Trinity of Magic

Zeke jolted awake, as if ripped from a nightmare. His body was drenched in sweat, and his heart thundered in his chest. Without hesitation, he channeled Mana into his Core, letting the Mind-attuned energy flood through him in a desperate surge.

Clarity returned in an instant, his earlier panic dissolving like mist in the morning sun. But no amount of Mana could soothe the searing ache in his chest. His friends—his family—were gone. He had been forced to watch, powerless, as they fell one by one.

The weight of their loss pressed down on him, a relentless pain that pierced deeper than any physical wound. There was no quick remedy for grief this profound.

No. That wasn't right.

The people who had died were strangers—nothing more than vivid fragments of a dream. Zeke reminded himself of this truth. He had never actually met any of them. Neither Durrek, Helena, Mara, Finn, nor Bram had ever crossed his path. They were figures from Cal's life, not his own.

And yet, even with this undeniable clarity, Zeke couldn't shake the profound sense of loss clawing at his chest. The grief felt real, impossibly so. He could feel it building inside him—a sting in his nose, the heat in his reddened eyes. The weight of the emotional blow delivered by the Dreamwalker brew threatened to overwhelm him, and he was on the verge of breaking into tears.

There was something even more worrying.

Zeke could sense it—around him, the other contestants were beginning to stir, their own experiences drawing to an end. He had to act quickly. If he didn't, his carefully constructed facade of immunity to the Dreamwaker brew would crumble. Worse still, if anyone saw him in such a raw, emotional state, they might brand him as weak—someone unworthy of respect or consideration.

That was a risk he couldn't afford to take.

With no better option, Zeke resorted to the only solution he could think of: he ejected his Soul.

The change was instantaneous. Though his essence remained burdened with grief over the loss of his imagined companions, his body in the real world showed no trace of emotion. Guided by his finely tuned puppeteering technique, his physical form had no impetus beyond the essentials for survival. He sat there, utterly calm, as if nothing at all were amiss.

Usually, Zeke would exercise caution when ejecting his Soul. He had learned firsthand that Mind Mages could target an exposed Soul. However, this situation was an exception. Dwarves lacked the ability to develop the Mind affinity. That only left the few visiting humans and elves, but Zeke had already ensured that none of them possessed significant power. He didn't particularly fear these opportunistic merchants.

As expected, the others began to wake not long after. To Zeke's surprise, many of the remaining contestants were clearly affected. Some openly wept, unable to hold back their anguish, while others struggled to maintain a strong front, though tears still streaked most faces. Anger, melancholy, dread—In fact, not a single dwarf appeared untouched by the dreams from the second round.

This was no coincidence. Something deeper was at work. Zeke suspected that the Dreamwalker brew's potency had been increased for the second round, causing its effects to grow progressively more devastating. If that trend was true, it was highly likely that the third round would be even worse.

What a dreadful thought.

Zeke carefully studied his two rivals. Drogar sat motionless, staring at the empty vial in front of him with a vacant expression. Faint traces of tears glimmered in his eyes, suggesting he had experienced something similar to Zeke's ordeal.

Eldrin, however, was a stark contrast. His wide, haunted eyes darted around, and he flinched at the slightest sound. Fear had gripped him—raw, paralyzing fear. The change was so abrupt and so unlike the proud dwarven scion that Zeke struggled to imagine what kind of nightmare could have shaken him to this extent.

Zeke couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as he recalled his own experience. Even so, this was the moment to act. No matter how much empathy he felt for his rivals, it couldn't deter him from completing his mission as effectively as possible.

With a practiced flick of his mind, Zeke commanded his body to execute the plan he had carefully prepared, ensuring the action appeared entirely natural.

A loud, exaggerated yawn echoed through the amphitheater as Zeke's body stretched lazily, arms rising above his head like he'd just woken from a peaceful nap. "Not bad at all," his body remarked casually, the tone light and unconcerned. "I might use this stuff in the future if I ever have trouble sleeping."

Though his voice wasn't particularly loud, it carried in the somber stillness, cutting through the tension like a blade. Thousands of eyes snapped to Zeke, though he, in his detached state, remained oblivious. His body didn't even flinch under the weight of their collective gaze.

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For a moment, silence reigned. Then, a wave of murmurs rippled through the ranks of observers, spreading like wildfire.

Zeke listened intently to the murmurs around him, a satisfied smirk creeping across his face as he overheard the conversation. Most of the audience was speculating about his identity or wondering how he remained unaffected by the brew.