The God of Nothing.-Chapter 27: The Forge of Rejection

The last light of day stretched across the battlefield, casting a pale gold over the bloodstained earth.

Smoke still drifted from the scorched soil where the bandit captain had fallen — or rather, where he had been obliterated.

What remained of him was a crater and scattered fragments of armor fused with flesh.

Herald's guards moved through the wreckage with grim efficiency, binding the hands of the surviving bandits. The air was thick with tension — not from battle, but from the weight of what they'd just witnessed.

Caelith sat slumped near the wagon, eyes half-lidded but alert. His sword rested beside him, clean, though its edge was chipped and dulled beyond use. His body ached with every breath, muscles tight, Rejection long since faded — leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

A commotion broke the silence.

One of the bound bandits, desperate and wild-eyed, lunged forward, breaking free with a scream.

He didn't make it far.

Caelith didn't rise. He didn't need to.

A flicker of motion — his hand darted out. The hilt of his broken sword slammed into the man's knee with bone-cracking force. The bandit howled, crumpling to the ground, clutching his shattered leg. Caelith didn't even look at him.

The other prisoners froze, pale and silent.

Herald approached, eyes flicking to the downed man, then to Caelith. A faint nod of approval.

"You've done enough, you can leave the rest to us." he muttered.

Herald's eyes softened while assessing the haggard, fair-skinned young man. His fatherly instincts resonated within him.

'What kind of life must this man have led? He mustn't be older than twenty yet; his eyes carry such pain.'

He turned to the remaining bandits, voice sharp.

"You've two choices," he said. "Lead us to your base — or rot. We'll drag you back to the capital in chains and let the magistrates decide your fate."

The bandits exchanged glances. One spat blood, glaring — but the rest broke, beaten men clinging to life.

A grizzled one nodded, jaw tight. "Fine. It's not far."

Herald smiled thinly. "Good answer."

Within the hour, the caravan began moving; all the goods moved into five carts, wheels creaking as they turned off the main road into the dense woods beyond. The bound bandits walked ahead, flanked by guards. Tension simmered — no one trusted them, but the promise of a bandit den's riches, of payback, was too tempting.

Caelith rode in the back of a supply wagon, leaning against a crate, eyes scanning the trees. His breath had steadied, but his limbs remained heavy — leaden from strain but ready to strike if needed.

The march ended beneath a craggy bluff, where twisted trees clung to the rock face, and vines hung like nooses. The grizzled bandit gestured with a jerk of his head, and Herald's guards hauled him forward, forcing him to his knees.

"There," the man spat. "The cave's behind the brush."

It was.

Nestled beneath layers of moss and creeping ivy, the entrance yawned wide, a gaping mouth in the stone. The caravan approached warily, guards tightening their grips on spears and swords, eyes flicking to Caelith for reassurance. He gave none.

Herald raised a hand, signaling the convoy to halt. Tension permeated through the group. Caelith was confused at the sudden gesture.

'Was there a trap ahead?'

However, the truth was not so benign.

Herald then exchanged a glance with the guards. In return, they gave a meaningful nod.

Herald then met Caelith's gaze before turning to cover Alen's eyes.

Moments later, screams rang out. A number of heads dropped silently to the floor.

Caelith watched without comment. He was young, inexperienced but no longer naive.

They were to enter the bandits' home, who knew what traps they had prepared? What last resorts were stored?

Most of all, they had planned to slaughter the caravan. If the roles were reversed, their heads would have been the ones rolling, not even making it to this point.

The guards dragged the bodies into the bushes, and then they finally entered the cave.

Inside, the air was cool and musty, heavy with the smell of iron and ash. Torches flared, lighting the way, revealing a cavernous space rugged but organized — a bandit's hoard.

Crates, barrels, and sacks of all shapes and sizes lined the stone walls. Bolts of silk, coiled ropes, uncut gems, weapon racks — loot from a dozen raids, all piled without shame. Merchant sigils and city seals still marked many of the containers.

'How many must have lost their lives for such a bounty?'

Caelith thought.

A forge glowed faintly at the far end — embers smoldering, a hammer resting where it had been left. The cave was alive with the scent of fire and sweat, the remnants of work unfinished.

Herald's eyes scanned the treasure trove, his mouth curving into a thin smile.

"Take everything," Herald barked. "Every coin, every scrap. If it's not bolted down, it's ours. And if it is bolted down, we will still take it!"

The guards moved fast, joined quickly by the merchants — who, no longer fearful for their lives, descended like vultures. Lids were pried open, coin pouches emptied, crates cracked with crowbars and boot heels.

What had taken the bandits months to gather was dismantled in minutes.

Herald stepped over a fallen chest, inspecting its contents — fine spices and cured meats — and grinned.

"A fair exchange," he said, glancing at the entrance. "You robbed us. Now, we return the favor."

The bandits' ghosts could only watch, helpless, their stolen wealth stripped away as quickly as it had been taken.

Caelith paid the caravan no mind.

The forge at the rear of the cave drew him in — the flicker of dying embers, the smell of scorched metal, the heat lingering in the air. It was crude but functional. An anvil stood centered, its surface scarred by years of work.

