The God of Nothing.-Chapter 30: Threads Beneath the Surface

The morning passed with no incident.

Vantrel, however, did not rest.

Even before the sunlight broke fully across the rooftops, the city pulsed with motion — carts clattered over stone, merchants shouted to one another across narrow alleys, and bells rang from the far towers, marking the hour. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith's hammer struck iron with rhythmic certainty, and the low hum of mana, buried deep in the city's bones, throbbed faintly beneath it all — like a heartbeat.

Caelith stood in the shade of the Silver Axe compound, cloak draped over his shoulder, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He was dressed plainly — not in noblewear, but in clean, well-cut linen and travel leathers. Clothing fit for someone with coin and no crest.

A servant had approached him earlier with a message. No seal. No signature. Just a folded slip of parchment.

"Ink & Iron. He'll be expecting you. I cannot go with you. But the man who will help you is a friend I trust with my life. —Herald."

No explanation followed.

And so Caelith went.

He crossed the city alone. Past baker stalls steaming with fresh loaves, past laundry lines swaying over alleys, past shrine walls smeared with coal-ash prayers. The merchant tier thickened around him — a jungle of banners and signs, scrollsellers and potion peddlers, rows of alchemic goods and knockoff enchanted charms sold from worn crates.

Eventually, tucked between a sagging relic shop and an unmarked apothecary, Caelith found the door. Cracked stone steps. Faded wood. A brass plaque that had long since lost its shine.

Ink & Iron.

The noise dulled as soon as he entered.

Inside, the air was dry and still. Shelves lined the walls, each sagging beneath the weight of scrolls, runed tablets, and old tomes. A desk sat near the back, cluttered but orderly, its owner hunched over a narrow ledger with a dripping quill.

The man didn't look up.

"Close the door. Sit."

Caelith obeyed.

The scribe was old — not in the way that creaked, but in the way that endured. His face bore lines deepened by burns, and one eye was clouded with the remnants of a mana scar. His robes were faded crimson, edges scorched, wrists tattooed with runes so old they no longer glowed.

Once Caelith had settled, the man pressed his palm flat to the table.

A containment seal flared beneath it — subtle and red, flickering like a candle behind thick glass. The room dimmed further.

"You're entering Veltharn," the man said, eyes still on the desk.

"I am."

He finally looked up.

"Then you'd best understand the game."

He opened a drawer and removed a scroll. The parchment unrolled with a whisper, revealing a hand-drawn diagram — concentric rings, tiered brackets, names written in steady, practiced strokes.

"They call it the Gauntlet. Public tournament. Structured combat. Think of it as the first culling."

Caelith scanned the diagram.

"It's watched. Wagered on. Each fight is a spectacle — nobles fill the seats, instructors take notes. The arenas are enchantment-woven. Terrain shifts. Mana pressure zones. Elemental hazards. No match is the same."

The man's voice never rose. It didn't need to.

The scribe's voice grew quieter, more deliberate.

"They'll be testing more than power. This isn't just about who can set the ground on fire or swing hardest. They'll test your adaptability. Instinct. Control. How you fight, yes—but also how you think. How you react under pressure. What you fear."

He looked at Caelith for a moment longer, as if gauging how much of that had truly sunk in.

"The Gauntlet starts with combat," he continued, "but not every match is one-on-one. Some pits are team-based. Others? You're thrown in against summoned beasts, mana-warped creatures the nobles keep locked away for occasions like this. Not all of them bleed. Some don't even feel pain."

He slid a parchment forward, revealing a rough sketch of an arena—concentric rings, broken terrain, elevation shifts, rune-sealed zones at the edges.

"Some rounds are chaotic," the scribe said. "Multiple candidates, all dropped in at once. You don't get told the rules until you're already standing in the dust."

Caelith didn't flinch. But his eyes narrowed slightly.

"That's where some of them shine," the scribe added. "The noble heirs. They've trained for these exact conditions since they could walk. Some have sparred together since they were children. They'll cooperate. Or pretend to."

Caelith said nothing. He didn't need reminding of what he lacked. No allies. No sponsors. No script to follow.

"But it's not all to their advantage," the scribe said. "A mind trained in perfection can break under chaos. The unpredictability of the Gauntlet favors those who can read a battlefield, not just repeat drills. If you can think on your feet, if you can exploit terrain, if you can move without hesitation—then you'll stand out."

