ElaraFiction

B6 - Chapter 32: Whispers of a Foreign Land

Happy Valentine's Day, Ya'll!!

The space was far from comfortable. Wooden crates served as makeshift seats, uneven in height and unforgivingly hard. The dim lighting barely provided enough visibility to navigate, casting long, flickering shadows across the cramped chamber.

Yet neither Zeke nor Markus paid any mind to their lackluster surroundings.

Markus wasted no time. The moment they sat down, he asked, “How did you get here?”

The question caught Zeke off guard. That was exactly what he had intended to ask.

Was it really so surprising for him to be here? He was a wealthy man, after all, in one of the continent’s most prosperous cities. For him, traveling here had been as effortless as flipping a coin.

Markus, on the other hand, had only been a blacksmith’s apprentice under his uncle the last time they had seen each other. There was no logical path that should have led him to the dwarven capital at this time, yet here he was. Still, there was no harm in telling Markus about his plans.

“I’m here on business,” Zeke explained. “Trying to establish connections with the great families.”

Markus grimaced. “Good luck with that, Zeke. The owner’s been trying for years and hasn’t even gotten a response.”

Zeke smirked. “I think my chances are pretty good. I’m dining with the Ironhide family tonight.”

Markus blinked in disbelief. “How? Did your mentor have contacts here?”

Zeke shook his head. “Nope. Just had a drink with some rich kids recently—must have really impressed them.”

Markus started to nod, then suddenly froze, his eyes widening. “Wait… THAT WAS YOU?” he burst out. “I heard a human won this year, but I never imagined it was you!”

Zeke smirked at the shock and awe on his childhood friend’s face. Somehow, that single expression felt more precious than all the cheers and accolades he had received for winning. “It was the fastest way to get noticed,” he said casually.

Markus still looked stunned, his mind clearly racing with questions. Zeke could tell he was dying to know how he had pulled it off, but before his friend could press him for details, Zeke steered the conversation in the direction that had been burning in his mind.

“How are you here, Markus? What happened?” he asked, his voice urgent.

The excitement faded from Markus’s face, his expression darkening. “It’s not a pretty story,” he said grimly.

Zeke leaned in, eager for answers, but bracing himself for the worst.

“A while after you left,” Markus began, his voice quieter now, “I was visited by the cloaks.”

Zeke nodded grimly. He had expected as much. The cloaks—the emperor’s enforcers—were a constant presence in the capital, maintaining his rule under the guise of order. Their signature hooded attire obscured them from head to toe, making them seem more like wraiths than men. Zeke had always thought they resembled bandits more than guards, but no one dared voice such thoughts aloud, or even think them in their presence.

“They came asking about you,” Markus continued. “Just a few questions at first—what kind of person you were, the nature of our relationship.” His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, as if the memory itself unsettled him.

“I didn’t tell them anything, of course.” His words were barely more than a whisper as he continued. “But I don’t think it mattered. I could feel them, Zeke—invading my mind, rifling through my memories like they had a right to them. I was powerless. I could do nothing while they took whatever they wanted.”

When he finished, Markus hung his head, shame weighing heavy in his posture. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice small and exhausted, as if the admission itself had drained him.

The sight nearly shattered Zeke’s heart.

He had never once blamed Markus—had never even considered the possibility of doing so. How could he? Against the emperor’s elite enforcers, against seasoned Mind Mages trained to extract secrets with surgical precision, Markus had never stood a chance. His weak Metal affinity offered no defense against such an invasion.

And yet, his childhood friend still carried the weight of it, burdening himself with an impossible standard. That was who he had always been—unyielding in his loyalty, unwavering in his belief that he should have done more, even when there was nothing more he could have done.

Zeke opened his mouth to speak, but for once, no words came. What could he possibly say to ease Markus’s guilt when he knew his friend wouldn’t forgive himself so easily? Markus had always been stubborn in the strangest ways, especially when it came to those he cared about.

So, instead of trying to offer empty reassurances, Zeke simply nodded—accepting the apology he had never needed.

As expected, Markus seemed to steady himself at the gesture. His voice regained some of its strength as he continued. “I heard they went to see Lilly too, but apparently, someone blocked their way. Could’ve just been a rumor, though.”

Zeke nodded, barely sparing a thought for Lilly. At this point, she was of little concern to him. He was far more interested in what had happened to Viola and Sophia, but it was unlikely Markus would have any insight. Given their connections to influential families, whatever fate had befallen them would have been handled behind closed doors.

“They never came back,” Markus continued. “But not long after, rumors about you started spreading…”

Zeke raised an eyebrow.

“People whispered that you had planted dangerous ideas in your mentor’s mind—that you had corrupted a hero of the Empire. Some claimed you drove him to his death. Others said you fled the Empire to sell its secrets to our enemies...”

Zeke’s expression darkened with every word. He had expected some hostility toward him in the Empire, but he hadn’t imagined it would go this far. Twisting Maximilian’s death into some grand scheme of his own making? It was one of the most absurd accusations he had ever heard.

Maximilian had been a man of unwavering will and unshakable integrity. The idea that he could have been swayed—let alone manipulated—by the whisperings of a mere child was beyond ridiculous. It wasn’t just an attack on Zeke. It was an insult to the very man Maximilian had been.

“A while after that, a new rumor began to spread,” Markus continued. “People started saying that you had placed a bounty on the Empire’s mages—that you were offering hundreds of gold for the heads of our finest spellcasters.”

He shook his head, as if the mere thought was absurd. “And let me tell you, Zeke, a lot of people believed it. It was chaos. Every day, news spread of another influential figure turning up dead. The fear was so widespread that the Emperor had to ban any new adventurers from entering the Empire. Only then did things finally start to settle.”

Zeke rubbed the back of his head, feeling a twinge of guilt as he watched how firmly Markus dismissed the rumor. This time, however, the story was entirely true. If anything, the rumor had downplayed the reality—he was offering far more than just a few hundred gold.

"That one’s true…" he admitted after a brief, awkward silence.

Markus gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He looked more comical than anything else in that moment, and Zeke almost laughed despite the gravity of the situation.

It took a while for Markus to regain his composure, but when he finally spoke, his words were far different than Zeke had anticipated.

“Where did you get all that money?” Markus asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “Is it true you sold the empire’s secrets?”

Zeke scoffed, shaking his head. “What secrets? And who would even pay me for them?” His expression shifted, becoming serious. “No, Markus. If I had known anything of value, the empire wouldn’t have let me go so easily. They only started paying attention when they realized I was more than just some lucky brat.”

“Then how?” Markus asked, still confused.

“Trade,” Zeke answered simply. “How else would you get rich in Tradespire?”

“Tradespire…” Markus repeated slowly, as though the concept wasn’t quite clicking. “The rumors made it sound like you were on the run, being hunted by the empire’s elites like a dog.”

Zeke shook his head in disbelief. He should have known better than to expect the empire to let the truth spread. Hunted like a dog? He was far from that. He and his family owned one of the most sought-after mansions in the richest city on the continent. But that was a truth that could never be allowed to surface.

After all, the empire couldn’t let the idea spread that someone could walk away from their control, especially not someone like him. The perception that turning your back on the empire must be punished was one the empire would never let go of.

“Hardly,” Zeke replied with a wry smile. “The only time I met anyone from the empire was when Otto Geistreich came to strip me of my title and declare me an enemy.”

Markus nodded grimly. “I’ve heard about that. It was said that you wouldn’t be welcome anywhere after that declaration. After all, no country dares stand against the empire.”

Zeke shook his head, too tired to correct his friend on how deeply flawed that statement was. But something else caught his attention.

“How did you hear about it?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“They made an announcement,” Markus explained. “It was to announce the new successor to Hohenheim.”

Zeke shot upright, his heart pounding. A new successor? To his mentor? He hadn’t heard anything about this.

“Who is it?” Zeke asked, striving to keep his voice steady, though he knew his attempt to appear casual was failing miserably.

Markus licked his lips, his eyes drifting as though he were reliving the moment. “I was surprised too,” Markus began. “It was a young man, clearly a Mage, and by the looks of it, a powerful one.” He locked eyes with Zeke, his gaze serious. “They said he was Maximilian’s first disciple.”

Zeke’s eyes widened. He had never heard of Maximilian having any other disciples besides himself. In fact, Maximilian had made it clear when they signed the contract that would name him heir—he was the only disciple.

“You saw this man?” Zeke asked, his voice tight with disbelief.

Markus nodded. “He was there during the announcement.”

“How was he?” Zeke pressed, eager for any detail.

Markus furrowed his brows, as if thinking over his words carefully. “The people seemed to love him,” he said slowly. “And I can see why. He was tall, handsome, with one of those faces that made him look like a storybook hero, you know?”

