The God of Nothing.-Chapter 21: Rejection and Resolve

The forest stretched endlessly before Caelith, a cascade of towering trees and whispering shadows. The scent of damp earth clung to the air, thick with decay and life all at once.

Caelith's stomach twisted in hunger, a sharp reminder of his mortality.

The Duskrend Strider's meat was soon to run out.

His fingers curled into fists.

He needed to get stronger. Now.

The world wasn't going to wait for him to heal. It wasn't going to care that he had been exiled, that he had buried his mother with his own hands, that he had been gutted and left to die in the depths of this godforsaken forest.

If he wanted vengeance, if he wanted to make the Stormonts pay, he couldn't afford to waste another second.

And so, despite his exhaustion, despite the dull ache of loss weighing him down, Caelith kept moving.

The forest was alive; it was watching.

A predator's gaze prickled at the back of Caelith's neck. He stopped walking. The air stilled. His enhanced senses—sharpened by whatever change had overtaken his body—picked up the faintest sound.

Leaves shifting. Twigs snapping. A blur of movement, fast, too fast.

Caelith turned just in time—

A blur shot from the underbrush.

Teeth. Claws. Motion.

His body reacted before his mind could process it. He twisted sharply, the beast's claws slicing through the empty space where his neck had been just moments before.

He barely caught a glimpse of its shape—a four-legged shadow, lean and muscular, moving like lightning. Not just fast—unnatural.

'Shade Wisp Jackal.'

Another attack.

Caelith tried to react, but he was too slow. The beast slammed into his side, sending him crashing through the undergrowth.

His back hit the base of a tree, bark snapping beneath the impact.

Pain flared, but he forced himself to move.

His sword was still sheathed. He hadn't even drawn it.

The beast circled him, prowling in slow, deliberate motions. It was toying with him, testing him, waiting for him to move before striking again.

Caelith's breath came slow and measured. His grip on his dagger tightened.

He needed to counter. But how?

Caelith exhaled slowly, forcing himself to still his shaking hands. His breath came in ragged gulps; his body tensed like a drawn bowstring.

He was outmatched, not in strength or resilience, but in sheer speed. The beast was like a specter in the dark, always moving, always circling, always attacking from the one angle he couldn't react to in time.

It wasn't just fast—it was methodical. It was toying with him.

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The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and blood, both his and the beast's.

His shoulder ached from where he had slammed into the ground, and the stinging sensation of fresh cuts reminded him just how close he had come to being torn apart.

Caelith's grip tightened around his sword as he adjusted his stance, his weight shifting onto the balls of his feet.

He was running out of time. The beast would strike again soon; if he didn't come up with a counter, it would be the last attack he ever faced.

His mind raced through everything he had learned from Kaden, from the guards, from his own months of struggle. He needed a way to turn the battle in his favor—to disrupt the beast's rhythm, to counter its overwhelming speed.

Then, a thought.

Rejection.

It had sent him flying when he first awakened it. It had repelled his own sword, tearing apart the air itself. But could he use it for movement? Could he push himself faster, just like he had been thrown backward by the force of the explosion?

The idea settled into his mind like a stone dropping into still water.

There was no time to hesitate.

The beast moved. A shadow against the darkened trees, its form a blur as it lunged.

Caelith pushed—and rejected.

A pulse of nothingness formed beneath his feet, and before he could even register what was happening, the world lurched around him. The ground blurred, and he was sent careening forward at a breakneck pace.

His foot caught awkwardly on the uneven forest floor, and before he could even attempt to regain his balance, he was flung sideways, crashing into a thick tree trunk.

Pain exploded across his back, the breath knocked from his lungs.

For a second, he couldn't move. He was stunned, his mind caught between the realization that he had succeeded and the sharp agony shooting through his ribs.

He coughed, spitting blood onto the dirt. That was too much force. He had moved—but without control, without balance.

He needed to stabilize it, to make it his.

The beast, momentarily startled by his sudden movement, hesitated only for a breath before resuming its relentless circling.

Caelith gritted his teeth.

He got up, forcing his battered body to move. He was going to try again.

This time, he adjusted his stance. He focused on where he wanted to go, not just the release of energy itself.

Another lunge. Another flicker of movement in the corner of his vision.

Caelith quickly manoeuvred himself between two trees. The opening between them allowing for only one entrance and exit. Then, the world grew still until another flicker appeared in Caelith's vision.

Caelith pushed, rejecting the space beneath his feet, but this time, he leaned forward into the motion.

The force surged through his legs, and he shot forward—but not wildly. His body moved with purpose; however, his balance was still unsteady.

The beast couldn't even perceive what had happened; neither could Caelith.

A man-sized bullet had torn through the air, ripping up dirt and roots from the ground.

Caelith felt his sword flow unperturbed through the air from start to finish. He himself, however, was not so lucky as he collided head-on with a tree, concussing him to the point where he could no longer move.

He wearily raised his head, looking at the bifurcated beast before him.

He had used his power—not just in wild bursts but with intention.

It wasn't perfect. He still had no true control over it. The recoil, the strain—it was something he would need to refine, to master.

But now he knew.

Rejection wasn't just destruction.

It was motion.

It was power.

Caelith wiped the blood off his blade, his mind racing with possibilities. His hunger gnawed at him, but his determination burned hotter.

The academy test was coming.

He was going to be ready.