Tools lay scattered — hammers, tongs, chisels, black with soot. On a nearby table, burnt scraps of parchment, some filled with forging diagrams, notes, and measurements. Amid the debris sat a leather-bound journal, edges charred, the cover half-torn.

Caelith picked it up, flipping through the pages.

The handwriting was rough and uneven—the captain's, no doubt. Dates marked each entry, along with many materials and weapon design sketches.

But as he turned the pages, the content shifted.

Logs became reflections. Notes became memories.

Caelith sat near the forge's cold embers, the journal heavy in his hands. The smell of ash clung to everything — acrid, cloying, like the aftermath of something that should have burned out long ago, but never quite did.

The diary of the first two star human's life he had taken in his hands.

The pages were stiff, edges singed. He opened it carefully.

Spring

Fixed the plough for old Heller. Kira's been on me about resting more — I told her the forge doesn't run itself. Rendan helped today. He nearly singed his eyebrows off. Kid's got no sense near fire, but he wants to learn. He'll take over the forge one day... maybe sooner than I'd like.

Caelith's eyes flicked over the words, the corners of his mouth flat. A simple man's life, carved in ink — work, family, small worries. Nothing noble. Nothing grand.

But real.

Summer

Smoke on the horizon. Refugees passed through — said raiders burned two villages west. Kira's worried. I told her we're safe. The guard's nearby. The gods won't let anything happen.

Caelith didn't need to read further to know how wrong that faith had been.

The next entry was short. Blunt. Written in a hand nearly torn through the parchment.

They're gone. Kira. Rendan. The forge's roof collapsed in flames. I couldn't reach them. The heat—gods, the heat—

Ink smeared, trailed off the page.

The smell of smoke, still lingering in this cave, stabbed through Caelith's senses. The man had rebuilt the forge here — but the memory of the first fire never left him. It was etched into every word.

I can't work. Not like before. Every strike of the hammer brings it back. The screams. The fire. I tried to lift the hammer yesterday. My hands shook. I dropped it.

Caelith exhaled slowly, the page trembling under his fingers.

The man couldn't forge again — not truly. The fire had killed more than his family. It had stolen the one thing he had left. The forge had become a graveyard, and every ember a reminder.

But grief hardened.

The next entries shifted.

Winter

Food ran out. The townsfolk hoard it behind walls, guards sneering at us like rats. I asked for work — they spat on me. Said I was no use anymore. So I took what I needed. What's one blade, compared to a starving man?

From there, it was a descent. Raids, ambushes, resentment sharpening into hate. He gathered others — outcasts, widowers, deserters. Together, they carved out survival through force.

But the fear never left.

They're coming. I don't know who — I just know they're worse. Foreign armor, foreign gold. The merchants feed them, the nobles arm them. We're pawns in their game. I won't die for them.

Caelith's grip loosened.

The man had died as a bandit — but started as a blacksmith, broken by fire and betrayed by those he once served. Caelith didn't pity him.

But he understood.

They had both lost everything — and learned that the world only respected steel.

The forge still radiated faint heat, glowing embers pulsing in the heart of the hearth like dying stars. Caelith stood at its edge, gaze sweeping over the tools strewn haphazardly across the workbench.

Broken hammers. Warped tongs. Blades half-forged, rust already claiming their edges.

This wasn't the forge of a master anymore. It was the wreckage of one.

He stepped closer, boots scraping against the stone floor, eyes scanning every corner.

Crates of raw ore lined the wall — iron, traces of silver, even small shards of obsidian, though most were impure, unrefined.

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Scattered among the mess were manuals, brittle from smoke exposure but intact — diagrams, instructions, forging techniques, temperatures, tempering sequences.

Caelith's fingers brushed the edge of one open book, its pages marked with charcoal-sketched diagrams of blades, folding techniques, and notes on cooling times.

His mind snapped into motion.

Every symbol, every line — he absorbed it instantly, his eidetic memory searing the content into perfect clarity. The steps, the measurements, and the tools required. It wasn't artistry. It was structure. Precision.

And he could learn structure.

He picked up a hammer — heavy, the grip scorched but intact — and turned to the sword at his side. His own blade, the one he'd carried since his exile, looked like it had barely survived the last fight.

The edge was dull, jagged, chips running along the length of the steel. Stress fractures marred the spine, the hilt worn smooth. One more battle, and it would likely snap in half.

It wouldn't serve him anymore.

Not where he was going.

Caelith set it down and reached into his pack. Wrapped in rough cloth, tied with worn leather cord, lay a curved horn, dark with streaks of silver vein-like threads. The remnants of his most deadly kill — a two-star defensive Ravager, He unwrapped it, running his fingers along the surface.

Dense. Heavy. Metallic — but not iron, not steel. Something else.

From what he had learned in the Stormont estate, Materials from two-star defense-based beasts were worth a fortune.

Weapons crafted from mana beasts were rare. Notoriously hard to work with but possessing excellent mana conductivity.