Zeke nodded, though inwardly he scoffed at the people’s stupidity. Judging someone based on their looks was utter foolishness. Most Mages were exceptionally handsome, their constant exposure to Mana cleansing their bodies of imperfections and prolonging their lives. But that didn’t mean their character was any better for it.

“They say he inherited Maximilian’s Magic as well,” Markus continued, his words drawing Zeke’s full attention. “Many people are claiming that he’s a far better successor to the Von Hohenheim name than you ever could have been.”

This gave Zeke pause. Maximilian had always been extremely reluctant to teach his Magic to anyone. Even Leo, who would have been the perfect candidate, had never caught Maximilian’s eye. There could be many reasons for this—either out of caution, or perhaps something more personal, a past trauma that had shaped his mentor’s decisions.

Slowly, a realization began to take root in Zeke’s mind. Perhaps this person truly had been Maximilian’s disciple. Someone his mentor had once deemed a failure. There were few things that could make Maximilian sever his ties with someone so completely, but Zeke knew there was one thing that could have driven him to do so.

Betrayal.

Zeke had a strong suspicion about who might know more. David, whose family had served Maximilian for generations, would certainly have information about someone who had once been a disciple.

“What is his name?” Zeke asked, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t yet heard it.

“Azra,” Markus replied. “Azra von Hohenheim.”

B6 - Chapter 31: Unexpected Meeting

Zeke immediately sharpened his senses, scanning his surroundings for the person Akasha had alerted him to. However, the task proved more difficult than expected. His Sphere of Awareness was flooded with hundreds of individuals, each moving about with their own purpose. Sifting through them all would take far too long.

Just as he considered another approach, a glowing blue arrow materialized in front of him, pointing the way.

Without hesitation, Zeke followed the path the Spirit had laid out. He weaved through the bustling streets, passing merchants hawking their wares and shoppers lost in conversation. Turning down a narrow side street, he finally came to a stop in front of a modest shop with a weathered wooden sign: Rodrick’s Repairs.

The glowing arrow remained fixed, unmistakably pointing toward the shop’s entrance.

Zeke narrowed his eyes, wondering who—or what—awaited him inside. Only one way to find out.

He pushed open the door, the soft jingle of bells announcing his arrival.

“Greetings, dear custom—” A stout dwarf behind the counter began his usual welcome, but his words faltered the moment his gaze landed on Zeke. His bushy brows shot up in surprise. “Oh my, if it isn’t the Heir von Hohenheim. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Zeke barely acknowledged the dwarf, his attention sweeping across the room. The shelves were packed with mechanical trinkets, gears, and half-finished contraptions, but none of the occupants stood out to him. Yet the glowing arrow—his ever-reliable guide—remained fixed, pointing past the cluttered workspace toward a door in the back of the shop.

Whoever he was meant to find was beyond that door.

“Greetings,” Zeke said, mindful not to leave the man waiting too long. His gaze remained fixed on the door at the back of the shop. “May I ask what’s behind that door?”

The dwarf blinked at the unexpected question but answered without hesitation. “That’s my workshop.”

Zeke scratched the back of his head, knowing his next request would seem odd. But curiosity gnawed at him, and he couldn't ignore the arrow’s guidance. “Would it be possible for me to take a look inside?”

The dwarf hesitated for a moment, stroking his thick beard as he considered the request. It wasn’t every day that someone asked to inspect his private workshop—especially not a man of Zeke’s renown. But reputation had its perks, and after a brief pause, he gave a good-natured shrug.

“Well, I don’t see the harm.” He turned toward one of his attendants. “Sally, dear, show the young lord around the workshop for a moment, will you?”

A dwarven girl, freckles dusting her cheeks and twin braids bouncing with each step, nodded eagerly. “Alright, Pa!” she chirped, then turned to Zeke with an excited grin. Motioned for him to follow, she practically skipped toward the back of the shop.

Zeke followed without hesitation, his focus shifting between her and the glowing arrow, which now pulsed faintly—likely signaling that he was close to his target.

Sally pushed open the door and immediately launched into an enthusiastic explanation. “This is our workshop,” she said, waving an arm to gesture at the bustling space. “Right now, we’ve got three master craftsmen—one at the forge, one at the enchantment tables, and one working on fine mechanics. Each of them has three apprentices in training, so there are nine in total…”

Zeke listened with half an ear, his attention drawn to the workshop itself. The space was alive with activity—the rhythmic clang of hammers, the soft scratches of enchantments being carved into metal, and the sharp hiss of quenching steel. It wasn’t hard to tell who the masters were; their movements were precise, honed by years of experience. The apprentices, in contrast, showed their inexperience in subtle ways—the occasional hesitation before a strike, the slightly uneven engravings on enchanted pieces.

Even so, there was an unmistakable air of craftsmanship here. Every movement, even the clumsy ones, was driven by a deep-rooted dedication to the craft. This was undoubtedly a serious establishment with talented staff.

However, one figure stood out among the rest—not due to exceptional skill or mastery, but simply because he was the only human in a room full of dwarves.

Seated at a workstation clearly built for someone shorter, the young man was hunched over, his long fingers carefully adjusting the intricate gears and cogs of an unfinished construct. His entire focus was locked onto the mechanism before him, oblivious to the world around him.

Zeke came to an abrupt halt, his breath catching. His eyes fixed on the familiar silhouette, and for a moment, everything else faded—the clang of hammers, the hum of enchantments, the murmur of dwarven voices. It was as if time itself had stopped.

The young man, as if sensing Zeke’s gaze, slowly lifted his head. Their eyes met, and a jolt shot down Zeke’s spine.

Dark, curly hair. A straight nose. A jaw that looked as though it had been carved from granite. There was no mistaking him. How could Zeke not recognize the person before him—the one who had once been his closest friend, someone who still held an irreplaceable place in his heart?

“Markus…” he breathed.

For a long, suffocating moment, silence stretched between them. Then, at last, Markus spoke—but his words were not a greeting. They were a blade, honed to cut deep.

“Ezekiel of Feldstadt. Shame of Hohenheim. Betrayer of Arkanheim.” His voice was devoid of emotion, each title delivered with quiet finality.

Zeke swallowed dryly. Never in his life would he have imagined their reunion unfolding like this. He had braced himself for awkwardness, maybe even resentment—but outright condemnation? It was as if Markus had been completely swallowed by the empire’s propaganda, his mind poisoned against him.

His mouth opened, ready to defend himself, to explain what had truly happened. But before he could utter a single word, Markus continued.

“…And my dear friend and brother that I have missed so dearly.”

At those last words, his grim expression finally cracked, giving way to the warm, heartening smile Zeke had never forgotten—the smile of the childhood friend he had once known.

Zeke closed the distance in a single bound, moving with the speed and precision only a Grandmage could achieve. To any onlooker, it must have seemed as if he had simply vanished. Before Markus could even process what was happening, Zeke’s arms were already wrapped around him in a fierce embrace, holding him tight.

For years, Zeke had forced himself to stay away, never reaching out, never checking in—not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much. Any contact with his old friends would have painted a target on their backs. He had no choice but to bury his concern, to pretend indifference while the weight of uncertainty gnawed at him.

But only he knew the torment of those years. The endless worry, the sleepless nights spent wondering if those he had once called family were safe. He had left them behind, abandoned them to the mercy of his greatest enemy, praying they would be seen as insignificant, praying they would be spared.

Seeing Markus again—alive, unharmed, still chasing his dream—felt like the greatest relief Zeke could have hoped for. It was as if a weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying had finally been lifted.

“I don’t mean to rain on yer parade, lads,” a gruff voice cut in, “but that converter needs fixin’ within the hour, and we’re already behind schedule.”

Zeke’s first instinct was to snap at the interruption, irritated that someone would dare get in the way of this long-awaited reunion. But he caught himself almost immediately. The dwarf who had spoken was one of the three masters—likely Markus’ mentor. Antagonizing him would accomplish nothing and might even create trouble for his friend.

More importantly, the man wasn’t wrong. Zeke was the one who had barged into their workspace and disrupted their work. It wasn’t fair to hold that against him.

Markus, too, looked sheepish at the reprimand, clearly aware that he was in the wrong but unsure how to respond. His expression, now so familiar to Zeke, made him easy to read—he was caught between his responsibilities and the overwhelming urge to catch up with his oldest friend.

For a moment, Zeke considered whether he could resolve this dilemma by leveraging his reputation or offering monetary compensation. However, he quickly dismissed the idea. If this job required the combined efforts of the entire team—including the masters—then it was clearly of great importance. No amount of gold or influence would make them abandon their duty. Their client was likely someone they couldn’t afford to disappoint.

Fortunately, Zeke had another option. His eyes swept across the workshop, taking in the scattered components. Though he didn’t recognize every individual part, it didn’t take him long to deduce what they were assembling—a mechanical force converter.