He paused, then added, "There's one round rumored to be part of this year's Gauntlet—a labyrinth trial."

Caelith looked up.

"It's different every time. But always the same purpose. You're sent in alone. Wounded mana-beasts released within. No path is safe. No map is provided. You have a set time to reach the center, or survive until the bell tolls. It's not about winning. It's about how long you last. What choices you make."

Caelith's fingers brushed against the table's edge. That sounded like an opportunity. A test not of power—but of clarity. Of instinct.

The scribe, however, frowned.

"There's also a test of mana control," he said. "Standardized, supposedly. You're tasked with manipulating flame through precise glyph-forms and runic constructs. No combat. Just control."

Caelith's jaw clenched.

He had no formal training. No scrolls. No tutor whispering corrections behind him.

"That's where they'll dock you," the scribe said quietly. "They'll say your fundamentals are poor. That your flame's unstable. Even if you win your matches, the nobles will latch onto anything that shows you don't 'belong.' That's how they weed out the ones without crests."

Caelith nodded once. It was expected.

"Still," the scribe added, almost grudgingly, "it's not hopeless. There's always one or two who make it through. Not because they're the strongest—but because they're undeniable. You can't ignore someone who turns the battlefield into something the judges didn't anticipate."

He leaned forward again.

"So if you're going to survive, don't just fight like you belong. Fight like the entire test is an insult—and you're the answer."

Caelith stood slowly, gathering what he needed from the table. His eyes were calm, but focused now. He knew where his advantages lay—and where they didn't.

He paused, then flipped the page.

"Survive the Gauntlet, and you'll face the Ember Path."

Caelith raised a brow. "What is it?"

The scribe smiled grimly.

"No one knows. It's not public. There are no spectators. The Ember Path changes every year — sometimes by design, sometimes by... consequence. But always private. Always lethal. They say it tests what you lack."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You should worry less about the tests themselves and more about who you'll face within them."

He reached again — this time for a heavy ledger. Fire-treated leather. Five faded crests across the cover.

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"The five pillars of the Ignirian Kingdom," the scribe muttered, his voice low, reverent — but not fond. "They've stood for centuries. Each one sends its best to Veltharn. Champions, they call them. Some families send more than one. But five names matter. More than the rules. More than the test."

He flipped the first page in the leatherbound ledger, and his hand paused just slightly — a flicker of unease betraying what came next.

"Serika Varendel. The Emberborne."

The sketch was spare — a narrow-eyed girl in dark robes, a line of flame-tattooed script winding down her left arm. Not a warrior's image. A quiet storm.

"House Varendel's heir. Eighteen. Methodical. The kind who fights like a surgeon, not a soldier. Emberflow doesn't explode. It seeps. It corrupts. You won't know how deep the burn goes until your footing shifts and your sword feels heavier."

He tapped the side margin.

"Her duels are measured. She doesn't rush. She shapes the battlefield over time. Infects the ground with heat. Disrupts tempo. Most of her wins come from opponents panicking — not from raw force. It's not just her mana that wins fights. It's her ability to make you doubt your own."

He turned the page with a faint rustle.

"Theryn Damaris," he said next. "They call him the Silent Brand."

The sketch was cleaner. A boy in fitted robes, posture rigid, head slightly bowed. He looked more monk than noble.

"Nineteen. Heir to House Damaris. Carries Whiteflame — but that's not what makes him dangerous."

He gestured toward a footnote in the margin.

"It's what you don't see. The blade strikes that don't flare. The pressure that doesn't rise. Whiteflame doesn't roar. It slides between your guard. A single cut, and you're either bleeding or... recovering. Some say it can mend. Others say it poisons. No one outside Damaris has confirmed either."

A pause.

"But it's his discipline that matters. He doesn't get baited. Doesn't lose tempo. He reads his opponents like ledgers. And he's a master of misdirection. Feints, stances, footwork from five different martial schools. His flame is a tool. His real weapon is control."

Caelith's expression didn't shift, but his fingers flexed faintly.

Next, the scribe hesitated — for longer than before.

"Lysara Selyth," he said at last. "Seventeen. The Hollow Flame."

The girl in the sketch wore a faint half-smile, eyes vacant. There were no weapons drawn, only curls of faint ash rising from her shoulders.

