The God of Nothing.-Chapter 38: Advent of The Prince

The largest arena ring had been cleared.

No jagged trenches. No collapsing platforms. No magical hazards. Just open sand — wide and bare beneath the rising sun, encircled by stone tiers packed to suffocation.

This wasn't some chaotic trap of terrain. This was a stage.

The kind meant for spectacle.

A bell tolled once. Then again.

The voice of the proctor rose, clean and sharp through enchantment-augmented runes.

"Round Four: Battle Royale Format."

A pause.

"Twenty candidates. Mana permitted. All disciplines authorized."

The crowd murmured. Some gasped. Most just leaned forward. This was what they had waited for.

"Elimination by knockout, submission, or ejection. The last three remaining candidates will advance automatically."

Across from Caeltih were three other groups of twenty, each would be culled to a group of three.

Finally, the final twelve competitors, three from each section, would duke it out to decide their rankings going into the second test.

Caelith stepped onto the sand and knew it instantly.

They'd stacked it.

He scanned the ring. And felt it.

To his left stood Farren, who would be his eyes and his baggage.

The deal was to get Farren to the second exam in exchange for insider information.

Caelith did not know anything about Farren really.

Not how he fought, how he lived, or how he gathered information.

Like himself, his animated companion was clouded in mystery.

Everyone else in section one was either a high noble or carried a powerful aura.

Finally, to top it all off, the mysterious Vykrall member was in their midst.

Across the arena in section two, Lysara Selyth stood at the far edge, calm as still ash. No weapon drawn. Just quiet anticipation.

Beside her, Theryn Damaris knelt in silence, eyes shut, palm resting over his heart. His presence barely stirred dust — but Caelith felt it like iron wire pulled taut.

Then in section three, Raen Vhaelor exuded a cold aura his movement was Slow. Purposeful. He carried cold like a crown.

Serika Varendel shot glares at Raen while she spun her glaive once with measured grace, letting the wind catch the ember-glyphs etched into its head. Her face betrayed nothing. But her eyes stance was already measuring the field.

And in section four, Vaerin Stormont — all sharp edges and fire-lit arrogance — rolled his shoulders as if impatient for someone to step wrong. His gaze swept the ring and dismissed nearly everyone.

However, Vaerin was tepidly glazing at one certain individual in section four, his sister, the ominous Selphira Stormont.

In his own group, Caelith kept his gaze focused on the greatest threat to himself.

A tall figure stood near the center — unfamiliar. No family crest. No weapon visible. Robes black, lined with matte crimson threads that caught no light. Expression unreadable.

Caelith didn't know the name they'd been announced under. But he knew pressure when he felt it.

That one didn't belong here.

And yet, somehow, did.

He heard the footsteps before the voice.

Farren appeared at his side, breathing hard from the climb to the upper corridor. No grin this time. Just eyes flicking everywhere.

"You seeing this?" he muttered. "They packed the entire top bracket into one ring. And to hide it they just separated the five heirs! How is this fair!?"

Caelith didn't answer.

"They want blood," Farren said. "Or a message. Maybe both."

Caelith's fingers brushed Ashthorn's hilt. Not drawn. Not yet. But the weight of it grounded him.

"They're calling this the high bracket," Farren continued. "But it's not a test. It's an execution. And we're the outliers."

"They want the aristocracy to gang up on the unknown variables and clean up our section!"

A bell rang again.

"Match start in thirty seconds," came the voice of the proctor.

Farren exhaled, scanning the wide coliseum hosting the crowd. "Well. At least the view's good if we die."

Then he stepped into the circle.

Caelith remained still, watching the others settle into place.

The ring was a quarter mile in radius. Each quarter segment housed twenty elite competitors, ages ranging from sixteen to twenty.

Seven stood out already. Two of which needed to be culled.

He didn't need prophecy to see how this would go.

They weren't fighting twenty-one-on-one battles. They were fighting effectively one versus ten..

The crowd roared.

And the countdown began.

The ten-minute bell tolled — once, deep and sonorous — and the bloodletting began.

Section one lit up like the surface of a volcano. Fire clashed with ice, lightning coiled into earth, and the sand itself warped under the weight of too many auras blooming at once.

Yet, everyone in section one suddenly hesitated, Caelith included.

The world seemed to go quiet.

Even the crowd went silent.

Then a sound rang out, a shallow, hollow-sounding tap.

And then another.

A second later, another.

Lazily striding into the middle of the ring, the tall black robed man from Vykrall raised his hand to his mouth and yawned.

The strangest thing was that his presence swallowed the coliseum; not one murmur escaped in the twenty seconds it took him to reach the center.

His sonorous voice cut the silence like a knife. His tone was even, his voice regal.

"I am sorry to announce this to the people of Igaria, however, there will be no 1st year class this year, or any other for that matter."

The audience watched in astonishment as the man spoke.

Despite the insanity of his words, everyone felt like they could not laugh in the face of this man.

Something about him screamed that he meant every word.

And then uncontrolled laughter broke the silence once more.

It was the man's laughter.

"My people! Do not fret! This decision was made with my own expert judgement. Oh! I should introduce myself, shouldn't I? My name is Aurex Vykrall, heir to the throne, and this is me announcing my return from the central continent!"

The arena erupted again. Cheers from the crowd, curses and outrage from the nobles. And anger from all the participants who had prepared their entire lives for this moment.

Caelith stood in shock, not because of anything that was said.

Rather, it was because he could see Aurex's mana.

That mana was absolutely terrifying.

Then the same crisp, mellifluous voice filled the coliseum once more.

"This decision was not made in haste. After learning the methods of the central continent, the royal family has decided that it would be more efficient to build a different academy rather than reform the current one, which has been mismanaged under its current, flawed leadership."

Only the educated in the audience knew that "flawed" referred to relating to commoners, and not to do with their actual capabilities.

No, the dean of the academy was second only to the king in strength. However, he had come from a common background and was partial towards the less fortunate.

"Now then, I am not unfair. If one of the many of you who disagree want to change the situation, then the process is simple. Defeat me and prove that the teachings of the central continent are subpar. I am fair, of course, as I am only a two-star, like many of the heirs here today. However, I promise that you all will be severely disappointed."

And with that, a tide of mana that could only be described as debilitating poured out.

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The sheer volume would put three stars to shame. Its qualities were as esoteric as they were violent.

This was unlike anything Caelith had ever seen.

His entire life he was told that mana was the end all be all. His entire life was dictated by mana. Mana was the greatest creation of the gods, and the decider of life.

Only now did Caelith truly comprehend the meaning of those words.

The sections, the format, it was all null now. The only thing left for this competition was tto fight for the chance to grow. To live.

"I now formally extend the challenge to everyone present below the rank of four stars. You may all attack me, all at once, using any method. If I receive an injury, then it is your victory."

The aura continued pouring out. It drowned Caelith's vision.

Aurex Vykrall was truly a chosen one. Whatever the gods had bestowed upon him had destroyed Caelith's worldview. Or rather, it reinforced it.

The flood of mana threw some competitors out of bounds. It surrounded them, drowned them, and threw them around like ragdolls.

Just the mere presence of this man, whose rank was on par with his half-siblings, was able to disqualify trained combatants who had reached the fourth round.

The mana weighed heavily on everyone, except Caelith.

The qualities of Rejection manifested as the mana avoided Caelith like the plague.

This, however, went unnoticed as the weak were busy staying upright and the strong were entering the ring.

The participant count skyrocketed. The original eighty or so competitors, all under twenty and the third star, became two hundred competitors reaching as old as thirty and as high as the peak of the third star.

A war would commence here.