His gaze settled on the component Markus had been working on. It was the gearbox, the crucial piece responsible for translating raw energy into usable motion. A complex mechanism, to be sure, but not beyond his understanding. Once the principle was grasped, it was just a matter of precise adjustments.

"Akasha," Zeke called out inwardly. "Handle it."

Without a word, Akasha sprang into action. Zeke felt a noticeable drain on his Core as she amplified her cognitive abilities and wielded telekinesis simultaneously. At one time, such a strain would have pushed his limits—but after his recent advancement, it was nothing more than a tickle.

The blue tendrils sprouting from his Core, forming a magical exoskeleton around his brain, pulsed with energy as he unleashed his Mind Magic without restraint. The speed of analysis and execution was something a True Mage could only dream of.

The impact was immediate.

The gearbox Markus had been struggling with suddenly came alive in a flurry of motion. Brushes swept away grime, a chisel refined the edges, and microscopic imperfections were filled with pinpoint precision. Even a master with a dozen hands couldn’t have matched Akasha’s efficiency. In mere moments, the component was fully restored—gleaming, pristine, and ready for use.

All movement in the workshop came to an abrupt halt as every dwarf stared, slack-jawed, at his handiwork. It was as if they were questioning their very purpose.

But Zeke wasn’t finished. His gaze shifted to the next component. Akasha needed no further instruction—she continued seamlessly, restoring each piece one after another. Gears were cleaned, cracks mended, and worn parts reforged with pinpoint precision. At this time, she was working the forge, the enchantment table, and the smithy at the same time.

Within minutes, the entire project was complete.

By now, a bead of sweat had formed on Zeke’s brow. The first repair had been effortless, but repeating the process nearly a dozen times had taken a toll. The strain on his mind and body was immense.

Even so, it had been worth it.

The dwarves remained frozen, their hands now idle, eyes locked onto the fully assembled device as if struggling to reconcile what they had just witnessed. Even the masters, seasoned and unshakable, seemed at a loss for words.

Zeke allowed himself a moment to bask in their stunned silence before clearing his throat. With all the humility he could muster—despite the undeniable smugness threatening to creep into his voice—he turned to the dwarf who had interrupted earlier.

“Would it be possible to borrow Markus for a while, sir?” he asked, his tone carefully polite, though the satisfaction in his eyes was impossible to hide.

B6 - Chapter 30: Mechanical Warfare

After hashing out the details with Gunner, it was still early afternoon, leaving Zeke with several hours to spare before the banquet.

One glance back at the dreary room where he had spent the morning was enough to convince Zeke that he didn’t want to stay there. With his emotions still in turmoil, a distraction would serve him far better. Besides, there was no telling if he’d get another chance to explore the dwarven capital.

After a quick farewell to Gunner, Zeke stepped out of the smithy and into the bustling streets. The searing heat from countless roaring furnaces hit him like a physical force, but the lively atmosphere and organized chaos were exactly what he had been looking for.

Zeke headed straight for the railing that lined the terrace and leaned over, absently watching the bustle below as he mulled over his next steps.

With each passing day, his deadline drew closer. If he secured a deal tonight, he likely wouldn’t spend another day in the city. His next destination was already set—the Wildlands.

There, he had the chance to finalize his second major trade agreement—with Winter. He was confident the man wouldn’t refuse; their rapport was strong, and the Progenitor had the most to gain from the deal. The real challenge was time. Even with an airship, reaching the border would take several days.

He needed either Margrett or David to follow through on their ends. Only then would he meet the requirement. Yet, at this moment, Zeke felt an unusual sense of certainty—as if he could already see himself joining the Merchant Council.

If all went well, the only remaining hurdle would be securing a king’s endorsement. While Tradespire’s king had made an offer, Zeke was hesitant to accept those terms. Still, it was the only option on the table for now, and he wasn’t ready to dismiss it outright. That didn’t mean he would stop searching for alternatives.

His attention shifted to a massive platform passing by, carrying people and cargo to the lower levels. The towering metal construct groaned under its load, the screech of steel against steel echoing through the city as it carefully lowered the equivalent of several carriages down the mountain.

It wasn’t the most elegant solution—but Zeke couldn’t deny its effectiveness.

He had ridden one of those platforms before while accompanying Gunner to his smithy—an interesting experience, to be sure. But there was no longer any need for such an archaic mode of transport, at least for Zeke.

With a mere thought, he vanished from his spot and reappeared one level below. After his advancement, teleportation within his sphere of awareness had become even more effortless, the strain on his Core barely more than a minor inconvenience.

The nearby dwarves, however, were visibly startled by his sudden appearance. Unlike humans, they couldn’t be born with the Space affinity, and for them, teleportation was a rare and unsettling sight. However, any kind of missgivings they might have had otherwise dissapeared when the saw who the rude intruder actually was.

“…Heir von Hohenheim,” one of them muttered, and soon the others followed suit, their gazes shifting from wary to a mix of curiosity and awe.

Ignoring their stares, Zeke strode away in a random direction. Unlike the upper levels dominated by smithies, this district had a distinctly commercial feel. Shops and storefronts lined the main road and peeked out from narrow alleys, their signs beckoning customers.

There was also a noticeable increase in non-dwarven visitors. It seemed this place served as a business hub, drawing traders and merchants from various races.

Zeke joined the bustle, marveling at the wares on display. It was a completely different experience from visiting the market in Tradespire. While he had seen products like these before, nearly everything here was of exceptional quality. Even the smallest stalls, unworthy of a proper shop, held merchandise that would be considered precious in most places.

His steps halted in front of one such stall selling enchantments. They were engraved on voidiron slates, the same material he used in his airships. By all accounts, they were fairly standard, reaching a solid mid-tier in quality. However, what immediately struck him as odd were the prices.

What would have cost him dozens of gold in Tradespire was being sold here for mere large silver coins—or a single gold at most. A sign above the stall indicated that these were crafted by apprentices rather than master enchanters, though that did little to diminish their effectiveness.

If he didn’t already have a way to mass-produce high-level engravings through Akasha, he would have been tempted by the offer. The dwarven capital was truly a holy land of craftsmanship. It was no surprise that merchants from across the continent flooded its streets, scouring the shops for overlooked treasures.

Tearing his gaze away from the stall, Zeke continued down the road, drawn by the sound of a commotion. His spatial awareness revealed a large crowd gathered in a nearby plaza, all focused on some kind of spectacle.

Rounding the corner, Zeke finally saw what had captured the people's attention. The group had gathered around a cordoned-off area that appeared to be a sparring field, where a massive iron contraption stood still. As he neared, he could hear a lively voice enthusiastically introducing the product.

“…This latest model runs on our newest pressure engine an’ can be crewed by anywhere from three t’ nine folks!” The dwarf gestured widely at the vehicle's armaments, explaining each one's function and specifications.

But Zeke wasn’t paying attention to the salesman anymore. Instead of listening to the explanation, he decided to inspect the design himself.

The vehicle was unlike any Zeke had seen before. Instead of wheels, it rested on two continuous chain belts made of interconnected iron plates, covering its entire underside. The design suggested it was built for traversing difficult terrain.

Such a complex and heavy construction surely had its drawbacks, but Zeke doubted the inventor had been concerned with that. Every part of the machine was metal, and it was clearly not meant to be drawn by horses—it was powered by something within. However, Zeke’s spatial awareness couldn’t penetrate its outer shell—it had been constructed to resist magical probing.

Atop the vehicle sat several massive iron projectile launchers, directed outward towards all sides. The were mounted on pivoting mechanisms that allowed them to track targets across a wide field of view. A man was currently demonstrating their maneuverability, swiftly adjusting his aim between different practice targets. Each time a bolt was released, a sharp hiss of air cut through the presenter’s speech, forcing him to repeat himself. The sheer power behind each shot was undeniable as it tore through each target with ridiculous ease.

(Not super happy with the picture, but its the best I could get my AI to put out. Might need to switch again soon.)

Zeke had been scrutinizing the design for a while when the words of the salesman caught his attention again.

“…An’ now, without further dallyin’, let’s get on with what ye’ve all been waitin’ for: The grand presentation!”

At the announcer’s words, a figure emerged on the far side of the plaza, clad head to toe in heavy armor. Not a single speck of skin was visible, but judging by their height and build, they were likely a dwarf. This was no ordinary soldier either—Zeke could sense the dense flow of mana around them.

“…Fer today’s challenger, we’ve picked an Iron Warrior,” the presenter declared, drawing audible gasps from the crowd.

Zeke frowned at the unfamiliar term, but before he could wonder further, Akasha’s voice provided the answer.

[Notice]

The term Iron Warrior refers to Grandmages in dwarfen society.

