The God of Nothing.-Chapter 31: The Gauntlet Begins

Morning light split the veil of Vantrel's smog-laced sky, painting the city in bronze and soot. Bells tolled from the far towers — slower this time.

Heavier. Not the usual rhythm of trade or temple rites. Today, they marked something else entirely.

A letter had arrived at dawn.

Caelith held it now in his hands, eyes tracing the stamped wax sigil — not of any noble house, but the flame-inscribed crest of Veltharn Academy. A simple seal. But the weight behind it felt vast.

Candidate Orien Blackhall. You are assigned to Arena Ring Nine for Preliminary Evaluation. Weaponless engagement. Physical aptitude only. Report to Gate IV, Tier I of the Veltharn Arena before the ninth bell.

Failure to appear is disqualification. —Veltharn Proctorial Board

No further details. No list of opponents. No structure. Just a time. A place. A warning.

Caelith folded the letter and tucked it into his belt. He stood in the courtyard of the Silver Axe compound, early light glinting off iron-barred windows and throwing long shadows across the stone. Around him, life moved — horses fed, crates tallied, coin weighed — but to him, it barely registered. His world had narrowed to a single path: the road to the arena.

He passed Mira on the way out. She handed him a bundle — bread, dried fruits, water — without a word. Just a nod. Her eyes lingered.

At the gate, Herald wasn't waiting. Perhaps intentionally. Perhaps not. Either way, Caelith didn't look back.

Veltharn Arena sat like a sunken coliseum at the district's center — a wound carved into the earth, ringed in terraces and runes that shimmered in the morning light. Black stone walls bore thousands of names.

No titles.

Just names.

The crowds had already begun to gather. Vantrel's elite filled the upper tiers — silk-robed nobles, jewel-eyed daughters, sons of generals with flasks of spirit in hand.

Merchants packed the middle seats, shouting wagers and odds. And far below, in the lowest ring — the fighters waited.

Caelith entered through Gate IV. The corridor was cold and dim. Runes pulsed faintly across the walls — designed not for comfort, but control. To mute sound. To weigh the air.

A registrar sat at the end of the hall, flanked by two guards.

"Name?" she asked, not looking up.

"Orien Blackhall."

Mana flickered across the parchment. She nodded. "Confirmed. Arena Ring Nine. You're in the fourth match."

He gave a slight nod. She handed him a thin bronze token marked with a flame-inscribed numeral: IV.

"Wait in the southern hold," she said. "You'll be called by bell."

Caelith obeyed. The hold was a low-ceilinged chamber, half-buried in the arena's foundations. Stone benches.

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Damp basalt walls. No windows. Just the sound of distant drums overhead — slow, spaced, like the countdown to a hanging.

Half a dozen candidates sat or paced. One boy vomited in the corner. No one looked. No one spoke. Caelith sat near the center, alone.

The token in his hand was warm from his grip. Bronze. Light. The flame twisted into a numeral: IV. His match would come soon.

He studied the walls. Suppression glyphs, layered and old. Etched in overlapping circles to deaden surges. Smart.

Any candidate who panicked — or tried to ignite — would find themselves locked down by the room itself.

Above, faint vibrations shivered through the ceiling. The roar of the crowd filtered in — not words, but presence. Thousands of eyes. Not watching yet. But waiting.

And outside, Vantrel stirred.

Criers shouted match odds from the steps. Scroll-sellers peddled cheap prints of noble heirs. Gamblers waved slips inked with house crests. It was a holiday for the noble class.

Silken tents and shaded pavilions rose along the tiers. Icefruit passed in silver bowls. Servants fanned lords. Banners danced in the breeze — crimson for Stormont, violet for Selyth, pale silver for Vhaelor, sun-gold for Damaris, ember-orange for Varendel. Fire made silk.

To them, this was entertainment.

To everyone else?

Survival.

The middle tiers overflowed. Merchants elbowed for space. Street thugs shouted names. City guards watched from balconies in flame-etched armor. No commoners allowed in the lower ring. Only fighters. Only those willing to bleed.

One bell tolled. Then two. Each chime struck like a hammer on Caelith's nerves. Not from fear. From timing. Precision. His pulse slowed instead of racing.

He focused inward. This wasn't about strength alone. The Gauntlet would test adaptability. Control. Fear. He repeated the words like a blade form.

Footsteps approached. A guard stood at the threshold.

"Match Four. Arena Ring Nine. Follow."

Caelith rose.

No one met his eyes. No names. No wishes of luck. It was better that way.

He followed the guard through a narrow hall, light growing brighter ahead. The stone stairwell curled upward, each step carved with a flame rune, worn smooth by decades of champions and corpses.

At the top, the arena opened before him.

Veltharn Arena wasn't a ring — it was a scar carved deep into the bones of the cliff. Sunlight slashed through rising dust. Tiered stands overflowed with spectators.

A voice boomed from unseen runes overhead. "Arena Ring Nine — Match Four."

The crowd rumbled.

As Caelith crossed into the ring, he felt it — pressure. Like stepping beneath deep water. The mana suppression was total.

The glyphs weren't decorative. They pulsed faintly, forming a lattice of control. No fire. No spells. Only bone, breath, and blood.

The floor was coarse stone, dusted and uneven. Scars from old battles ran across the surface — grooves, craters, traces of pain.

The suppression field tugged at Caelith's core, dulling the spark that had flared since the forest.

He'd fight as he once had — with nothing but himself.

His opponent waited across the ring. Broad-shouldered. A head taller. Bandaged wrists. Scar over the brow.

A noble son, by the look. Not one of the heirs — but someone who'd grown up with drills, gold, and oil-fed torches.

The kind of strength shaped by luxury. Not struggle.

The crowd hushed. Nobles leaned forward, peering through rune-bound scopes. To them, this was just the opening act.

The proctor's voice rang out again. "Weaponless engagement. Physical evaluation. No fatalities."

A pause.

"Begin."

No countdown. No ceremony.

The noble charged — fast, fists swinging wide. Too wide. Too eager.

Caelith didn't meet him. He stepped aside, dropped low, and swept. The boy stumbled. Regained balance. Swung again — a brutal hook.

Caelith ducked. Ribs brushed the boy's elbow. He countered with a sharp elbow to the neck.

A solid hit — but not clean enough.

The boy grunted and surged forward, slamming Caelith into the pit wall. Dust burst up. Pain lanced through Caelith's spine.

He rolled with the strike, broke free. The field made everything heavier. Slower. Like moving through oil.

The noble charged again.

Caelith met him.

He ducked the first punch. Redirected the second. Slipped inside the guard. Knee to the gut — once, twice. The boy gasped.

Caelith slammed into him with his shoulder. Not graceful. But effective.

The boy collapsed, coughing.

Caelith didn't wait. He dropped to a knee, forearm across the throat, pinning him just long enough for the rune above to flash.

"Match complete. Candidate Orien Blackhall — victory confirmed."

Scattered applause from the lower tiers. Not the nobles. The merchants. The gamblers. The former soldiers.

They saw it. A weaker fighter had outlasted a stronger one. Technique had trumped force.

Caelith stood, breath shallow. A bruise spread along his ribs. His right shoulder ached. But he'd won.

Barely.

The boy was dragged away, coughing but alive.

Caelith didn't linger.

A steward waved him toward the tunnel. He obeyed.

Each step felt heavier — not just from pain, but from the weight of realization.

This was only the first.

One match. One name marked.

Four more to go