grit graze past his cheek. He slammed his forearm into Yarik's throat, pinning him down.

The boy wheezed, coughing blood, face half-caved on one side.

Only then did Caelith draw Ashthorn.

Not to end it — but to show that he could.

The blade shimmered, edge pulsing faintly with that peculiar, reverse-drawn hum. It didn't glow like firesteel or blaze with mana. It devoured the light around it, quiet and hungry.

Ashthorn hovered — not pressed to flesh, but poised. A thread away from opening the noble's throat.

Yarik froze. His eyes wide, one already swelling shut.

He didn't move.

He couldn't.

For a moment, the arena was silent.

Then — like a fuse catching — the crowd erupted.

But Caelith didn't raise his sword. He didn't grin. Didn't look to the stands.

He simply rose. Calm. Unrushed.

Ashthorn slid back into its sheath with a faint hiss, as if it didn't want to leave the blood behind.

The proctor raised a hand, voice ringing out over the din.

"Match complete. Submission. Ring Eleven — Victory: Orien Blackhall."

Two guards were already stepping onto the field, weapons still sheathed, but their eyes locked on Caelith. Ready to act, if needed.

He didn't give them a reason.

Caelith turned away.

His hands were steady.

His breath even.

But beneath the calm, the fire in him smoldered.

This hadn't been about the test.

Hadn't been about strategy.

It had been about her.

His mother's name would not be dragged through the dust by a sneering noble who thought power came from blood and birthright.

No.

Not while Caelith still drew breath.

Let the crowd wonder who he was. Let them whisper. Let the odds shift.

He didn't care.

The aftermath rippled through the arena long after the dust settled.

Word spread quickly — not through official channels, but through murmurs, gambling stalls, and sharp-eyed spectators clutching ink-streaked betting slips. In Ring Eleven, a commoner had just crushed a mid-tier noble heir.

Not won.

Crushed.

The name whispered through the crowd like a smoldering ember catching dry cloth.

Orien Blackhall.

Some said it in confusion, and others expressed growing interest.

But especially those wearing gilded crests or embroidered cuffs spat it like a curse. Because the odds had been stacked — almost arrogantly — in favor of Yarik Senraith.

A few nobles had wagered entire month's allowances. Others had mocked the board for even pairing him against someone unknown.

Now, they were scrambling to recover losses.

In the box of House Varendel, a lean advisor leaned toward Serika, who sat behind a shaded screen sipping water without comment.

"That was a savage display," he said. "Untrained. Undisciplined."

Serika didn't answer.

Her eyes hadn't left the arena since the final blow. She'd watched the switch — that precise moment where the boy stopped holding back. It had been subtle. A change in his shoulders. The way he stepped in — not rushed, not furious, but final. Deliberate.

She set the goblet down gently.

"Savage," she murmured, "but not untrained."

Elsewhere, in a private preparation hall where House Damaris' colors hung, Theryn stood before a mirror, adjusting the wrappings on his wrists.

His attendant spoke beside him, voice low. "Blackhall. No house affiliation on record. Likely an orphan. Mercenary background, perhaps."

Theryn's eyes narrowed as he traced the faint reflection of Caelith's final strike — not the blade, but the restraint. The fact he hadn't killed.

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"Too emotional," Theryn said at last. "He let the insult dictate his hand."

The attendant nodded, relieved. "Of course. He won't last."

In House Selyth's tower, Lysara sat in an obsidian-walled chamber lined with incense and pale ash curtains. She didn't speak. Didn't even move.

Her eyes had traced Caelith's form — not the violence, but the rhythm. The way the crowd responded. The energy that shifted around him.

"Names are meant to be forgotten," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "But not his."

Meanwhile, in House Stormont's suite, Vaerin scoffed.

"Lucky swing," he muttered, tossing a piece of fruit aside.

A courtier laughed beside him. "The noble brat never stood a chance. Still, the brute was impressive — for a nobody."

Vaerin's smile didn't reach his eyes.

"People like him serve people like us," he said coolly. "Let him enjoy his moment."