Zeke examined the armored figure more closely. The way they moved so effortlessly in full plate spoke not only of masterful craftsmanship but also of immense physical strength. This would not be an easy opponent—even for him.

His gaze shifted back to the metal contraption, his brow furrowing. Could this machine truly stand against a Grandmage? As far as he could tell, the nine dwarves operating it were ordinary men, not a trace of mana between them.

The idea was absurd.

Grandmages were the backbone of any army. While Archmages represented the pinnacle of magical firepower, their rarity made them impractical for most battles. But if the dwarves had truly devised a way for a couple of commoners to challenge a Grandmage, it could redefine the future of warfare.

Zeke felt his blood stir as the armored carriage rumbled to life. Its roar was deep and guttural, like a beast awakening, and it left deep furrows in the ground—tracks of a new kind of predator.

The warrior wasted no time, charging straight at the vehicle, clearly intent on closing the distance. Almost instantly, the first ballista fired. The heavy metal bolt shot forward with deadly precision, streaking straight toward the dwarf.

The man didn’t dare take the projectile head-on, vaulting aside at the last second. He avoided the hit, but Zeke immediately saw the problem—the dodge had disrupted his momentum, allowing the vehicle to widen the gap. While the dwarf could likely match its speed under normal circumstances, there was no way he could keep up while constantly evading.

Realizing this, the warrior changed tactics. Instead of dodging the next shot, he met it head-on.

In that moment, his affinity was revealed. His axe, which had seemed like an ordinary weapon, suddenly came alive—moving like a whip as it struck the incoming bolt. The parry was successful, but the sheer force of the impact still sent him skidding backward, carving deep furrows into the ground.

Another failure.

After that, the warrior abandoned his attempts to close the gap. He must have realized it was futile. Instead, he stood his ground, letting the vehicle circle him while effortlessly deflecting each incoming bolt from his stable position.

Then, he unfastened his belt and flung it into the air. Instead of falling, it hovered above him, adjusting to his every movement. What had first appeared to be a simple belt—an assortment of linked spikes—soon revealed its true purpose. It was ammunition.

Without hesitation, the warrior launched his own projectiles. His arrows flew with a speed that Zeke doubted even the ballistae could match. Yet, to his surprise, the vehicle shrugged off the impacts as if they were nothing. Even the shooters atop the contraption remained unharmed, taking cover behind the protective plating of the ballistae. Any mistake on their part would likely be fatal, but so far, the defenses held firm.

Zeke watched the entire sequence unfold without looking away. While he had no fear of facing the vehicle in direct combat—his mobility gave him a clear advantage—he could easily see how it would be a formidable obstacle for many others.

The warrior attempted various attacks, even launching himself at the vehicle like a living projectile, but each effort ended in failure. The marksmen were too skilled, never allowing him to close the distance.

The demonstration ended soon after with the warrior’s defeat. Though he likely could have escaped if he had chosen to, his reserves were depleted, and his stamina was visibly failing. The armored vehicle, on the other hand, remained tireless, and even its crew showed little sign of exhaustion.

"Unbelievable," Zeke muttered under his breath before he could stop himself. This was nothing like what he had been led to believe growing up in the empire. The dwarves, in their relentless pursuit of craftsmanship, had managed to close the gap between commoners and mages.

Their approach was different from the path he and Maximilian had chosen, but the results were just as groundbreaking.

"Not bad, eh? Puts a bit o’ steel in yer spine, don’t it?" a voice beside him said, brimming with pride, as if he had built the machine himself.

Zeke nodded without looking away, still captivated by the sight of the vehicle taking its victory lap around the plaza.

“That ain’t even th’ toughest Spartan they got," the voice grumbled. "Saw one twice this bloody size just last week!"

"Spartan?" Zeke finally turned to face the speaker. It was an old dwarven man, heavily leaning on a cane, a knowing smile on his face.

“It’s what they call ‘em,” the dwarf said, jerking a thumb at the armored beast. "Self-Propelled Armored Raider fer Tactical Assault an’ Navigation—SPARTAN."

Zeke nodded, recognizing the acronym. "You seem to know quite a bit, old man."

"Used t’ be a craftsman meself, long ago," the man grunted. "But those days are long behind me."

“Do you know how they protect themselves against magical probing?” Zeke asked.

The man stroked his beard in thought. “Aye, I reckon it’s got t’ be the alloy they used t’ forge that beast. But its job ain’t t’ keep folk from pokin’ ‘round—it’s there t’ shield the Spartan from magical assaults,” he said with a smirk. “Wouldn’t be much of a brawl if some Mage could just pop it open with a wee hand wave, now would it?”

Zeke nodded in thanks, having wondered that exact thing himself. Though he was certain that there would be other types of Mages that would have fared far better against the machine, the display was impressive nonetheless.

As the crowd began to disperse, he blended into the flow of people, lost in thought. The dwarves had taken a completely different approach—rather than relying on Magic for warfare, they had dedicated themselves to the path of technology.

It was highly intriguing.

Given enough time, it was possible that the continent’s most dominant fighting force would no longer be mages, but mechanical constructs like the SPARTAN. He wondered what such a world might look like.

Before he could dwell on the thought, however, Akasha’s urgent message snapped him out of his reverie.

[Notice]

I have detected something that requires Hosts immediate attention.

“What is it?” he queried mentally.

[Answer]

A person from Host’s memories has appeared within our sphere of awareness.

B6 - Chapter 29: Gains and Losses

Zeke sat in the dim glow of his quarters, lost in thought. A night had passed since the competition, from which he had withdrawn shortly after being declared the victor. It hadn’t been a calculated move to appear elusive—rather, he had simply begun to feel his emotions returning.

After maintaining such a flawless performance throughout the event, he hadn’t wanted to risk embarrassing himself, so he chose to retreat. But not before exchanging a few words with some of the more influential participants—most notably, the Ironhide family, whom he had targeted from the start.

Though no promises had been made, Zeke was certain they would reach out before long, if only to express their gratitude for how he had helped their scion and preserved their family’s honor.

But at the moment, his mind was occupied with something else entirely.

A wooden crate rested open before him. Inside, nestled in protective padding, lay the fruits of his victory: twenty-eight vials of Dreamwalker Brew. Their contents shimmered in the light, each swirling with an unnatural glow, as if carrying the remnants of half-formed dreams.

As promised, all the remaining vials were handed to him as the victor. Zeke considered them among his greatest rewards from the competition. These vials held something beyond the reach of wealth—an invaluable means to rapidly strengthen the Soul.

Among them, six stood out—larger than the rest, their glass adorned with thick etchings. Even without tasting them, he could tell these were leagues beyond what he had consumed in the final round.

His fingers traced the lip of one such vial as he leaned back, exhaling slowly. The question loomed: What should he do with them?

Its benefits were undeniable, but reckless consumption wasn’t wise. He had already witnessed how easily one could become lost in those visions, consumed by memories that weren’t their own. Even now, he was dealing with the aftermath—bravery, heartache, and numbness all clashing within him, pulling his mind in different directions at once…

A knock at the door broke his train of thought. A moment later, the door swung open, and Gunner strode in without waiting for an invitation. The dwarf carried the scent of smelted metal and ink-stained parchment, the telltale signs of a man deep in his craft.

“Yer sittin’ here starin’ at these vials like a dragon countin’ his hoard,” Gunner grunted, arms crossed. “Ye plannin’ on drinkin’ ’em all at once or jus’ admirin’ the glow?”

Zeke smirked, setting the vial down. “Haven’t decided yet. But since you’re here, I assume you have news?”

Gunner snorted. “Aye, that I do. Those schematics ye left me with? I took another crack at ’em. Thought ye’d appreciate a surprise.” He reached into his coat, producing a rolled-up parchment before tossing it onto the table. “See fer yerself.”

Zeke raised a brow, unrolling the paper with care. As his eyes scanned the intricate lines and notations, his usual neutral expression flickered with something close to admiration. The progress was impressive—far more than he had expected. The sheer volume of ideas Gunner had proposed was staggering. It seemed he had examined every part of the design, from materials to craftsmanship to the parts themselves.

A quick glance revealed that most of these changes wouldn’t significantly affect the end result, but the creativity was undeniable. Gunner clearly had that spark.

What interested Zeke more, however, was how some of the more complex mechanisms had been broken down into modular components. This change promised to make the design easier to assemble without sacrificing much functionality. Given that he planned to shift most of his production to Korrovan, a modular design could be exactly what he needed.

“Well?” Gunner leaned in, arms on the table. “Ye always got that unreadable look, but I’ll be damned if ye ain’t impressed.”

Zeke exhaled, nodding slightly. “You’ve done well.” He rolled the parchment back up and set it aside.

Gunner grinned. “So… about that gold ye were flappin’ yer gums about?”

