The God of Nothing.-Chapter 48: A Stage for Monsters

The arena had been culled by Farren's rampage.

Dust lingered in the air as a scene unfolded below it. Noise permeated the arena, chants from excited members of the crowd, curses from members of nobility, and murmurs from the last twenty contestants left in the arena.

The nobility had a right to curse; today, two commoners of unknown backgrounds had turned Igaria on its head.

A mysterious man who had managed to leave a wound on the prince, and now a young boy who had demolished every noble who had tried to attack the former.

In the center of the ring, a blue aura encapsulated Farren and Caelith.

Caelith was being healed by the aura while the aura around Farren manifested in the shape of a monstrous-looking jellyfish.

If one gazed too long at the aura encapsulating Farren, they would feel an onset of trepidation, followed by an unnatural 'wrongness' about him. It seemed that the more you gazed at him, the deeper he gazed into you.

He finally turned his head toward the remaining competitor, a smirk playing on his mischevious face. After a moment, he beckoned the remaining competitors.

At the moment the only competitors left in the arena were:

Caelith

Farren

Four heirs

Three champions

Selphira Stormont

And then an equal split of top two-star prodigies, and impressive three-star warriors.

The world was strange in this way. There were not-so-uncommon stories of geniuses fighting above their rank in Igaria. Warriors ranked from the first star to the third were still classified as Mortals. The gaps between their strengths and abilities were indeed large, but the uniqueness of life could find a way to overcome them.

The four heirs exchanged looks among themselves. While yes, their positions were all but guaranteed amongst the class, if they were unable to provide a satisfying showcase of their abilities for the eccentric prince, there was a chance that he wouldn't include them in the class.

This tournament wasn't about the academy. It wasn't about ranking this generation in Igaria. It wasn't about politics or power struggles. No, this tournament was held to give the youth of Igaria a chance to fight. To fight for their spots in the future. And only the most capable would be worthy of the investment of the royal family.

Strangely, however, it was the quietest one of the group to move first. Selphira Stormont disappeared.

At the same moment, Caelith gasped.

A tide of mana so intricate he could barely even notice it had been encircling the group of contenders while they were spectating Farren.

And now that tiny string of intricate mana had come full circle.

The five unnamed two stars and the five unnamed three stars suddenly saw a thin line of red around their throats.

Selphira herself then reappeared, her black cloak fluttering in the wind as she stood next to Vessia.

None had noticed this until Vessia shrieked.

The moment after reappearing, Selphira had uttered one word softly, in her ear, startling her, which caused the shriek.

"Bang."

And then ten heads rolled along the coliseum floor.

...

Motion exploded on the arena floor. Nobody stood idle.

The arena trembled under the weight of power gathering around Farren.

Four heirs — Serika Varendel, Theryn Damaris, Lysara Selyth, Raen Vhaelor, and Vessia who had decided to join the nobles as she saw farren as her biggest obstacle to getting her seat— closed in from every angle, a living noose of bloodlines and flame.

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Their movements blurred into a calculated dance, beautiful and merciless.

Farren cracked his knuckles, sparks flickering from his fingertips.

"Right," he muttered under his breath. "So that's the plan. Death by royalty."

Beside him, the translucent shape of his companion — a floating, jellyfish-like wisp shimmering with crackling currents — hovered anxiously.

"Helly," he said sharply. "Scatter pattern. Prioritize disruption."

The jellyfish pulsed once, understanding, before shooting upward in an erratic zigzag, trailing threads of lightning through the smoky air.

The heirs barely flinched.

Serika struck first, her emberflow blade carving a corroding arc toward his side.

Farren sidestepped a heartbeat early, future sight threading warnings into his bones, but Lysara was already there, her ashen pyre blooming into a smothering fog.

Pressure folded the world around him.

He dropped low, electricity flaring along his limbs, barely ducking a flash-freeze arrow from Raen that left a shining frost trail in its wake.

"Normally," Farren called out, breath ragged, "I like it when people fight over me. Makes me feel special."

Vessia's flames answered — a writhing torrent hurled straight at him, not a disciplined arc but a living storm of fire.

She didn't shape it like a blade or whip — she unleashed it, wild and punishing.

Farren's jellyfish darted down, firing a barrage of sparks into the flame path, forcing a minor detonation midair. It wasn't enough to cancel the inferno, but it carved a gap wide enough for Farren to tumble through, singed but alive.

Searing heat washed over him, peeling the edge of his jacket into curling blackened tatters.

The stink of burned cloth and scorched air filled his lungs.

He staggered, caught his footing — just in time to see Theryn's whiteflame blade driving straight for his throat.

Helly zipped between them, tendrils flaring outward, forcing Theryn to abort the strike with a curse.

It wasn't enough.

They were adapting.

