The God of Nothing.-Chapter 28: The Road to Vantrel

The sky burned with the first light of dawn, casting streaks of crimson and gold across the treetops as the caravan prepared to move. The air was crisp, still tinged with smoke from last night's dying fires.

Cart wheels creaked, horses snorted, and merchants called out in hushed tones, their voices lowered instinctively.

The bandit cave lay behind them, gutted and emptied — a tomb to thieves, now stripped of every coin and scrap of value.

Yet, the real treasure carried from that place wasn't the crates of stolen goods now lashed to wagons nor the heavy pouches of silver tucked into merchant's hands.

It was him.

Caelith.

He walked near the front of the procession, alone, his cloak billowing softly in the morning breeze.

His new sword — forged from beast and struggle alike — remained sheathed at his side, but all could feel its presence. Even sheathed, the blade's aura drew the eye as if daring anyone to test its edge.

No one did.

Behind him, guards rode in tense formation, their glances flickering toward him when they thought he wouldn't notice. Merchants whispered, voices low, wary.

"...not natural, that one."

"He forged that sword himself, didn't he? No smith I've seen works like that."

"I heard the blade naturally gathers mana, how otherworldly must its power be? And what of its creator? Could that young man be from outside of the kingdom?"

Rumors grew like weeds, twisting truth and fear into something else — a myth in the making. Some admired him, their voices tinged with awe. Others simply feared him.

But all agreed: he was not normal.

Caelith ignored them.

His mind was elsewhere, eyes locked on the path ahead. Each step forward eased the pressure on his shoulders, but it never left completely. The capital loomed in his mind — not as a place of hope, but of trial.

The Academy.

The Exam.

Caelith's gaze sharpened. His hand brushed the hilt of his new weapon — a blade forged from Rejection, from death, from will. This sword was not just steel. It was proof.

He would not be discarded.

"Morning," a voice called beside him.

Herald rode up, reins in hand, his horse snorting as it matched Caelith's pace. The merchant was dressed in worn leathers, his beard trimmed, eyes sharp beneath his brow. He'd said little since the cave, giving Caelith space — but now he broke the silence.

"You slept at all?" Herald asked.

Caelith didn't look at him. "Enough."

Herald chuckled under his breath. "Same here."

For a moment, neither spoke, the only sounds were the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels behind them. Then Herald's tone shifted, more careful.

"What's waiting for you in the capital?" he asked. "You don't strike me as someone there for sightseeing."

Caelith's eyes didn't move, but his grip on the reins tightened slightly.

"A test," he said, voice quiet but firm. "One I can't afford to fail."

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Herald nodded slowly, reading between the lines — but asking no more. The boy was a wall — hardened, scarred, and dangerous to prod.

"I see," Herald said at last. "Well. For what it's worth, you'll get there with coin in your pocket and your head high."

Caelith said nothing.

He had changed into high-class robes and cleaned off the exhaustion of the past two months.

His appearance drew more looks than his reputation.

The past year seemed to dawn in his mind as he continued walking toward the capital. The test was a month away. The culmination of all his efforts, yet, it was such a bitter reward.

What was meant to be his escape, a chance for a better future, a goal filled with hope, was now a painful reminder of his struggles.

He had braved death many times. He had sweat and bled enough for a lifetime. He had achieved progress, which could only be called frightening. He had also paid the price for his boons. He had lost part of his youth in this grueling year. He had lost his innocence and compassion in the forest. He had also lost his mother there.

A swell of anger surged inside him, simmering in his eyes. He did not let it show but mentally re-affirmed the judgment he would deliver on those 'elite guards.' Onto his stepmother's family. Onto his family. Onto the kingdom that organized this system of tyranny. Onto this world which had failed and rejected him.

None were safe; none would be spared.

The month stretched on. The dense forests began to thin, giving way to rolling hills speckled with wildflowers and rough stone. Farmland appeared in the distance — patches of tilled earth, fenced pastures, and the occasional farmhouse rising like stubborn outposts on the horizon.

Caelith never ceased to train. His precision, execution, timing, and intimacy with Rejection had reached another major threshold.

He no longer stumbled, no longer hesitated, no longer overshot.

He had refined his execution to the pinnacle of what he could manage. His endurance increased by leaps and bounds with his improved control of Rejection.