Zeke turned his focus inward, prompting Akasha to make the calculation. Moments later, she provided her analysis. Of all the changes Gunner had proposed, four met the requirements and would be included in the next version of the product. It was a surprising number, especially considering only a few days had passed.

As expected, the dwarfs should never be underestimated when it came to fine craftsmanship. Despite their brutish appearances, they clearly had a knack for this work, their minds far sharper than they first appeared.

Zeke didn’t feel the need to double-check Akasha’s verdict. With a wave of his hand, a pile of gold appeared on the table, exactly as promised.

The dwarf’s eyes widened for a moment, then he rushed to snatch the gleaming metal, stuffing the bars into the many pockets of his blacksmith’s apron. Zeke watched with a wry smile. Did the man think he would fight him for it if he didn’t hurry?

“Say…” Zeke began, but was immediately cut off.

“I ain't givin’ it back, lad. A deal’s a deal!” the dwarf growled.

Zeke shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

The dwarf paused, slipping the last piece of gold into his pocket. “Ohh, then I’m all ears.”

Zeke leaned in slightly. “What would you think of a... more permanent arrangement between us?”

Gunner studied him for a moment, silent as his mind worked. “What've ye got in mind?”

“I’m thinking of increasing my presence here in the capital,” Zeke explained. “For that, the help of a local would be invaluable.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Want me t’ sell me soul, eh? That won’t come cheap. What’s in it fer me?”

“Funding, for one,” Zeke said, gesturing to the spot where the gold had been.

Gunner spat. “What good’s gold if I ain’t got time t’ spend it? Don’t be thinkin’ I don’t know how much work this business o’ yers’ll be.”

Zeke nodded, not disputing that. “…In addition, your name will be associated with mine.”

Gunner raised an eyebrow. “What makes ye think I’d be wantin’ that?”

Zeke smirked. “Who was it that bragged about knowing me all night yesterday?” Gunner’s face flushed with embarrassment.

Zeke leaned in. “Right now, my name carries as much weight in this city as those of the greatest families. You’re in a prime position to leverage that fame. Trade agreements, cooperation, connections—all there for the taking by a dwarf smart enough to make use of them.”

Gunner said nothing, but the tension in his stance told Zeke he was listening.

“I don’t expect you to do all the work yourself,” Zeke continued. “With the money I’ll provide, you can hire as many people as you need to get the job done. That way, you’ll still have plenty of time for your own work.”

“I…” the dwarf began, but before he could answer, the ringing of bells from the other room signaled a visitor.

“Coming!” Gunner called over his shoulder, then turned to Zeke with an apologetic look. “I’ll give it some thought, aye?”

Zeke nodded, recognizing that the moment to press him had passed. However, he was almost certain Gunner would accept—the offer was simply too good to turn down.

The man promptly left to deal with his customer, leaving Zeke alone with the crate of Dreamwalker brew. He still hadn’t decided how he would approach them in the future, but he could think of one immediate use for the brew.

With a mental command, he had Akasha draft a quick note, which he placed inside the crate before teleporting it to his safe in Tradespire. He could rely on his people there to carry out his instructions.

Moments later, the door opened again, revealing Gunner, his face sour.

“What? Already scared away your customer?” he joked.

“Pah! As if!” Gunner grunted. “Ain’t a customer, it’s someone looking for you.”

Zeke raised a brow. “Did they tell you their name?”

“Ironhide family,” Gunner said flatly.

Zeke smirked and stood up. “See? That’s the power of my name. The Great families come knocking just because I’m here.” He passed the dwarf, brushing his shoulder lightly as he did. “Think about my offer.”

With those words, he made his way to the entrance of the smithy, where a man was already waiting.

Zeke approached him with a wide smile. “I hear you’re looking for me?”

“Aye, heir Hohenheim,” the man said, nodding in greeting. “Me teacher asked me to extend an invite to ye.”

Zeke’s smile widened. “For when?”

“There’s gonna be a banquet t’night. T’ celebrate th’ exemplary performance o’ young Drogar. It’d be an honor fer us if ye could attend.”

Zeke nodded solemnly. “I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. I’ll be takin' me leave then,” the dwarf said, handing him a letter. "This be fer ye.”

Zeke waited for the man to disappear from sight before opening the letter. It contained the time and location for the evening’s celebration, along with a short message from Drogar, expressing his thanks.

In a good mood, Zeke turned to head back to his room, but found Gunner watching him from not far away. Zeke grinned at him, his mood clearly lifted. “Something you wanna say?”

“Tha' were Devon Brownbeard,” Gunner said in way of explanation.

“Who?”

“…Devon Brownbeard,” Gunner repeated, clearly frustrated by Zeke’s indifferent reaction.

Zeke glanced toward where the man had gone, then faced Gunner again. “So?”

“So, he says…” Gunner muttered, rubbing his beard in agitation. “That man’s one o' th’ best Runesmiths o’ his generation, a true prodigy when it comes t’ carv'n runes.”

Zeke frowned, still not understanding the significance.

“Ye don’t get it,” Gunner sighed. “A man like that ain’t sent as a message runner. It’d be like sendin’ a prince t’ muck out th’ stables.”

Zeke grinned as he finally understood. “Ah, so they must have a great deal of respect for me, is that what you're saying?”

Gunner nodded his head reluctantly, as if unwilling to admit it.

“Looks like you didn’t fully believe me when I told you that I have quite a bit of influence here.”

“Course I believed it,” Gunner protested. “Winnin’ th’ competition ain’t no small feat, after all. But hearin’ about it an’ havin’ a man like Devon show up at me doorstep—two different things, aye?”

Zeke nodded slowly, saying nothing. He had a good idea where this conversation was headed, and there was no need to make it more obvious.

After a moment of silence, Gunner spoke up. “Does that offer still stand?”

Without a word, Zeke spat in his hand and extended it for a shake. Gunner hesitated only for an instant before mimicking the gesture, and Zeke soon felt the firm grip of a rough, iron-like hand closing around his. Just like that, the deal had been made.

Unbeknownst to Zeke, a warm smile spread across his face.

Just days ago, Gunner himself had explained that dwarves only dealt with those they considered trustworthy. In their culture, agreements were often made loosely, relying on the character of the individual rather than the written word.

Inway, a a handshake from a dwarf was one of the greatest compliments one could receive. It was a symbol of trust and respect.

B6 - Chapter 28: Showdown

Zeke’s eyes opened slowly, the lingering regret still fresh in his mind. This had been his chance to learn more about his enemy without risking himself—yet the dream had ended too soon. Still, there was no use dwelling on it. He was back in reality, and the present took precedence over everything else.

Instinctively, he moved to eject his Soul, keeping up the facade of nonchalance he had settled on. But before he could follow through, something gave him pause. Unlike before, when the loss of his—no, Cal’s—friends had torn him apart, he now felt surprisingly… fine.

It wasn’t that he felt happy, but neither did his heart ache. If anything, he felt strangely numb—almost indifferent to the experience.

Zeke usually wasn’t the type to question good fortune when it came his way, but this sudden shift made him wary. He hadn’t spent nearly enough time in his final dream to justify overcoming such a devastating loss. By his own estimation, it should have taken days to regain even a semblance of normalcy. Yet somehow, it had happened in an instant.

He examined his emotions—or rather, his lack of them—with careful scrutiny. He replayed the scenes in his mind, recalling each moment as his party members were crushed by the fledgling dragon. Yet, even as he relived those painful memories, there was nothing. No pain, no sorrow, no longing. It was as if those events held no meaning for him at all.

He felt disturbingly detached, as though he were hearing about the fate of complete strangers rather than people he had fought beside. He didn’t care—not even a little. And that realization sent a chill down his spine.

It reminded him of the way the devourer had thought.

Zeke’s blood froze. Could it be? Had merging his mind with the Devourer stripped him of his ability to feel? It was a fate too cruel to even imagine. However, he could not rule the possibility out, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. He had feared that there would be some price to pay for this, but he didn’t expect it to be this steep.

[Notice]

The alterations to Host's Soul are insufficient to induce such a transformation. It is probable that the present numbness will diminish over time. This is most likely a residual effect of integration with a lifeform so foreign. In time, Host will regain the capacity to feel.

Akasha’s words eased the tension in his mind. Now that he could think more clearly, her analysis made perfect sense. Just as it had taken him time to adapt to the Devourer’s way of thinking, it would likely take him a while to adjust back to his own.

But before he could dwell on it any longer, Zeke noticed his competitors beginning to stir. For a moment, he had almost forgotten he was still in a competition. The excitement of catching a glimpse of the emperor’s power had consumed his focus. But as the dwarves on either side of him began to groan, reality quickly set back in.

