The God of Nothing.-Chapter 29: The Taste of Kindness

Caelith awoke to warmth.

Not the scorched breath of fire or the raw heat of combat — but a gentle, ambient warmth, drawn through shuttered windows and soft silk curtains. Sunlight filtered in, spilling gold across a woven rug beneath the bed. The mattress beneath him was absurdly soft. The pillow, even softer. He lay there for a moment, motionless.

Then he frowned.

The blankets weren't scratchy. The room didn't smell of blood or ash. There were no distant howls, no insects gnawing at his sanity, no creaking of trees like whispered threats.

Just silence.

And something baking.

He sat up slowly. The motion was instinctual — one hand reached toward his sword before realizing it was already propped by the bedside, cleaned, and wrapped.

He blinked at it, as if questioning the entire scene. Ashthorn gleamed faintly in the early light.

He stood and dressed in silence, moving with trained efficiency.

His muscles still ached faintly — a lingering echo of the moment he'd collapsed just after arriving at the compound.

He hadn't meant to sleep. Hadn't planned to.

But exhaustion had taken him the moment he'd sat down, dragging him under like a wave. The clothes laid out for him were loose, high-quality linen, likely provided by Herald.

Not noblewear, but clearly nothing a commoner could afford.

When he stepped out of the guest room and into the open hall, the scent of fresh bread, eggs, and spiced oil became unmistakable.

"Ah, you're awake."

The voice was calm, warm — distinctly not Herald's. A woman stood near the hearth in the open-air kitchen, her sleeves rolled up as she worked over a pan with the casual grace of someone who'd done it a thousand times.

She turned to him with a gentle smile.

"I'm Mira. Herald's wife."

Caelith nodded once. "Caelith."

"I know." She didn't pry. She gestured to a stool by the counter. "You've earned a meal. Sit."

He obeyed. Not out of obedience, but because her tone left no room for anything else.

Moments later, a plate was set in front of him — bread still steaming, eggs golden and perfect, spiced sausage with a touch of citrus glaze. His eyes narrowed slightly.

He took a bite.

It was... good. Too good.

He didn't speak as he ate. Mira watched for a moment, then returned to tending the hearth. Her movements were efficient, but quiet — not rushed, not loud. There was no fear in her posture. No hesitation.

He wasn't used to that.

Footsteps padded down the stairs.

A small girl peeked out from behind the wall, maybe seven or eight. She wore a wool tunic a bit too big for her, sleeves trailing over her hands. She clutched a doll with a stitched leather face.

"Leina," Mira said gently, not turning around. "Come say hello."

The girl stared at Caelith, eyes wide. Cautious. Curious.

He met her gaze without speaking.

She hesitated.

Then edged closer.

"...Is it true you killed the bandit king with one strike?"

Mira spun sharply. "Leina."

She approached him slowly, inch by inch, then sat beside him.

Mira just exhaled, shaking her head with a smile.

A few minutes later, Herald stepped in — cloak half-fastened, his expression already shifting into the smooth focus of a man preparing to navigate the day's deals.

"Ah, he's awake," he said, voice bright. "Hope Mira didn't interrogate you."

"She was kind," Caelith said.

Herald raised a brow. "You sure you're not still dreaming?"

Caelith said nothing. Just resumed eating.

After a pause, Herald leaned against the doorframe.

"The exam is this month. But if you're going to walk into Veltharn, you need to know who built the ground it stands on."

Caelith glanced up.

"I'll take you through the city today," Herald said. "Not a noble tour. A real one."

Caelith nodded once. "Alright."

But even as he agreed, part of him remained still—distant.

The hearth was warm. The food was good. The family was kind.

And he didn't trust any of it.

"Why now? Why kindness now? After

everything... why now?"

He didn't have the answer.

Or maybe he did.

He was strong now.

But he would accept the peace, even if just for a little longer.

A while later, Caelith stood idly by on the bottom floor.

The streets of Vantrel did not greet its visitors — they consumed them.

Caelith stepped through the open gate of the Silver Axe compound beside Herald, and the city soon unfolded like a grinding machine of stone, smoke, and coin.

Herald wore a hood over his face and a long cloak.

The roads were narrow but clean, paved with dark, time-worn granite, the grooves between stones slick with ash. Merchant banners fluttered from iron-braced windows, bright silks stained by soot from nearby forges. The air was thick — not just with heat, but with intent.

Every footstep, every conversation, every glance seemed to weigh something invisible.

The city breathed.

And every breath it took was bought and sold.

"Keep up,"

Herald said with a casual glance, leading Caelith down the main artery of the merchant district. The man moved like he belonged to the stone beneath his feet — posture relaxed, gaze alert, nodding to other traders and guards who greeted him with wary respect.

Even without announcing himself, Herald's presence parted crowds. Vendors tipped their heads. Hired muscle backed away from pathing lines. A runner stopped mid-call to let him pass.

Caelith kept his silence, but his eyes never stopped moving.

Here, commerce wasn't background noise — it was ritual.

A few steps ahead, a hide-worker was scraping strips from a giant Ravager pelt, silver-lined and rune-scored from failed enchantments.

The merchant barked prices over the hiss of a heated blade, claiming the leather could

"stop a war axe dead if runed right."

His apprentice stood nearby with a short cudgel, casually warding off beggars with dead eyes.

