The God of Nothing.-Chapter 11: Lessons in Blood

The first thing Caelith noticed was the heat—a slow, pulsing warmth licking at his skin.

Not the searing intensity of fire magic, but the flickering embers of a dying campfire.

Then came the pain. It rolled over him in sluggish waves, a dull throbbing in his ribs, a sharper sting along his shredded arm.

Every breath felt like inhaling shattered glass.

The air was thick with the mingling scents of damp earth, charred wood, and blood. His blood.

Somewhere nearby, a metallic rasping sound scraped through the silence.

Caelith forced his eyes open, his vision swimming before settling on a hunched figure beside the fire.

Kaden sat with a dagger in hand, dragging the blade across a whetstone. Sparks leapt in the dim light, glinting off the steel.

His expression was unreadable, but his gaze was fixed on Caelith, studying him with quiet scrutiny.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The only sounds between them were the crackling of the dying fire and the distant rustle of leaves stirred by the wind.

Then, without looking up, Kaden broke the silence.

"So, do you give up?"

The words cut deeper than the Shadow Wisp Jackal's claws.

A response hovered on the edge of Caelith's tongue, something sharp, something that would bite just as hard as the ache in his bones.

But his throat was raw, his body still sluggish, and the memory of last night burned fresh.

He could still hear the jackal's shriek, still feel the mud swallowing him as he crawled back, broken and empty-handed.

Was that how Kaden saw him?

A failure, dragging himself back to camp like a wounded dog?

Shame curled tight in his stomach, twisting into something hotter, sharper.

No.

He wouldn't be that.

Wouldn't be some pathetic thing that lay in the dirt and waited to be discarded.

He didn't answer.

He simply pushed himself upright, wincing as pain flared through his body. His arm throbbed, and his ribs protested with every movement, but he refused to stay down.

Kaden watched him with the same impassive expression, still sharpening his blade. If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

Caelith turned away and stumbled toward the forest.

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The night air was cool, thick with the scent of damp leaves and distant rain.

The trees loomed around him, their gnarled branches stretching like skeletal fingers. The mist curled low along the ground, twisting between the roots, shifting with an unnatural stillness.

Each step sent another jolt of pain through his ribs. He gritted his teeth, pressing a hand against his side as he pushed forward. He had to find it.

The jackal had fled into the woods, wounded but alive.

And if he didn't finish the job, if he came back empty-handed a second time, he knew what kind of look Kaden would give him.

He wouldn't return until the beast was dead.

The silence of the forest felt heavy, pressing in on all sides. Not peaceful. Not safe. Watching.

His breath came in slow, steady exhales as he scanned the ground.

The tracks were easy to follow—deep gouges in the dirt where claws had raked the earth, blackened patches where acidic blood had burned into the roots.

A growl rumbled from the shadows.

Caelith froze.

It seemed that the Jackal's greed had made it stay around, looking to finish off its prey.

A shape slunk forward from the mist, its form flickering at the edges like a dying flame.

The Shadow Wisp Jackal. Its remaining eye burned molten gold, fixed on him with pure, seething hate. The wound from before had only made it more dangerous.

Then it lunged.

Caelith barely moved in time.

The beast's claws tore through empty air as he twisted aside, landing hard on his bad arm. Pain flared white-hot, but he didn't have time to dwell on it.

The jackal was already turning, its body coiling with unnatural speed.

The bone spurs on its back twitched.

He moved on instinct, diving sideways as the projectiles fired. They shot past him, embedding into the trees with a sickening crack.

One tore through his sleeve, narrowly missing his skin.

Too fast. Too aggressive. It wasn't testing him this time—it was trying to kill him.

But Caelith wasn't the same, either.

Instead of retreating, he threw himself forward.

A gamble. A reckless, desperate move.

The jackal reacted, its jaws parting, acidic drool hissing as it dripped onto the dirt. But Caelith was already too close for another ranged attack.

His hand shot downward, fingers digging into the damp earth. He scooped up a fistful of mud and flung it into the jackal's good eye.

The beast let out a shriek, thrashing as it stumbled back, momentarily blinded.

Its claws scraped wildly against the ground, searching for him.

He didn't let it recover.

With his good arm, he drove his dagger into its throat.

The blade met resistance, tearing through sinew and cartilage, but he pushed harder.

The jackal convulsed, its body writhing beneath him.

It raked his shoulder, claws sinking deep, but he didn't let go.

He twisted the knife.

The beast let out one last, gurgling snarl before its body sagged.

Even then, Caelith didn't stop.

He drove the blade down again, the steel biting deep into flesh, meeting resistance only for a moment before sinking further.

The jackal's body convulsed beneath him, a wet, gurgling snarl escaping its ruined throat. But Caelith didn't stop. He wrenched the dagger free and plunged it down once more.

And again.

And again.

Each strike was raw, unrelenting, his muscles burning with the effort, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

Thick, bubbling black blood oozed from the wounds, spilling over his fingers, and coating his hands in a slick, burning heat that stung where his own skin had been torn open.

The scent was nauseating—acrid, metallic, with an underlying rot that made his stomach churn.

The jackal's thrashing weakened. Its snarls faded into wet, choking gasps, then silence.

Caelith didn't move at first.

His fingers were still curled tightly around the dagger's hilt, his chest rising and falling in uneven heaves.

His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out everything except the dull, rushing void of exhaustion.

Slowly, he sat back, his arms trembling, his entire body numb except for the sharp, pulsing ache of his wounds.

The jackal lay motionless before him, its body slumped awkwardly, its single, sightless eye reflecting the dim moonlight.

The last remnants of its breath rattled out in a faint, shuddering exhale.

It was dead.

For a long moment, he simply sat there, catching his breath, letting the reality settle in. Then, with unsteady hands, he grabbed the jackal by the scruff and began dragging it toward camp.

The journey back was agony.

Every step sent another lance of pain through his ribs, his arm screaming in protest. His fingers were numb from gripping the carcass, the acrid stench of its blood stinging his nose.

By the time he staggered into the clearing, the fire had burned lower, casting long shadows across the dirt.

Kaden looked up from his spot by the fire. His gaze flicked to the corpse, then back to Caelith.

For the first time, something shifted in his expression.

Not quite approval. Not quite dismissal, either.

Caelith dropped the body near the fire and collapsed beside it, his limbs aching, his breath still ragged.

Kaden exhaled, sheathing his knife.

"...Hmph, a Shadow Wisp Jackal. Not bad."

The words shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have meant anything.

But somehow, they did.

And like that, time passed.