Drogar was the first to open his eyes, though the haunted look in them betrayed deep sorrow and dread. He didn’t say a word, but it was clear he wasn’t silent out of solemn dignity—he was too shaken to speak. It was obvious that the dwarf would not continue in the competition.

Eldrin soon followed, regaining his wakefulness. Before he could stop it, a tear slid down his cheek, but he wiped it away, spitting on the ground for emphasis. “Bloody brew’s makin’ me weep like a babe—disgraceful,” he muttered.

Zeke was genuinely impressed. Without his tricks—and the ability to suppress his emotions—he would have likely been reduced to a sobbing mess long ago. It was no surprise that so few humans participated in this competition; the dwarves were clearly made of sterner stuff. For almost anyone else, there would have been no other fate than humiliation.

Moments later, Eldrin regained a measure of control. His eyes shifted to his rival, and a smile spread across his face. “Oi, oi, oi, wha’ happened t’ ye, ye old fiend? Looks like ye got run over by a boulder.” He chuckled, though the sound was strained. “Is this really th’ best th’ Ironhide clan can muster? Looks like that’ll be another win fer me Stormshield kin.”

Drogar opened his mouth, likely to retort, but instead, a quiet sob escaped him. He quickly closed his mouth, clearly not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he did his best to glare at his rival, though even that looked more pitiful than menacing.

Eldrin snickered at the sight. “Cat got yer tongue, Ironhide? Where’s that famous wit o’ yers now?”

Zeke watched the scene unfold from the side, choosing not to intervene. While he had initially hoped for a showdown between himself and Drogar, a new plan began to form as he watched Eldrin humiliate his rival.

As he saw the burning rage in Drogar’s eyes, Zeke realized this might actually be a better outcome than his original plan. After all, there was nobody more appreciated than a kind soul offering firewood in the cold of winter.

With every word Eldrin spoke, the flames of rage and humiliation in Drogar’s eyes grew fiercer. From his family, to his performance, to his very manliness, Eldrin targeted every weak spot with precision. The younger dwarf clearly had a sadistic streak, visibly enjoying the mental devastation he was inflicting on his rival.

When Drogar teetered on the edge of an outburst, Zeke chose to step in. He opened his mind and sent a simple mental message to the fuming dwarf.

“Calm yourself. The Ironhide name will not be disgraced today. On my honor, I swear—Eldrin will not win.”

The effect was immediate. Drogar’s rage-filled expression shifted as his pained eyes flicked toward Zeke for the first time. They held each other’s gaze for a brief moment before Drogar gave an almost imperceptible nod. Then, with a deep breath, he closed his eyes—his face still etched with pain, but now carrying a trace of relief.

Zeke turned his gaze to Eldrin, who looked taken aback by his rival’s sudden composure. “Already counting yourself the victor?” he asked, his tone calm and unbothered. “Did you forget about me, Stormshield?”

Eldrin’s expression shifted at those words. There was something unsettling about the way Zeke spoke—so casual, so utterly indifferent, as if the competition itself meant nothing to him. In a way, it was even more unnerving than when he had detached his Soul.

This wasn’t an act.

At this moment, Zeke truly didn’t care whether they went another round or not. A part of him, one he suspected belonged to the Devourer, even relished the thought of claiming more Soul fragments.

Compared to the two dwarves, who were desperately trying to mask their unease, Zeke stood in stark contrast—calm, collected, and completely unfazed.

Eldrin recovered quickly, responding with a smirk and a remark that almost sounded genuine. “Ye’d dare challenge me, heir von Hohenheim?”

“Why not?” Zeke replied, his tone effortlessly casual. “Even the least observant spectator can see that you’re shaken. Me, on the other hand?” He paused briefly, allowing everyone to take in his state. “My mind is as unshakable as a dwarven fortress.” His gaze sharpened. “The real question is—do you dare challenge me again?”

The crowd, which had been buzzing with discussion over Eldrin’s earlier taunts, fell into a hushed silence. All eyes were locked on Eldrin now, waiting to see how he would respond. Even the bickering between House Ironhide and Stormshield came to an abrupt halt as they turned their attention to the unfolding challenge.

“I…” Eldrin started, licking his dry lips. “I ain’t afeared t’ go another round. If ye think yer childish—”

“Enough talk,” Zeke cut in, waving a hand dismissively. “Bring out the next round, and make it stronger. I’m growing tired of repeating this.”

Eldrin nearly sputtered in protest, but the announcer did not hesitate. With a curt nod, he signaled the servers to proceed. This time, the vials were noticeably larger, and the brew inside appeared thicker, darker—more menacing.

Had Zeke been in his usual state, he might have felt a sliver of apprehension at the sight. Instead, he found himself barely able to suppress the urge to salivate.

Eldrin, however, had the opposite reaction. His hands trembled as he held the vial, his earlier bravado unraveling by the second.

Zeke smirked, recognizing the hesitation. “Shall we do it together? On three?”

Eldrin said nothing.

“One,” Zeke said, popping open the vial.

“Two,” he brought it to his mouth, locking eyes with Eldrin.

“Three—”

“I concede.”

The words were barely more than a murmur, yet in the silence of the hall, they rang out like thunder. All eyes turned to Eldrin, who had yet to even unseal his vial. His fingers trembled around it, his expression one of pure dread. It was as if he were holding a venomous snake rather than a drink, his every instinct screaming at him to cast it away.

Zeke lowered his vial, arching a brow. “You concede?” he echoed, his tone devoid of surprise, as if he had expected this outcome all along.

Eldrin swallowed hard, his grip tightening around the vial before he set it down with forced composure. “Aye,” he admitted, his voice rough with frustration. “I know when I’m beaten.”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd—shock, disbelief, even disappointment hanging thick in the air. Moments ago, Eldrin had taunted his rival, yet now he had surrendered without even taking the final drink.

Zeke studied him for a moment before nodding. “Wise choice,” he said simply. Turning to the announcer, he asked, “So, how does this work? Do I take another drink, or have I already won?”

“That be up t’ young Ironhide t’ decide. Technically, he ain’t thrown in th’ towel just yet,” the announcer said. “What say ye, Drogar? Will ye yield, or do ye plan t’ fight it out wit’ heir von Hohenheim?”

Drogar didn’t open his eyes, but his raspy voice came a moment later. “I concede as well.”

Eldrin's face twisted as he grasped what had just happened. In the heat of their showdown, everyone had overlooked the fact that a new vial had also been placed before Drogar. Though he was clearly in no condition to continue, he had never officially surrendered.

And so, against all odds, Eldrin had conceded first—placing him third instead of second.

The announcer cleared his throat, and the crowd fell silent. “I’ll be damned, didn’t see this one comin’. But against all odds, an outsider’s gone an’ claimed th’ title o’ Ironbelly this year! Yet there ain’t no shame in it, fer he’s heir von Hohenheim!”

For a brief moment, the crowd remained still, as if struggling to process what had just happened. A flicker of doubt crossed Zeke’s mind—would there be backlash after all? But then, a single voice rose in celebration, quickly followed by another. In seconds, the hall erupted into thunderous applause, filled with raucous cheers and boisterous hollers—the kind only a mob of drunken dwarves could produce.

It was chaotic, deafening, and entirely sincere.

Soon, a chant began to rise, echoing through the hall—’Heir von Hohenheim’ repeated over and over.

Had he been capable of feeling emotion, Zeke was certain he would have shed tears. His mentor’s legacy had not been forgotten. Though the empire had stripped his name, the dwarves still remembered and honored it.

A quiet sense of pride filled him as his steady gaze swept over the crowd. And without fully understanding the reason, he found himself speaking the words of his house—words he had not uttered in a long time.

"Glory… or death."

B6 - Chapter 27: Natural Mind Mage

Zeke had expected the dream to end once the devourer was subdued, but he was wrong.

Instead, he became a witness to the emperor’s continued corruption of the creature. In excruciating detail, he experienced the process of his mind being laid bare, his memories unraveled and examined piece by piece.

Of course, they weren’t truly his memories—they belonged to the devourer. But in this moment, trapped within the experience, the distinction hardly seemed to matter.

The process was... disconcerting, to say the least.

For hours, Zeke remained locked in place as the emperor sifted through their mind like a scholar browsing a vast library. The man was in no rush, carefully examining each memory he extracted, lingering on details with deliberate patience.

In a way, it was fascinating—almost breathtaking—to witness Augustus Geistreich navigate another’s mind with such ease. If not for the sheer, absurdly intrusive nature of it, Zeke might have even admired the skill. More than once, he imagined himself as the actual victim of such an ordeal. The thought alone was enough to send a chill down his spine.

It didn’t take long for his mind to drift to his mentor, who had also fallen into this man’s hands. As gruesome as it was, Zeke found himself almost relieved that Maximilian had died rather than enduring this inhuman violation.