Even three-star knights used mana-enriched iron, not able to get their hands on suitable mana-beast weapons.

Caelith grabbed a chisel from the bench and struck the edge of the horn.

No give. Not even a scratch.

His eyes narrowed.

He flipped through one of the manuals, finding a section on beast-based alloys, cross-referencing notes on magical creature physiology.

And there it was — Horn-class alloys. Formed in high-ranked defensive-type beasts, used in natural armor plating. Resistant to mana, ten times the strength of refined steel, near-impervious to corrosion.

A weapon like that... could cleave through enchanted armor. Withstand mana-enhanced strikes. And most importantly, withstand the incredible force of Rejection. It was the perfect material.

And he had it.

Caelith looked back at his broken sword, then at the horn — then to the forge.

The plan formed instantly.

He wouldn't rely on the weapons of others. Not the rusted steel of the past nor the gifts of those who looked down on him.

He would forge his own blade — with his hands, his knowledge, his will.

A weapon worthy of the path he had chosen.

The forge roared back to life, flames licking the cavern walls, casting flickering shadows across the looted cave. Caelith stood alone in the heat, his hands blackened with soot, his body drenched in sweat. The Ravager horn lay nestled in the coals, glowing faintly, resisting the forge's fury like a beast refusing to die.

At a distance, Herald and a few guards watched from the entrance, saying nothing. None dared approach.

"He's been at it for hours," one guard muttered.

Herald's eyes narrowed, arms crossed. "Let him work."

'A master of combat, young, and possessing unique mana. Either he has a way of hiding it, or he is above the second star. And now he knows how to forge?'

His thoughts reverberated.

'Such a genius is normally immediately claimed by a power of the kingdom... what is he doing in the middle of nowhere? More importantly, how do I get him on my side?'

Caelith's movements were precise and methodical. Despite the bruises, the blood, and the exhaustion clinging to every limb, he moved with purpose.

He drew the horn from the flames, laid it on the anvil, and brought the hammer down. The first strike ricocheted, metal ringing out like a bell. The horn alloy refused to yield.

Again.

And again.

Caelith's arms shook, his breath ragged.

A spark of Rejection surged involuntarily — snapping through the hammer, into the metal. Impurities split, tiny fractures clearing under his will.

The guards flinched. One took a step back.

"What the hell is he doing...?"

Herald didn't answer. His eyes stayed locked on the forge, expression unreadable.

Strike. Pulse. Fold.

Rejection bled into every blow, not wild like before, but controlled — disciplined. It didn't destroy the alloy. It shaped it.

Caelith's eyes could see the mana leaving the alloy. Its unnaturally high mana density was leaving.

Mana resistance was caused by the horn having a higher density of mana than anything normally coming in contact with it.

However, perhaps for the first time in history. An object entirely devoid of mana was being created.

Minutes passed. Then hours. Time blurred.

By the time Caelith pulled the blade from the coals, the forge was dying, its heat spent — and so was he. But the weapon in his hands... it was alive.

Sleek. Dark. A fusion of beast and man, the blade gleamed with faint silver veins, the last traces of the Ravager's strength. It felt light, but solid — unbreakable.

A weapon born from struggle, not luck.

Caelith turned the blade in his hand, testing the balance. Perfect. As if it had always belonged to him.

Behind him, Herald stepped forward slowly.

"...By the gods."

The guards stared, wide-eyed. One whispered, "He's not just a fighter. He's a damned blacksmith."

Herald exhaled, a grin breaking through. "No. He's a genius."

Herald, unlike the guards, was already in his forties. He had seen the horrors of war, and the extravagancies of the nobles.

However, this was the first time he had seen a blade that seemingly pulled external mana toward it.

Caelith didn't respond. He simply set the blade down, wiping sweat from his brow with a blood-stained sleeve. His body trembled, but his eyes were clear — sharp, like the weapon he'd just forged.

After a moment, Caelith wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and immediately, he felt a kinship with the blade.

It was a part of him.

It, too, was rejected by the world.

On instinct, Caelith let Rejection flow through the blade, expecting it to weaken as it distanced itself from his body.

No, instead, it flowed true. The stream of Rejection energy enveloped the blade. Strikingly different from the way Rejection Aura did.

No, instead, the blade contained the aura within it. No outside mana was displaced, and no explosions traced its every move.

Something incredibly happened then.

The mana in the environment was drawn to the sword, coating it, reinforcing it.

For the first time in almost seventeen years, Caelith was using mana.

Caelith studied his new weapon for a moment.

'The inside is hollow and filled with Rejection; I assume that attracts the nearby mana toward the blade, lining it with destructive power. Then, the higher-density mana surrounding the sword repels the lower-density mana in the environment. The sword is simultaneously enhanced by mana and rejects it.

What a fitting sword'

Caelith then rested the blade against the anvil and took a seat to rest.

Herald approached, more respectful than before.

"We'll wait for you to rest," he said quietly. "Whatever time you need. You've earned it."

Caelith gave a nod — brief, distant.

They could wait.

In a world that rejected him, he would forge his own path — one strike at a time.