He had become accustomed to his blade.

Despite his lack of experience with blacksmithing, the tusk had come out looking like a sword and possessing an esoteric aura that drew the eyes, greed, and respect of onlookers.

The sword felt alive to Caelith. His kinship with Rejection made him especially close to the mana-devoid sword.

Truly, everything in the world carried some amount of mana.

Every creation of the gods carried it somewhere in their being.

Except Caelith.

The gods named their creation, and so, Caelith had pondered on a name for his blade.

He decided upon the name

Ashthorn

Ashthorn was not only a boon to his combat power, but carried a deeper importance to Caelith.

The way it was integrated with Rejection.

It naturally drew the environmental mana to it, and due to that draw, it would surround and stick to it.

When Caelith sent Rejection into the sword, the effect magnified.

The mana from all the surroundings would be drawn to it. Compacted on the edge. Colliding and becoming denser, and stronger until it reaches its limit.

It had been an unintended boon, brought about by the physics of mana. However, it was what truly made the sword stand out.

This made Caelith wonder.

'Can I use Rejection inside myself the same way?'

The thought was like an insurmountable wall.

Caelith thought back to his first encounter with Rejection. He had just awoken, confused and distressed, yet his draw toward the power had superseded every thought in that situation, and he had been rudely initiated with its destructive capacity.

His mind ran wild and thought of his battle with the bandit captain, the gruesome way Caelith had killed him.

He would have scarred himself a year ago witnessing such a slaughter, yet now he felt nothing, nothing at all.

Caelith knew that the way to surpass the threshold he was encumbered by lied in that application,

Internal Rejection.

From afar, villages dotted the hills, smoke curling from chimneys, life moving at a slower pace.

Watchtowers loomed at intervals along the road, tall and grim, bearing tattered crimson banners — the mark of the Ignirian Empire. Soldiers could be seen pacing along the battlements, armor catching the sun like fire.

Order, structure — civilization.

Yet Caelith's eyes remained hard. Civilization meant nothing to him. The nobles, the blessed, the chosen — they ruled here, and he was not one of them.

But he would become more than them.

As the sun reached its peak on this day, the road grew smoother, stones well-laid, worn down by countless travelers over generations. Merchants passed from the other direction, caravans of spices, weapons, scrolls, and slaves — their wagons guarded by soldiers emblazoned with house sigils.

Herald's caravan kept to the side, respectful but wary.

By midday, the road rose sharply into a stone-cut ridge, winding along the edge of a cliff face. The climb was gradual but relentless, the wagons creaking under their load, horses breathing hard as the incline steepened.

Herald raised a hand, signaling a brief halt. Guards shifted, wiping sweat from their brows, eyes flicking forward with quiet expectation.

Caelith stepped away from the wagon he'd been walking beside, boots crunching against gravel. The wind shifted.

And then — the capital revealed itself.

They stood at the crest of the ridge, the world stretching out before them, but it was the city that demanded attention.

Vantrel — Heart of the Ignirian Empire.

It sprawled across the valley below, massive, walled, layered like a fortress of stone and ambition. Tiered districts climbed the city's slope, each higher than the last, leading to the Imperial Crown — a colossal palace of black marble and gold-veined spires that pierced the sky. The palace loomed above everything, like a king watching over his domain.

Smoke trails rose from countless forges and hearths, blurring the sky with ash and heat. Bells tolled distantly, a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the air like the heartbeat of the city itself.

Caelith said nothing.

His eyes traced the city's layers — a study in order and power.

The outer ring held slums clustered near the walls, shanty homes packed tightly, smoke rising from open fires. People swarmed like ants, the poor and desperate clinging to survival at the city's edge.

The next tier was the merchant's domain, streets lined with colorful banners, market stalls, and massive stone warehouses. Crowds pulsed through the roads, coins clinking, voices shouting over one another.

Beyond that, there was a military bastion, fortresses of stone and steel, training grounds, barracks, and drill squares filled with soldiers in red and gold armor. Discipline radiated from the walls.

Higher still: noble estates, each a manor of marble and glass, surrounded by gardens, guards, and mana-laced fountains that shimmered in the sunlight. Wealth and bloodline ruled here.

Finally, near the city's heart stood Veltharn Academy — a sprawling citadel of dark stone halls, arched bridges, and mana-lit towers that reached skyward like blades.