Worse still was the realization of what could have happened if the emperor had gained access to Maximilian’s memories. Every one of Zeke’s secrets would have been laid bare before him. The very idea was too terrifying to dwell on.

Especially now that Zeke understood the emperor’s deep fascination with the mysteries of the Soul—going so far as to capture and interrogate creatures like the Devourer. There was no telling what the man would do if he discovered that Zeke had inherited a Soul Mage’s legacy from the Giger ruins.

Then again, he supposed it wasn’t that hard to imagine. He would likely be treated no differently than the devourer was at this very moment. Whatever happened, he had to make sure never to be captured like the poor creature was, or his fate would be the same.

However, as horrifying as the ordeal was, Zeke wasn’t merely enduring it. From the moment the mental intrusion began, he had been carefully observing the emperor’s techniques. No matter how much he despised the man, there was no denying Augustus’s mastery.

Wouldn’t it be a waste not to learn from such an exceptional display?

Zeke doubted the emperor would ever allow anyone to observe his methods this closely if he intended for them to live. Yet, at this moment, Augustus wasn’t making the slightest effort to conceal his techniques. That could only mean one thing—he had already decided the devourer wouldn’t leave this place alive.

It was like witnessing a robbery where the bandits didn’t bother to wear masks—the fate of everyone involved was no longer a mystery.

Unfortunately for the emperor, the dwarves, in their relentless pursuit of unconventional alchemy, had discovered a way to extract the devourer’s memories even after its death.

One man’s loss was truly another’s gain.

With the devourer in a subdued, almost trance-like state, Zeke felt little discomfort during the procedure. This allowed him to focus entirely on the emperor’s use of mana.

It was nothing like the methods he had been taught in school.

These methods were likely unknown outside the emperor’s closest circle—if even that. Given what Zeke knew about the man, it was entirely possible he had never shared his techniques with anyone.

Of course, Zeke was nowhere near skilled enough as a Mind Mage to fully grasp the emperor’s level of mastery. But even the fragments he managed to glean were expanding his understanding of the mind by leaps and bounds.

Augustus didn’t handle memories as a simple sequence of images. Instead, he wove them together in a far more complete way—integrating emotions, impressions, and even fleeting thoughts to reconstruct the experience exactly as the devourer had lived it. In a way, the result felt closer to Soul Magic than traditional Mind Magic.

The resulting construct was a seamless web of sensations, thoughts, emotions, traumas, and countless other fragments—woven together into something far greater than the sum of its parts. It was like watching a painter at work, turning mere strokes of color into a masterpiece.

There was no denying it—Augustus Geistreich was an absolute master of the mind. The process didn’t seem to strain him in the slightest. He read through the devourer’s memories as effortlessly as a man flipping through a picture book. It was almost as if the most complex puzzle in existence was unraveling itself willingly out of sheer respect for his skill.

Zeke was in absolute awe of the possibilities this ability unlocked. Even if Augustus had no offensive means—which Zeke highly doubted—the sheer power of gathering information in such a manner was as formidable as any attack spells.

One thing was certain: Augustus had no trouble expanding his Soul. In essence, he was achieving the same effect as the Dreamwalker brew, but without the need to kill the creature beforehand.

It was highly likely that the emperor could grow his Soul by seamlessly integrating his artificially created Soul fragments. After all, they were nearly indistinguishable from real experiences.

What troubled Zeke even more was the possibility that the man could use this ability on others—allowing them to experience a lifetime of memories in moments. No, there was no doubt he could. The only question was whether he had chosen to wield his power in that way.

If he had, then mass-producing Archmages would have been entirely within his grasp.

Zeke found it hard to believe that a man like Augustus wouldn’t have realized the greatest obstacle to reaching that level was the size of one’s Soul. That meant while Zeke had discovered a shortcut for Core development through the Mana Purifying device, the emperor had found a way to bypass the natural limitations of Soul growth altogether.

Together, they possessed the pieces of a puzzle that could enable any faction to mass-produce an army of high-level mages within mere years.

A terrifying realization—and yet another reason why Zeke could never allow himself to fall into the emperor’s hands. This was a secret he would have to guard at all costs.

He inwardly cringed at his recent decision to reveal his early advancement. While he doubted that a mere Grandmage’s achievements would normally catch the emperor’s attention, things might change if the man suspected a hidden method behind it—a secret that could propel his machinations to even greater heights.

Of course, for now, this was all just speculation. It was entirely possible that the emperor had already discovered his own method—or perhaps he simply didn’t consider it a crucial piece of the puzzle.

Even so, Zeke resolved to be even more cautious in the future. Nothing good could come from attracting too much of the emperor’s attention at this stage.

The mere thought of this force of nature, standing just a step away, shifting his full focus onto him sent a shiver down Zeke’s spine.

Though Augustus didn’t appear intimidating at first glance, there was something about him that had unsettled Zeke from the moment he entered the room. And it wasn’t just his power. No, what truly made Zeke’s skin crawl was the man’s clinical, methodical approach to deceiving the devourer.

Every action had seemed so natural, so inoffensive and gentle, that it was almost inconceivable that such devious intent lurked behind even the smallest gesture.

Augustus Geistreich was a master manipulator—charismatic, calculated, and utterly ruthless. His gentle smile and refined features masked a mind that was more machine than man, as cold and unyielding as the chains now binding the devourer’s very will.

A born Mind Mage.

In that regard, Zeke felt utterly outmatched. He would never reach the heights of mastery Augustus had attained. Even given a million years, he doubted he could rival this man. He simply lacked the aptitude, the will, and the stomach to wield such power with the same effortless precision.

And yet, for once, that realization didn’t trouble him. There wasn’t a shred of envy in him for the emperor’s mastery. While undeniably great, it was painfully clear what price the man had paid to reach such heights.

His humanity.

Zeke had long learned to resist the ruthless clarity his Mind affinity offered, a restraint made easier by the dominance of his Blood affinity. In a way, these opposing forces kept each other in balance. But Augustus Geistreich, the pinnacle of Mind Magic, had surrendered himself entirely to his power—consumed by it, shaped by it, until little remained of the man he might have once been.

It wouldn’t have surprised Zeke if the emperor was incapable of feeling human emotions anymore. In a sense, he had transformed himself into a being of pure intellect, much like the devourer he was now tormenting. The more Zeke thought about it, the more the parallels between them became apparent—even their insatiable hunger for knowledge seemed eerily alike.

"Interesting," the emperor muttered, lifting his hands from the devourer for the first time.

Zeke's ears perked up. He was eager to learn what the emperor had been searching for—what secret he had finally uncovered. But whatever knowledge the man had extracted remained beyond Zeke's perception.

The emperor stood motionless, seemingly lost in thought. Yet, there was something deeply unsettling about him. He looked less like a living being and more like an eerily lifelike statue. His stillness was absolute—Zeke couldn't even sense the rise and fall of his breath. It was an unnatural, almost inhuman sight.

Then, as if nothing had happened, the emperor moved. He turned on his heels and strode toward the exit, abandoning the devourer without a second glance. He offered no explanation, no remark on what he had found so interesting. The gentle facade he had worn before was gone, discarded now that no one remained to witness it.

As the door clicked shut behind the emperor, Zeke felt it—the dream was ending.

For the first time, he resisted the pull dragging him toward wakefulness. He wanted—no, he needed—to know what the emperor had discovered.

This was the first real clue he had ever uncovered about what drove the man, and it was both enlightening and deeply unsettling. But Zeke was certain there was more to learn, more to uncover if only he could stay a little longer.

Yet, his struggle was meaningless. Just as he had been a prisoner within the devourer's body, unable to influence its actions, Zeke found himself powerless to control the end of the dream. The brew had simply run out, and there was nothing more to see. Like a book that refused to reveal more words after turning the last page, the dream could not be extended by one’s will alone.

And so, despite his struggles, Zeke was unwillingly dragged back to reality.

B6 - Chapter 26: Nemesis

There was no denying it anymore—Zeke wasn’t reliving the memory of one of its victims. He was experiencing the past of the devourer itself. This strange, alien mind could belong to nothing else. The insatiable thirst for knowledge gnawed at him even now, a craving so vast that it could belong to no other creature.

 Naturally, when crafting the Dreamwalker brew, it wasn’t just stolen memories that were distilled—it also carried traces of the devourer’s own mind. The realization was almost embarrassing. How had it taken him this long to figure it out?

But a far more troubling thought loomed over him: a piece of this being was in the process of merging with his own essence. He wouldn’t suddenly sprout tentacles, of course, but that didn’t make it any less unsettling. As far as Zeke understood, one’s psyche was largely shaped by the experiences accumulated over a lifetime. If even a fragment of the devourer’s mind took root within him… what would that mean for his own?

