The God of Nothing.

The sun hung oppressively in the sky, beaming down its rays.

 Suffocating heat filled the forest, and the lingering humidity from the morning dew only enhanced this feeling. Mosquitos danced in the air, stalking prey to feed on.

Horrors beyond imagination marched through the forest, leaving destruction in their wake. 

Yet, despite all of this, a teenage boy kneeled in a clearing close to a blood-stained, flat stone slab; his mind ignored the environment and fully focused on one overwhelming feeling and one thought: rage and rejection. 

'First, I was rejected by my family. Then, I was rejected by the gods. And now, I am doomed to meet my end, rejected by fate itself.'

Caelith thought to himself, wallowing in self-pity as death quickly approached. Not that it mattered; his mother was gone, so brutally so.

She was his hope, strength, anchor, and motivation to move forward; she was the only person who hadn't rejected him. Without him, she could have led a worry-free life as a commoner.

If there was one regret Caelith had as he reached his end, it was that he wouldn't be able to avenge his mother.

It seemed the nobles, his step-siblings, and the estate servants were right; he would always be a powerless bastard. 

As darkness encroached on Caelith's mind, the rage disappeared, and all that remained in Caelith was the searing rejection he had felt. His mind flashed back to the rejection the gods had given him during his blessing ceremony.

 It had been so stern - so absolute. They were telling him that he was not needed in their world, and so they had left him behind, just as everything in his life had. Full of nothing but spite, Caelith's final thoughts flowed.

'If I am to be rejected by my family, forced out of their sights, then I too shall reject them.'

'If I am to be rejected by fate, forced to lose everything in spite of my efforts, then I shall reject fate.'

'If I am to be rejected by the gods, thrown away by them, then I shall reject the gods.'

'And if death wishes so dearly to take me, I shall reject death itself!'

As the darkness finally overtook Caelith's mind, only Rejection remained. The Rejection the gods had given him. 

For some reason, he seemed inexplicably tied to it. And as Caelith focused on that connection, the world skipped a beat.

Caelith's eyes snapped open; however, there were no whites in his eyes. Two abyssal orbs stared into the sky meaningfully. Then a dark shockwave spread from Caelith's body as his sword shot out and into a tree, rejected by his body.

The sword that Caelith had been skewered by - his own sword - had exited his body below his belly button.

Caelith had all but forgotten his mother's gift, the healing tonic she had made him for his wounds. It seemed that the sword's tip had torn it apart, and it had delayed his passing shortly. 

Barely registering the situation, Caelith rolled over. Blood was spewing out of his abdomen. However, it was being slowed by his mother's tonic. Caelith grimaced at the thought of his mother, but he could see that her gift could only go so far. If the bleeding continued, he was going to die.

It seemed that even after his Rejection, death was persistent. Even achieving an awakening, mana he presumed, was not enough to buy his life back. He was reminded of the futility he had felt all his life, under the boot of the strong, struggling for life like a cockroach.

With this realization, something seemed to break in Caelith. His sanity? His resolve? His worldview? Truly, Caelith would never know what changed in that moment; however, he felt the need to spite the world, for his rejection to spite the gods.

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to show the world what they had left behind, what the gods had rejected.

His will to live gradually came alive, a will forged by trials of life and death and fuelled by the loss of what he held most precious—a will to turn everything on its head, a will to survive. 

Something profound inside Caelith seemed to resonate with this. Something foreign but not the same as Rejection. Rather, it was something he was born with, not something acquired. 

Caelith was forced to sleep by this feeling; however, something qualitative was changing within him.

His bones stretched, his limbs lengthening unnaturally as if pulled toward some unseen destination.

His muscles tensed, compacting into lean, deadly cords of strength. His already sharp features grew more defined, his once-warm skin paling into something unnatural—porcelain, smooth, flawless.

Every scar from every battle was gone.

Every trace of his past suffering was erased.

He was no longer the battered, bruised boy who had fought for scraps.

He was something else entirely.

The wound on his stomach sealed.

The last remnants of the tonic dissipated inside it.

His breath steadied.

For the next few hours, a man who looked like he had fallen from heaven laid there, on the forest floor, peacefully sleeping.

…

Caelith awoke to the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. The humidity of the forest was gone, replaced with a temperate breeze. The smell of pine filled his nose. Stormont was located in a temperate climate. 

The forest was usually not too hot, which explained the presence of pine trees. However, it was currently the beginning of summer, marking hotter, more humid days.

Soon, autumn would come, and with it, the academy entrance exam.

'Too bad I'm dead'

Caelith thought to himself, still unaware of his situation. He had jumped to this conclusion due to being surrounded by darkness.

In a moment of curiosity, Caelith wondered if his eyes were just closed and tried to open them. As soon as they fluttered open, Caelith unleashed a guttural scream as the moonlight fell, blinding him.

He rolled in the mud shortly before calming down to assess the situation and remember what had happened. 

With his eyes still shut, his hand wandered to his abdomen, feeling that it was healed and that his abs were far more uniform and chiselled than before. He considered for a moment that everything could have been a dream, that his mother was still alive, that he hadn't experienced being skewered. 

After a few moments of thought, Caelith slowly opened his eyes and began adjusting to the forest under the moonlight. It seemed that his eyes had grown far more sensitive after… whatever the hell had happened to him.

First, he took a few moments to look at dark corners, and then gradually, he was able to see again. His eyes were no longer without sclera, now looking normal except for an entrancing quality within them. 

More shockingly, he saw hundreds of small sprites flying in the air around him. After some deliberation, Caelith reached out to touch one but recoiled. It was not because of the sprite; no, his hand had passed through it. It was because his hand was now a beautiful porcelain and larger than before. 

Shocked at the revelation, Caelith soon noticed that he was further away from the ground while standing up and that his body felt strangely different.

However, what was most different to Caelith now was that he felt like he could disperse everything with a thought.

Then, the idea took hold of him. Before burying his mother's body or having time to grieve, before internalizing the events he had just experienced, before thinking of anything else, he extended his hand.

And then the world trembled.