The God of Nothing.-Chapter 46: The Price of a Seat

The silence after the drop of blood was unlike any before.

It didn't just hush the crowd.

It muted the arena itself.

No wind. No breath. Even the flickering remnants of magic paused, as if unsure they still belonged here.

Aurex Vykrall stood with a single drop of blood on his neck, his scimitar lowered. His gaze never left the one who had struck him.

Caelith, ribs cracked, arm shaking, Ashthorn hanging low in his grip, didn't move. He didn't have to.

The moment had already shifted.

And everyone knew it.

Aurex raised one hand.

The proctors who had begun to move, already mid-step with spells ready to halt the duel, froze.

The nobles in the stands leaned forward as one.

The champions still standing, heirs and elites alike, watched not as contenders, but as witnesses.

The prince's voice followed — low, direct, unquestionable.

"I name you my sworn brother."

The words dropped like iron into still water.

A pause.

A beat.

And then—

Gasps erupted. Shouts. Stifled voices that couldn't comprehend what they had just heard.

Because that phrase—sworn brother—was not just symbolic.

In the Kingdom of Igaria, it was an oath more binding than blood.

It meant equality.

It meant shared destiny.

It meant that Aurex Vykrall, heir to the throne, had just placed the battered, broken figure of Caelith on the same level as himself.

Not above.

Not below.

Beside.

Aurex stepped forward, the blood on his neck already drying, his boots pressing cracked stone into dust.

"I felt it in our blades," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "You are not my shadow. You are not my prey. You are a flame yet to fully burn. And I will not insult your power by calling it anything less than my equal."

The wind returned, carrying his words to every ear in the arena.

Farren blinked twice. "Oh shit," he muttered. "He actually did it."

Aurex turned now — slowly — facing the crowd, the champions, the world that had gathered to witness the Gauntlet.

"Let me tell you all the truth," he said. "This was never about academy admission. Not for me."

He lifted his hand again, and above his palm, a small spiral of mana formed. Not an attack. Not a spell. A seal — glimmering silver, bearing the crest of the royal line and the mark of the Dean.

A figure buried in mystery.

Truthfully, only ten people in Igaria can claim that they have met the Dean personally. He was a legendary figure who had stepped into the seventh star, the only man equivalent to Aurex's father, the king of Igaria.

The only fact widely known about him is his rise to power. He started as a commoner near the eastern port cities, kidnapped and brought to a human farm on the central continent, he fought through countless horrors to finally return to Igaria, where he has been overlooking the academy.

"The Dean of Igaria is preparing to retire. And with his retirement will come the end of the academy, which will be replaced by a special initiative by the king to prepare Igaria for what's to come. The world will change irreversibly in the next five years, and all of Igaria needs to prepare. And before the dean retires..." Aurex's eyes swept the ring, one by one landing on each heir, each elite, every competitor still standing. "...he will teach one class."

He let the words settle.

Then drove them deeper.

"Ten students. Only ten. No more. No less."

He pointed at Caelith.

"Two seats are taken."

He let that linger like thunder before the storm.

"The rest," he said, voice turning sharp, "will be filled by those who prove themselves worthy of investment by Igaria. The dean's time is precious, and only the greatest talents will be awarded this opportunity. Additionally, only those below the fourth star are suitable. For the remainder of the tournament, you all will have the opportunity to prove your worth. If accepted, you will be contacted afterwards. And for the heirs, your status means nothing to me. If you fail to live up to my expectations, then you can only rely on your families to continue on your paths. "

He looked at Serika, Theryn, Vessia, Jorun, Lysara, Braegor.

Then, finally, the crowd.

"I want to see conviction. I want to see power. I want to see someone who dares to fight not for the academy, but for the world that will follow."

Then came the final words.

The ones that would ignite the next fire.

"Prove you are worthy. Show me that you can fight beside us."

The arena erupted.

Because the war for the remaining eight seats had just begun

For a heartbeat, every contender was frozen in place.

Prince Aurex's words still echoed like thunder across the wreckage: Caelith was his sworn brother. The first of ten chosen for the Dean's final class.

It should have been a moment of peace.

But it wasn't.

Because the moment the prince turned his back, the tension snapped.

All at once — instinct took over.

They weren't thinking about what the prince meant. They were thinking about what he said.

Ten seats. Twotaken.

eightleft.

The opportunity to study under the dean in the company of monsters such as Orien Blackhall and Aurex Vykrall. It signified a guarantee to reach the sixth star, to be able to live like a god amongst men.

And the man who had claimed the first? Bloodied. Unsteady. Just barely upright. His shoulders rose and fell like a forge on its final breath.

Caelith.

The dark horse.

The one who had made the impossible look ordinary.

And now?

Now he was vulnerable.

Opportunity.

Worthiness did not just amount to skill or strength; those who could capitalize on opportunity were just as worthy as those who fought tooth and nail for it.

All that mattered was the result.

The mood didn't shift — it shattered.

From the edges of the ruined arena, contenders surged forward. Some with hunger. Some with calculation. Others, simply chasing the scent of something greater.

Jorun's grin returned — all cracked teeth and hot breath. "I'll test his edge myself."

He raised both arms, and the earth cracked beneath him. A surge of molten mana answered — violent, crude, volcanic. A lance of magma hissed from the broken floor, spiraling toward Caelith with a scream of boiling stone.

Vessia rolled up her scroll, feet already in motion. Braegor hefted his spear. Theryn tilted his head, silent and sharp-eyed.

It wasn't personal.

It was momentum.

The desire to prove themselves beside — or over — the prince's chosen.

And Caelith?

He stood.

Just barely.

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Ashthorn still clutched tightly in one trembling hand. His vision pulsed. His ribs screamed. The Rejection Aura that had once scorched the battlefield now flickered faint and thin around his limbs — like embers at the edge of going out.

Then the first wave came.