The God of Nothing.-Chapter 40: Cracks in the Crest

The arena had lost all shape.

Brackets, order, protocol — all burned away in the furnace of Aurex Vykrall's arrival. What remained was chaos, raw and boiling. Mana churned across the battlefield like a second atmosphere, too dense to breathe. Lines had blurred. Alliances were made not by crest or rank, but instinct. Fear. Ambition.

This wasn't the Gauntlet anymore.

It was a crucible.

And someone lit the first match.

Ash bloomed across the field like fog touched by flame.

Lysara Selyth moved with ghostlike precision, her eyes flat, unreadable.Her stride cut through the battlefield like truth through silence — slow, steady, and cruel in its confidence — trailing ash in a wide circle around Jorun Velgrath.

The magma-wielder's molten trail hissed as the two elements met, steam rising in tendrils.

Jorun snorted. "Pretty trick."

Even if she was an heir, the difference between two stars and three was absolute.

He stomped once. A ripple of lava burst through the ash.

But it didn't reach her.

Lysara shifted. The ash reacted — not passively, but defensively, cloaking the field in a heavy blanket of disorientation. Colors faded. Depth twisted. The ground felt further than it was.

Jorun's brows furrowed. His foot missed a step — the terrain wasn't where it should be.

He grinned, but it was forced now. "Clever little noble."

He raised his hand to call another surge, but by then Lysara had vanished from view.

She wasn't gone.

She was circling.

Unmatched speed and grace were working to disorient Jorun.

Elsewhere, flames danced with elegance instead of force.

Theryn Damaris intercepted Vessia Keldra like a drawn line — sudden, clean, undeniable. His blade hummed with whiteflame, controlled and precise. Vessia stepped in to meet it, hands weaving sigils in the air, scrolls flaring at her side.

Their first clash made no sound.

Just pressure — a compression of heat and clarity.

Whiteflame carved into her flame-construct, slicing through with surgical efficiency. But Vessia wasn't relying on strength. She was reading him.

Second movement — she twisted her fire around Theryn's angle, folding heat into his blind spot.

He countered. Instantly. A pivot, a downward slice, a flare of light that turned her spiral aside.

She smiled. Just slightly.

And raised two fingers.

Behind him, her lingering flame detonated, not to harm — but to shift his stance.

He stepped sideways into her third technique, barely catching it with the edge of his blade.

Then they broke apart.

Not a breath wasted.

Not a word spoken.

Both calculating.

And near the outer ring — war had begun.

Braegor Dorn refused to sit back and let foes approach him; he was a predator, always on the hunt, choosing his battles with unyielding intent.

A cluster of nobles — House Kelenvas, from their crests — had formed a spearhead. Four strong. Twostar. Coordinated.

They meant to overwhelm the overpowering challenger with techniques and strategy..

They barely got the chance.

Braegor hit like a landslide.

The first noble raised his blade — too slow. Braegor's spear shattered it in half and continued through, slamming the boy into the dirt.

The second cast a binding spell. Braegor tore through it with sheer mana pressure, vaulted forward, and drove the blunt end of his spear into the woman's collarbone. She dropped without a sound.

The last two tried to retreat. Braegor advanced — step by step, no words, no pause.

He didn't fight like a duelist.

He fought like someone who'd never learned to stop.

The differences between self-taught and earned experience and the nobles' sheltered training were coming to light.

The third fell to a shoulder-check that lifted him off his feet. The fourth was caught mid-dodge by a sweeping blow that cracked ribs through plate.

And that was before the spear tip even touched them.

Blood on the sand. Screams in the crowd. Proctors shouting into silence.

And in the eye of it all, Aurex stood still.

Unmoving.

Watching.

This was a culling; such an event didn't transpire without a dire need to extract only the best of the best of talent.

The blood of the losers would strengthen the victors.

The ever-looming threat of death, permanent and cold, drove the competitors to draw out every last bit of their strength.

The tide was shifting.

