The God of Nothing.-Chapter 36: Let Them Watch

The stone beneath Caelith's boots was still warm.

He hadn't moved far from where Farren left him — just enough to step out of direct sight. The hold was quieter now, emptied of the previous round's weight, but tension still clung to the air like mist. The kind that didn't settle. The kind that watched.

'342 after the first round, so 171 after the second.'

Caelith thought to himself, leaning against the wall, arms loose, cloak drawn low over his shoulders. The chatter in the distance hadn't returned to normal. Not for him. Every glance lingered too long. Every whisper came just a breath too late.

That was the cost of visibility. Of blood in the sand.

Footsteps tapped back into the corridor.

Farren.

His robes were still too clean. Still not scuffed in a way that suggested violence. But the look in his eye had shifted. Less selling. More intent.

He slid into view like he belonged there.

"You must be thinking sooo many thoughts in that head of yours," he started and continued before Caelith could speak. "You gotta chill out, man, for someone as young as you, a whole lot of gloom and depression lingers around you. Seriously, how are you ever gonna make friends?"

Farren's eyes were smiling, a stark contrast to the weight in everyone else's, Caelith included. It was as if all these tests would be simple for him.

"Really though, how old are you? A mysterious dark horse, who looks like he fell from heaven, shows up and causes a ruckus at the most important academy entrance exam in one hundred years! This all happened because those stuck-up big five all instructed their heirs to have children around the same time, seventeen or eighteen years ago."

Caelith narrowed his eyes slightly. "You said something about the second test."

Farren gave a lopsided shrug. "I did. And I will. But right now, you've got something more immediate to worry about."

He reached into his sleeve and withdrew a folded slip of parchment. Not standard arena fare — it looked copied by hand, smuggled early. The kind of thing someone shouldn't have.

"They're dropping the brackets early in the side halls and noble quarters to avoid a panic. Round Three's not just a step up. It's where they start watching for who belongs and who doesn't. And lucky you..." Farren handed him the note with a flourish.

Caelith unfolded it.

His name—Orien Blackhall—was written in a practiced script and slotted into a fresh matchup bracket for Arena Ring Six. His opponent is Tareth Kelenvas.

"Upper noble," Farren confirmed, tapping the name. "One-star. Flameform user. Speedy, polished, smug as hell. He's got the kind of schooling that comes with crested tutors and private mana baths. Been training for this since he was old enough to hold a blade. They have him placing just outside the top 10 if he makes it into the academy's first year."

Caelith's jaw flexed slightly.

"And," Farren added, tone lowering, "you're on a shortlist now. Some of the proctors flagged your last fight. No names confirmed, but the way you moved? Too precise. Not enough hesitation. They might label you a rival nation spy, or just eliminate you to be safe."

Before Caelith could answer, a horn blared overhead.

"Round Three candidates — report to brackets. Ring Six. Tier II. Weapon and mana clearance authorized. Match rules will be read on entry."

Farren whistled low, stepping back.

"There it is. Go time. You've got about five minutes before they call your name."

Caelith folded the slip and tucked it into his sleeve.

Farren grinned. "Don't die. I've got odds riding on you now."

The air in the staging corridor was sharp with stone and silence.

Dust floated in the sunbeams spilling through the upper slats, gilding the cracked tile floor in lines of soft gold.

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Beyond the arch ahead, the roar of the arena waited — muffled but rising.

Caelith stood at the threshold. Still.

His name had just been called.

"Candidate Orien Blackhall — Arena Ring Seven. Round Three."

A pause. Then the crowd responded — not with applause, but with a murmur. A flicker of recognition. Whispers rustled along the noble tiers like wind through dry parchment.

He could feel it: the attention.

He didn't lift his eyes. Didn't give them the satisfaction.

They remembered Ring Eleven. The broken body. The blood-soaked sand.

It hadn't been meant for spectacle. But spectacle it had become.

And now the shadows he'd hoped to live in had begun to peel back.

Footsteps sounded down the opposite corridor. Another figure stepped into view — tall, composed, moving with a deliberate slowness that reeked of upbringing.

Tareth Kelenvas.

The heir of House Kelenvas — not one of the five great pillars, but high enough in the noble lattice to command attention. His robes were frost-threaded silk, woven with whispering enchantments that didn't hum so much as sigh. He wore no armor, but he didn't need it. His bearing did all the shielding.

Eyes like polished stone met Caelith's with a practiced chill. There was no surprise in them. Just dismissal.

Caelith could read it plainly: this boy had been groomed to believe he was untouchable.

The corridor creaked with the activation of suppression glyphs. Then, slowly, the weight lifted.

A new hum settled over the stone — soft, balanced, regulated. The mana seals had been lifted. The third round's restrictions shifted. No longer raw strength alone.

Now came the part where flames danced — or faltered.

Caelith stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. The simple linen undershirt beneath his coat flexed with the motion, still marked faintly with dust from the last match. His fingers brushed Ashthorn's hilt. Not drawn yet. Not needed.

Not yet.

He exhaled slowly.

You can't unleash Rejection. Not here. Not fully.

But he could show them something. Enough to pass. To appear competent — just not remarkable. He didn't need to win beautifully. He needed to win believably.

Let them think he was a half-trained commoner with grit and luck. Let them overlook what he really was.

Across the ring, Tareth turned his back slightly — speaking to the attending proctor with the kind of offhand ease that said he'd already planned his victory speech.

Caelith watched his stance. The way his feet shifted. How his hand hovered just a breath above the sigil-marked blade at his waist. It wasn't arrogance. Not entirely.

It was conditioning.

"Combatants, take your positions."

Caelith moved to the center line, boots soft against the stone. Tareth mirrored the motion, stepping with the crisp grace of a noble duelist trained in bloodless halls and sandless courts.

A hush fell over the arena.

Dozens of eyes locked on them.

Some curious.

Some hungry.

Some already calculating the odds.

Caelith stood still, his shoulders relaxed, his blade sheathed at his side. Across from him, Tareth Kelenvas shifted his weight and rolled his neck, loose strands of silver-blond hair brushing against his jaw. His armor wasn't bulky — lacquered mail over silk-trimmed underlayers — but it gleamed like it had never seen blood.

A noble's son. Trained. Well-fed. Armed with a sword as polished as his smirk.

"You're that gutter rat from Ring Eleven," Tareth said as he drew his weapon. "I'd offer a fair match, but a lot of people want you gone and fast."

He lifted his blade lazily, letting the tip drop and drag against the ground in mock boredom.

Caelith said nothing. His eyes flicked from the grip of Tareth's sword to the way his boots dug into the sand. Good balance. Elbow too high. Overreliant on mana.

From above, the voice of the announcer echoed. Amplified. Absolute.

"Commence the fight."

Tareth lunged, fast and clean. A diagonal slash, intended to test Caelith's reaction more than harm. Caelith pivoted just outside the arc, Ashthorn struck out, leaving a shallow cut on the boy's arm. Caelith quickly returned his blade to the scabbard.

Too fast. Too easy.

He pulled back.

No need to end it yet.

Tareth blinked, surprised. Then sneered.

"I see. The brute knows footwork."

He advanced again, this time with tighter strikes — cross-cuts, low stabs, an overhead arc with enough force to dent plate. Caelith gave ground, rolling with the rhythm, letting the noble burn his stamina. Their blades never touched. Ashthorn remained sheathed.

Caelith's thoughts were still. Focused.

One-star. Good weight transfer. Sharp hips. But telegraphs too much. No control over his breathing. Doesn't mask his feints well. He hasn't been in life-or-death combat before.

Caelith inhaled once, then exhaled slowly.

I've held back long enough.