Further down, a glassblower's stand drew murmurs. Delicate flasks shimmered in the sun, reinforced with what looked like woven mana threads — impossibly thin, impossibly strong.

Across the square, a jewel seller argued with a richly-dressed woman, her voice cold with entitlement.

"That fragment's dead."

The merchant didn't blink. "It pulses. That's more than most of what your House carries."

The girl scowled, dropped the stone, and stalked off. The crowd thinned in her wake, but the merchant only smirked.

No one apologized. No one helped. In Vantrel, weakness was not humiliated. It was erased.

Caelith took it all in without a word. He didn't fear it. He understood it. This city ran on the same rules as the wild — only polished with manners and stone.

Next, they passed an alchemist's cart, its shelves filled with glowing powders and slow-dripping tinctures.

The alchemist wore half a mask — burn scars twisted one side of his face — and his apprentice worked silently beside him, mixing batches from memory, hands shaking with focus.

A noble boy asked what one of the flasks did. The alchemist didn't answer. The flask hissed. The boy left.

Further down, street food hissed and crackled — fire-spiced lamb roasted on a steel rod, the skewer itself etched with runes that glowed faintly red. The cook barked prices without looking up, his eyes locked on the flame.

"No questions about the meat," he muttered, not for the first time.

"See it?" Herald finally asked.

Caelith glanced at him. "See what?"

Herald gestured at the street — at the steel, the blood, the coins changing hands. "This city's not about who's strongest. It's about who you can afford to be."

They turned a corner — and the world changed.

The walls rose higher. The streets grew cleaner. Guards in red-laced armor stood at intervals, eyes hidden behind dull steel helms. The air felt warmer, though no forge burned nearby.

And ahead stood the outer wall of Veltharn Academy.

It was built of dark stone, nearly black, the surface polished smooth and marked with etched runes that shifted subtly, their pattern alive, but not random. Caelith felt something in the pit of his stomach as they passed it. A pressure. Not from outside — but from within the stone.

The wall wasn't meant to keep others out.

It was meant to test who deserved to enter.

Caelith didn't speak. The runes weren't decorations. They were watching.

They passed without stopping. Herald didn't offer commentary. He didn't need to.

Caelith had already understood.

The wind was paradoxically gentler at this height.

A while later, as the sun was setting that day.

Caelith sat on the edge of the balcony, his legs dangling on a stone rail, one hand resting loosely on the hilt of Ashthorn. Below him, the city stretched wide — a sprawl of torchlight and flickering windows, each glow like a heartbeat in the veins of Vantrel. The towers of noble estates gleamed faintly in the upper tiers. The merchant districts pulsed with motion even at night. The slums were a dim, quiet smudge near the far wall, barely lit at all.

He sat there, unmoving, as if trying to map the soul of the city by its silence.

It didn't work.

Vantrel was too big to understand, too alive. And he didn't trust anything that lived that loud.

A breeze tugged at his cloak. Somewhere behind him, Mira's quiet humming drifted through the halls. The scent of fresh tea still lingered. There'd been dinner. A real dinner — seasoned meat, soft bread, warm lighting. Herald's daughter had told him about a sparrow that flew into the kitchen. Mira had scolded Herald for trading with "that fraud in flame silk." It had all felt... normal.

That was the problem.

Caelith's fingers tightened on the stone rail.

"Why now? Why kindness now? After everything... why now?"

The question turned over in his chest like a knife.

Herald's family didn't owe him peace. But they offered it freely. And that made it worse. Because for the first time in a year, he'd seen something that didn't feel like survival — and it made him feel like a thief. Like he didn't belong.

The silence turned heavier.

His gaze drifted upward. Veltharn Academy was barely visible from here — just a faint silhouette of spires behind the next ridge. It pulsed faintly in the night, like the glow of a coal not yet dead.

He wanted to rest.

He wanted to trust it.

But rest dulled your edge. Trust dulled your instincts. And he hadn't clawed his way here just to be made soft by kindness.

Caelith rose slowly.

The room behind him was quiet, the rest of the compound darkened. He made his way to the training courtyard, bare-footed on the cool stone.

The moon cast a dim silver over the walls.

He drew Ashthorn.

The blade made no sound as it came free — not even a whisper.

He didn't swing wildly. He didn't release force. He simply moved — slowly, deliberately. Rejection pulsed faintly in his hand. Not a blast. Not a ripple. A thread.

An aura wrapped around the blade's edge, and he guided it — not to strike, but to balance.

He stepped forward. A controlled arc. A breath. A pivot.

Rejection hummed — resisting and obeying in equal measure.

There was strain, yes. It always hurt. But this time it didn't scream. It pulsed. It listened.

He spun once, blade trailing in a tight circle, then stopped.

Breathless.

Still.

He stood in the center of the yard, alone in the dark, the Rejection flickering like a dying star around his arm.

And for a moment, he wasn't a weapon.

He wasn't prey.

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He wasn't anything.

Just a boy trying to learn how to exist again.

But deep down, he already knew the truth.

"I want to enjoy this. I want to stay. But I can't forget the cold. The screams. Her blood on the roots."

His hand curled tighter around the blade.

Rejection flared once — not violently, but with precision.

And Caelith's peace shattered, leaving only purpose.