Across the field, combat no longer flowed in lines or duels — it fractured, scattered, collapsed inward like a dying star. Champions adjusted. Elite contenders adapted. But only the ruthless advanced.

Serika Varendel was already moving.

Her glaive spun once at her side, slow, deliberate. It wasn't showmanship — it was balance, focus, killing intent wrapped in poise. She moved toward the western ridge of the field where a rough alliance had formed — six candidates, mostly second-tier nobles and mercenary-sponsors. Smart enough to work together. Skilled enough to be dangerous.

But they hadn't worked together long enough.

A lightning-quick slash from the left — a rapier-user darting low.

Serika turned the attack aside with a flick of her wrist and, in the same breath, pivoted on her back heel. The butt of her glaive cracked the woman's jaw, and her body crumpled mid-motion like cloth torn from a line.

The others closed ranks.

Too slow.

Serika stepped between two spears, ducking a flame-whip, and cut high — not for damage, but for space.

One candidate overreached, allowing Serika to flow past her, dragging the flat of her blade across the woman's shoulder, then caught her wrist and snapped it inward with the turn of her hip. Disarmed. Down.

The leader of the group, a stocky boy with a thick blade and family sigils sewn into his collar, stepped in with two more allies. Serika caught his blade with the edge of her glaive and twisted it down, let the motion carry her into a side-step that brought her inside his reach.

One elbow to the throat. One knee to the gut.

He dropped.

The last two tried to scatter. She didn't chase.

Serika stood still. Red emberlight curled from her weapon like breath in winter.

Three heartbeats passed.

The others didn't return.

At the northern edge, the fight between Braegor Dorn and Raen Vhaelor escalated.

Raen didn't attack with speed. He didn't need to.

He created pressure.

His coldfire laced the air, a blue that barely glowed — but the moment Braegor stepped through it, his body slowed. Not physically. Reflexively. A delay in nerves. A second of hesitation where there should have been none.

Braegor pushed through it like a bull in snowfall.

His spear spun in a brutal upward arc, aiming to catch Raen beneath the ribs — but Raen was already gone, sliding back, his feet skimming the sand like a ghost.

He responded with three sharp slashes — left, right, feint low.

Braegor caught the third on the shaft of his spear and shoved forward. Their weapons locked. Sparks hissed. Mana clashed.

Raen's breath remained even.

"You strike with the force of a hammer," he said softly. "I was taught to dismantle the strongest defenses."

"Good," Braegor replied, his voice low. "Defenses are meant for the weak."

Then he surged.

The sheer force of his body broke the deadlock — his weight, raw and deliberate, barreling into Raen. The noble heir slid backward, boots gouging trenches into the sand.

Raen flicked two fingers. Coldfire flared behind Braegor's knee.

It struck.

But Braegor didn't fall.

He twisted instead, bringing the spear around in a horizontal arc.

Raen ducked — barely — and let the blade graze his shoulder.

The wound smoked.

They broke apart, circling now.

Both bleeding.

Neither retreating.

On the opposite side of the field, Jorun Velgrath tried to reclaim momentum.

But Lysara wasn't letting him.

Her ash had thickened again — not soft this time, but hard, splintered, razored. The kind of density that shattered rock and shredded boots. Jorun's feet hissed against the ground as he tried to push forward, but every stomp triggered another crackle of heatless resistance.

He flared his magma — but it rolled uselessly over the ash veil, scattered before it touched her.

"I said," he growled, "clever trick—"

Lysara didn't respond. She flicked her wrist.

A shard of hard ash whistled through the air and sliced across his cheek.

He blinked.

Then bled.

The wound wasn't deep. But it wasn't meant to be.

It was meant to humiliate.

He roared and leapt, launching himself with a jet of molten fire, his body spiraling like a warhead.

But Lysara stepped back. Raised one hand.

The ash swallowed him mid-flight.

He hit the ground coughing — not from pain, but from suffocation.

Lysara let him rise.

Then turned away.

Not dismissive.