"Her magic... unsettles," the scribe muttered. "Her presence alone shifts the rhythm of the fight. Light dulls. Sounds die. Spell constructs flicker. You begin to question whether your next action matters at all."

He leaned back slightly.

"She doesn't win through raw power. She wins because you stop fighting properly. You forget your footwork. You lose your sense of urgency. Her flames do something to your instincts, not just your body. Enchantment suppression, some say. Psychological drain, others. But again — nothing proven."

Caelith gave no comment. His eyes narrowed slightly.

The next page turned with more certainty.

"Raen Vhaelor," the scribe said. "Twenty. The Pale Flame."

The drawing was crisp — Raen stood with his blade half-wrapped in frost, his shoulders squared, gaze level and cold.

"Coldfire isn't ice, not truly. It's fire stripped of heat — a force that slows everything it touches. Blood thickens. Mana falters. Even breath becomes harder to time."

He tapped a notation beside the name.

"Raen doesn't pressure his opponents. He drags them into a slow death. Forces them to make decisions one second too late. He's not the strongest technically. But in prolonged combat? There are few his age who match him."

He gestured toward another symbol in the margin — a sigil for battlefield training.

"He was raised by tacticians, not just knights. Reads terrain. Forces bottlenecks. Uses spacing better than anyone in his tier. That's what makes him terrifying. He isn't fighting you — he's fighting the space around you."

And then came the last name.

"Vaerin Stormont."

The title hung in the air like iron.

Caelith didn't react outwardly.

But inside, something shifted — a flicker behind his ribs. A cold tightening of breath.

"Seventeen. The Crimson Prodigy. Purefire runs in his blood. The most violent form of fire. No tricks. No traps. Just pressure. Relentless, brutal, efficient. His duels don't last long — he ends them before opponents can find rhythm."

The scribe leaned forward.

"He's already being called the future of House Stormont".

Caelith said nothing.

But his fingers tensed.

The name sat in the room like a blade between them. The scribe didn't know — couldn't know — what it meant. What blood it came from. What it had taken.

And still... he continued.

"There is one more."

He reached below the desk and pulled out a sealed scroll.

"This name isn't listed with the houses. But he's not to be underestimated."

He broke the wax.

"Aurex Vrykal."

Caelith looked up.

"Son of Emperor Ignis II. The current ruler of the Ignirian Kingdom."

The weight of that name settled heavier than the others.

"They say he's entered by his own will. No sponsor. No announcement. Just a quiet entry. No one even knows his magic — only that he's trained within the palace and rarely leaves. Some say he isn't here to win. He's here to observe. Or worse — to send a message."

The scroll contained no details on Aurex's ability. No diagrams. No sketches.

Just the name. And a blackened crest, faint and scorched.

The scribe leaned back with a quiet creak of his chair. He studied Caelith in silence for a moment longer, then reached beneath the desk and pulled out a narrow slip of parchment, already stamped with wax.

"You'll be entering under an alias," he said. "Not uncommon for last-minute entries — or for those who want to avoid drawing attention."

He tapped the paper.

"Orien Blackhall. That's your name now. You'd do well to remember it. It's already registered."

Caelith took the parchment slowly. The name meant nothing to him. A mask — one more thing he would wear until the time came to tear it off.

The scribe continued, voice low. "You should thank Herald. That slot you're holding? It's worth more than most men will earn in a decade. Peasants break their backs for a chance like this. Nobles don't even think twice."

He looked up, something faint and unreadable in his eyes. "Whatever you did to earn his favor... must've been a hell of a thing."

Caelith said nothing. But a part of him tightened at the thought. Herald had gone further than he needed to. A place in the tournament was no simple favor — not even for someone of his standing. This wasn't just generosity. It was trust. And Caelith didn't know if he could repay it.

"I'll hold onto the rest of the details," the scribe said, waving him toward the door. "You'll receive your bracket and instructions three days before the Gauntlet begins. Until then... stay quiet. Don't draw eyes."

Caelith stood.

"Good luck, Orien," the man said, smirking faintly.

Caelith didn't answer. He opened the door and stepped back into the roaring breath of the city. The clang of hammers, the heat of stone, the press of crowds.

He walked down the crooked stairs with the slip still in hand.

Orien Blackhall.

A name with no past.

No crest.

No stain.

Only the promise of what came next.