Already Serika was feinting right, Lysara flanking left, Raen lining another shot — a weave of death that strained even Farren's sharpened foresight.

They're layering attacks now, Farren thought grimly. Forcing me to react faster than I can predict.

Farren shot a glance over his shoulder. Caelith was unharmed by the battle but not yet ready to assist him.

Another cold-flame arrow screamed by, close enough to freeze sweat to ice along his neck.

Another step back.

Another inch lost.

Still, Farren grinned — wild, reckless — and wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his wrist.

"Helly, mode two. Prioritize interference over shielding."

The jellyfish pulsed again, spinning faster, crackling webs of lightning in unpredictable spirals that forced the heirs to break formation slightly.

It sat above the battlefield like a god, its tendrils flowing down and affecting the battle below.

Now, the aura around Farren's body lessened while the electrical energy in the tendrils strengthened.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

All the time he bought.

"You guys rehearsed this?" Farren croaked, voice light even as his chest heaved. "It's sweet, really. Bet your moms are proud."

Vessia answered with another brutal surge — flame bending midair as if it hungered for him — and this time even Helly's webs couldn't fully deflect it.

Farren rolled under the brunt of the blast, his boots slipping on scorched stone, pain singing up his ribs where the edge of the fire kissed him.

Five against one.

No mercy.

No space.

He saw a dozen futures unfold in the blink of an eye — and in every one of them, he fell.

The heirs weren't just fighting.

They were breaking him.

Good.

Let them think he was finished.

A blow sent Farren sprawling.

Farren staggered upright, coughing, electricity crawling hungrily across his skin. His grin sharpened into something feral.

Because even if his body failed, even if the future folded against him—

He wasn't going to die without leaving scars they'd remember. From the velvet shadows of the sidelines, Selphira Stormont watched the arena below — a sculpted figure of poise and calculation.

Her gloved fingers rested lightly on her sword pommel, her posture an artwork of composed nobility.

Inside, she seethed.

Her brother, Vaerin Stormont — the shining heir of their bloodline — had been humiliated.

Kicked into the arena wall by a nobody, his body carving a crater through stone like a child's toy discarded in the dirt.

Dragged out by scrambling healers, his armor broken, his pride leaking out with the blood soaking his tunic.

The whispers had already begun — a quiet venom slipping between noble mouths.

Stormont. Fallen.

Selphira's gaze remained locked — not on the squirming contenders below, not even on the heirs still posturing — but on one figure alone.

Orien Blackhall.

A minor merchant, by the records.

A name no one of consequence had ever spoken until today.

But Selphira was not fooled.

His movements were wrong.

Too sharp.

Too efficient.

A wolf draped in the borrowed rags of a stray sheep.

"You," she thought, her fingers curling slightly around the cold steel. "You dared shatter Vaerin. You dared stain Stormont's name."

Around her, the roar of the crowd blurred into meaningless noise.

Movement flickered at the battlefield's edge — a rogue tendrill, wild with desperation, lunging toward Selphira's exposed flank.

Selphira didn't even blink.

A slight flex of two fingers, so subtle it could have been a breath.

Mana coiled — thicker, heavier than the bright clean blaze of Purefire.

There was a weight to it, a faint metallic tang that clung to the edges of her control.

The rogue froze mid-leap, his veins seizing under an invisible frost.

A moment later, its body shattered into a mist of glittering shards that drifted uselessly across the arena.

The heirs didn't notice. Neither did Caelith.

Selphira exhaled softly, misting the cold air before her lips.

Deep under her skin, her power simmered.

Hungrier.

It pressed against her flesh like magma beneath cracked stone, seeping warmth into her veins, making her wounds — visible or not — pulse faintly as if alive.

She suppressed it with care.

There was no need — yet — to reveal the truth of what she carried.

These commoners might have thrown all their cards on the table to secure sponsorship from the king, but she didn't need to, not yet.

The battlefield thinned. The weak culled themselves, the desperate exposed their throats.

Soon, the time would come.

Her gaze sharpened back on Orien — the one piece that mattered.

Minor nobility, she thought coldly. An orphaned branch, they claim. Yet you move like someone forged for war, not politics.

She saw through the cracks in his facade.

No matter what mask he wore, no matter what false house he claimed, he could not hide the scent of danger he carried like a second skin.

You are not what you pretend to be, Selphira thought. And you will not leave this arena unbroken.

She would not attack blindly.

She would wait — until the moment split open like overripe fruit — and then she would strike, carving Stormont's redemption from Orien's ruin.

For her brother? Never.

For her father? No.

For herself.

A faint shimmer of blood-red mist curled briefly from the edge of her glove before she smothered it again, her face a perfect mask of calm.

The next move was hers.

And when she played her hand, the world would burn