The central keep loomed above the rest, its surface etched with runes of flame and war, pulsing faintly in the sunlight, visible even from miles away.

Veltharn was not merely a school. It was a sanctum of the blessed, a place where nobles and chosen warriors were forged into leaders of fire and steel.

The principal was known to be on par with the king of Igaria himself. The highest power in the land.

A place of trial.

A place of power.

Caelith's eyes locked onto it — cold, unwavering.

That was his goal.

The main road to the city was a river of life — pilgrims, merchants, soldiers, noble carriages, and peasants alike, all moving toward the mana-powered gates that stood three stories tall. Runes flickered across the gate's frame, pulsing softly, regulating entry.

Guards in red-plated armor inspected wagons and travelers, stopping many and waving others through. The mana flux from the gate shimmered in the air, subtle but present — a silent test.

Herald rode to the front, producing a gold-sealed permit. The guard nodded respectfully, but his gaze lingered on Caelith, eyes flicking to the sheathed sword at his hip.

Something in the guard's posture shifted — wary, uncertain.

Caelith met his gaze once. The guard looked away.

The caravan passed through unchallenged.

Inside, the city roared to life. Noise, motion, chaos in order. Wagons clattered over stone, people shouted, flags flapped from rooftops. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, spices, and ambition.

Caelith took it all in, silent.

The streets of Vantrel swarmed with motion — wagons rumbling over cobbled roads, merchants shouting beneath brightly colored banners, and the constant hum of mana-powered devices echoing in the distance.

The air was thick with smoke, spice, and sweat, a suffocating blend of ambition and survival. The capital lived and breathed as one massive, grinding engine — and Caelith could already feel the weight of it pressing against his skin.

It was his first time in a city, and the amount of moving parts almost made his head spin.

The caravan wove through the outer district, making its way to the merchant district and then even still towards its peak. Flanked by stone warehouses and rows of storefronts bursting with wares. Crowds parted around them, drawn by the sight of Herald's banner — a silver stag marked by twin axes — and the heavily guarded wagons brimming with reclaimed goods.

Eventually, they came to a halt in front of a walled compound, its gates bearing the same crest. Guards opened it swiftly, and Herald's caravan poured in, workers dismounting and unloading in swift, practiced motions.

Caelith stepped aside, his gaze scanning the compound. It was spacious but secure — walls ten feet high, iron-barred windows, and watchtowers manned with crossbows. Trade was war in this city, and Herald knew it.

The storefront across from the compound was large and ornately decorated. Easily overshadowing the other shops in the merchant district. It stood valiant, unopposed, and with dignity. At its peak hung a familiar flag with a silver stag marked with twin axes.

It seemed Herald was a better merchant than he had led on.

Herald dismounted, dusting off his cloak as he approached. In his hand, he held a leather pouch bulging with coin. Behind him, Alen peeked from the wagon, still clutching the wooden sword Caelith had gifted him the day before.

The merchant's face was serious, not stern — a man about to speak his mind.

"You've done more than I could ever pay for," Herald said, holding out the pouch. "This isn't just for the fight. It's for getting us here alive — and whole."

Caelith took the pouch silently, weighing it in his hand. Heavy. Generous. More than fair.

Herald reached into his cloak again, pulling free a rolled map, sealed with wax.

"Vantrel's not kind to strangers," he said, offering the map.

"This'll get you through the academy district without losing your head."

Caelith accepted it, still saying nothing.

Herald's gaze lingered, searching.

"You've got talent, boy," he said at last, voice low. "But talent draws eyes — and blades. Keep your head down. The capital... it eats the weak. Or the unwise."

Caelith's eyes lifted, sharp and unreadable. For a breath, he hesitated — then nodded once.

"I am young, not a fool."

Herald gave a tight smile. "Didn't think you were."

Behind him, Alen waved, hesitant but hopeful.

Caelith turned, stepping through the compound's gate back into the pulsing city. The noise wrapped around him — voices, footsteps, the distant toll of bells.

Not even a second later, a voice called out.

"Come to think of it you don't have anywhere to stay right? Stay with us! I promise the Silver Axe merchant group can provide the best accommodation in the capital!"

Herald stood at the gates waving with a brimming smile.