Daring.

And for the first time, Jorun didn't chase.

The battlefield shifted again.

Lines weren't drawn with allegiance. They were drawn with respect. With blood. With instinct.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

Serika stood untouched amid broken alliances.

Raen and Braegor circled each other, equals in different languages of war.

Lysara controlled terrain not through brute force, but inevitability.

And above them all, Aurex Vykrall stood silent.

Still waiting.

Because this wasn't his battle.

Not yet.

The self-trained three-star champions were impressive, and the talented noble heirs contending with them while at the second star were even more so.

However this wasn't enough. The prince's horizions were too wide. His goal was something beyond this talent. His thoughts spun in his head.

'We need something that would fix the dire situation Igaria would find itself in. Something to overturn the advent of That, or at least give Igaria the room to compete when it comes.'

...

"Hey, street rat."

Caelith didn't turn at first. But the voice came again — louder this time, with the slurred confidence of a noble whose name had never been questioned.

"You. Yes, you with the knock-off sword and the peasant posture."

Two figures strolled across the sand, both clad in tailored dueling cloaks bearing the sigil of House Reselvain — a minor noble house known for its wealth, not its worth. Their boots were too clean for a battlefield, their blades too ornamental, and their expressions soaked in smug condescension.

One of them, lean and oily with curled blond hair and an over-lacquered saber, sneered.

"You really think someone like you belongs here? This isn't a border skirmish or a bandit scrape."

"Something big is going down, and only those with noble lineages will matter when it comes."

The second noble — bulkier, sun-puffed with a freckled jaw and a smirk — jabbed a thumb at Farren, who had just peeked from behind the ruined pillar.

"You dragging along your manservant now, peasant? Or is he your squire-slash-mistress? Hard to tell with the poor."

Farren blinked. Then grinned, wide and sunny.

"Oh, good. A two-for-one deal on inbred entitlement."

The lean one's smile faltered. "What did you say?"

Farren nodded helpfully. "No, really. Your jawline looks like it's arguing with your skull. Either that, or House Reselvain's family tree is less tree, more wreath."

The freckled one growled. "You think this is funny?"

"Funny?" Farren looked at Caelith. "I think it's tragic. These two probably call themselves heirs while living off wine-stained trust funds and the bones of better men."

The blond's face darkened. "You'll regret this."

Farren shrugged. "Probably not. , youwill."

The noble turned—just in time for Caelith to raise his eyes.

Still silent. Still calm.

But Ashthorn was drawn.

A breath passed. Then both nobles charged — one sweeping wide with his saber, the other lunging with a spear tipped in blue flame.

Caelith didn't flinch.

He stepped forward.

And ended it.

The saber came first — all flash and flourish. Caelith dipped beneath it, rotated his wrist, and turned the blade aside in a single motion.

Ashthorn followed — clean, fluid, rising from below in a reverse arc that disarmed him in every sense of the word. T

he first noble, the skinnier one, lost his arm in one swing, the bulkier fellow was not so lucky as the life drained from his eyes as he clutched his throat.

Then Caelith kicked the second one n the knee, dropping him to the sand like a folding chair.

Neither moved.

The crowd — at least those nearby — fell into stunned quiet.

Not because of the brutality.

But the efficiency.

Caelith hadn't wasted a step. Not a flourish. Not a shout.

He simply moved. Like a blade already drawn.

His performance was no less impressive than the heirs taking up the spotlight right now.

Ashthorn shimmered faintly in his hand, its forged edge drinking the light like ink.

Farren whistled low, stepping out from behind the ruin. "Well. Guess they won't be buying your house now."

Caelith said nothing.

But his gaze lifted.

Others were watching.

Some with calculation. Some with contempt.

And a few — the smart ones — with fear.

This was supposed to be a bloodbath of titans. He was supposed to be a background piece. A body.

But he'd just taken out two nobles like swatting flies.

Not with overwhelming power.

With precision.

With command.

He kept Ashthorn lowered but ready.