What kind of changes would those memories bring?

Would he start craving the souls of others, just as the devourer had?

One unsettling thought bled into the next, each more disturbing than the last. But Zeke forced himself to regain control. There was no use in worrying about something he couldn’t predict or change. Whatever happened, he would deal with it when the time came.

To keep his mind from spiraling further, he turned his focus to something more immediate—his current situation. Now that he had gained a firmer grasp on the devourer’s senses, his perception of the world around him sharpened, revealing his surroundings with far greater clarity.

Though it took time for Zeke to piece together the fragmented impressions his tentacles provided, he soon formed a rough understanding of his surroundings. He was in what appeared to be a laboratory—a vast space filled with strange contraptions and unfamiliar devices. Yet, it was immediately clear that he was not the master of this domain. Instead, he was confined within a strange energy field, his round body completely immobilized—unable to move even an inch.

If he had to guess, the devourer was likely a research subject in this strange place.

For now, however, he was alone—a fact he found reassuring. His host, on the other hand, did not share that sentiment. The devourer felt no fear about its predicament. If anything… it was mildly curious.

But Zeke quickly realized that the absence of fear didn’t mean there was no danger. As more and more fragments of memory surfaced, it became clear that this creature wasn’t capable of fear in the first place. It was a being that had evolved to think in a purely clinical, detached manner.

In some ways, it reminded him of Akasha.

A distant click immediately caught the devourer’s attention. Several tentacles reacted instinctively, precisely pinpointing the origin of the sound. In an instant, its entire focus shifted to a single point—the door leading into the room.

A few more clicking sounds followed, then the lock snapped open. Slowly, the door swung inward, revealing a man as he stepped inside. He was tall and striking, with blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His smile was warm, genuine, devoid of even the slightest hint of malice.

The devourer remained indifferent to this. Despite having consumed countless memories, it either couldn’t recognize human expressions or simply didn’t care to. Though this likely wasn’t their first meeting, to the creature, the man was just another presence—one that didn’t merit any particular reaction.

Zeke, however, knew exactly who this was.

He had never met this man in person, yet he had seen his face countless times—etched into murals, carved into statues, printed in textbooks. It was the face of his enemy.

Augustus Geistreich, Emperor of Arkanheim and the most powerful Mind Mage on the continent stood before him in the flesh.

Zeke’s mind simply froze. For a moment, he was incapable of forming a single coherent thought. Then, in the next instant, his thoughts surged forward all at once, an avalanche of questions crashing into him.

Why was the Emperor here?
What was his connection to the devourer?
What was he planning?
How long ago had this memory taken place?
And most importantly—how had the devourer escaped?

But Zeke had no control over the situation. The memory would unfold exactly as it had in reality, regardless of his thoughts or will. He was merely a passenger, observing the situation from inside one of its actors.

Augustus Geistreich strode into the room, his gaze fixed on the devourer.

“Astonishing,” he murmured, coming to a halt in front of it. “I could hardly believe it when they told me what they’d caught.”

The devourer remained silent, every tentacle trained on the man before it. Though it felt no fear, it instinctively recognized the danger radiating from this newcomer. Its awareness sharpened, its senses stretched to their limit—waiting, ready to strike at the first sign of an opening.

“Don’t be like that,” the emperor said casually. “I know you can understand me.”

The devourer didn’t respond immediately. It wasn’t fear that made it hesitate, but a deliberate calculation, taking its time to weigh the possibilities.

At last, it made its choice.

Reaching out with its mind, it projected its voice directly into the emperor’s thoughts.

“For what purpose have I been brought to this place?”

The emperor smiled, and for a brief moment, Zeke could have sworn he saw a predatory glint behind that gentle expression. “It speaks at last,” he said aloud, making Zeke wonder if the man was deliberately pretending he couldn’t replicate the devourer’s mental communication.

“To reward your cooperation, let me answer your question honestly,” the emperor said, finally breaking his gaze from the devourer. Instinctively, the creature tensed, ready to strike, but something stopped it at the last moment.

“You’ve been brought here because I find you... interesting.” The emperor’s back was now fully turned as he reached for a flask on a nearby desk.

"Are you after the vast knowledge I've collected, like the rest of your kind?" the devourer asked.

The emperor chuckled but didn’t turn around. “No, that trifling pile of random impressions you’ve amassed is of little use to me,” he said. Zeke could feel the devourer bristle. It wasn’t anger, but the insult to its life’s work had clearly struck a nerve.

The emperor, however, remained unfazed as he continued. “No, what truly fascinates me is your ability to do exactly that. The ability to extract the very essence of any being, regardless of oaths or other restrictions, now that is a truly valuable gift.”

"Alas, it’s impossible for you to imitate that gift," the devourer said. "Given the limits of your... physiology, I don’t see how you expect to learn from studying me."

The emperor turned, holding a box in his hand. No, it was something else—a square container made of special glass. Something moved inside. He nodded at the devourer's words.

"You speak the truth," the emperor said. "There’s little I can learn from your methods. At least, not when it comes to extracting essence. I assume you use those appendages for that."

The devourer stayed silent, choosing not to comment on the man’s assumption.

"Thankfully…" the emperor continued, the smile returning to his face, "that’s not the part I’m struggling with." As he spoke, he held up the flask in his hands.

Normally, Zeke wouldn’t have been able to guess what was inside. But thankfully, someone else knew. He felt a stirring of emotions from the devourer—surprise, confusion, and a touch of admiration.

"How did you manage this, human?" the devourer asked, its eagerness clear. "It should have been impossible for your kind to harvest an essence so completely. And this method of containment... I’ve never seen anything like it. I need to know how this was achieved."

The emperor chuckled. “It’s always nice to receive such high praise from a genuine expert. However, I see no benefit in fulfilling your request. Tell me, creature, what value is there in satisfying your curiosity?”

The devourer fell silent for a moment. “A trade, then,” it suggested.

The emperor chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re not in a position to bargain with me. Trade, you see, can only happen between equals. Right now, you are my prisoner and I am free to take everything that is yours without giving anything in return.”

Zeke sensed something in the devourer stir, its annoyance and confusion radiating out. “Why, then, human, show this to me at all? If you had no intention of trading, there was no reason to provoke my curiosity.”

The emperor shook his head, still smiling. “There is a reason, of course. Even a being like you isn't immune to having its mentality shaken. For someone like me, even the smallest crack is an opening that can be exploited..."

Suddenly, Zeke felt an overwhelming sense of crisis from the devourer—a threat to its very existence. Its tentacles shot out without hesitation, wrapping the emperor in a cocoon of twisted flesh. For a brief moment, Zeke hoped the creature might injure the man—perhaps even cripple his Soul.

But then, Zeke felt the devourer's limbs go limp, falling lifelessly to the floor. “Impossible,” the creature projected, its emotions more intense than Zeke had ever felt from it. “You could not have broken in without me noticing…”

The emperor's smile widened. "Broken in? What need would there be for that when you were the one to open the door?"

"This—" the devourer started, but immediately fell silent, desperately trying to sever the faint mental link between them. However, it quickly became clear that the creature had lost the ability to do so.

"Just as you have a very specialized skillset..." the emperor continued calmly, walking closer to the devourer and placing his hand on its circular core. "So do I."

In the next moment, Zeke felt a web of Mana entangle the devourer's mind. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced—gentle yet overwhelming, simplistic yet refined. For a long while, Zeke could only watch in stunned silence as the devourer lost the battle against the encroaching web. It was like watching a moth struggle in a spider's net.

Every movement, every attempt to resist, only seemed to tighten the bindings on its mind. Eventually, there was no more fight left. And like the moth, the devourer simply stopped, resigned to its fate.

With the last bit of resistance gone, Zeke could feel the emperor’s control over the creature solidify. The devourer's will eroded under the mental constructs now binding it. In some ways, it resembled Zeke's own [Blood Puppeteering] technique, but a million times more refined and far more insidious.

He could instinctively sense that, for the devourer, there was no way out. Its only chance of freedom now rested entirely on the emperor's will.

“Now, little bug,” the man muttered, delving deeper into the devourer's mind. “Let’s see what kind of secrets you’ve been hiding.”

B6 - Chapter 25: Third Dream

The crowd held their breath, Zeke’s final words hanging heavy in the charged silence that followed.

Even in his disembodied state, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. The reaction was everything he had hoped for—and more. His carefully crafted display had worked so flawlessly that not even he could have envisioned a better outcome. Here, in the heart of dwarven territory, he had announced himself with a brilliance that would be impossible to ignore.

From this moment on, he could walk the streets of the dwarven capital with his head held high, his presence etched into the minds of all who had witnessed his declaration.

The weight of his mentor’s name and Zeke’s own accomplishments were enough to eclipse even the most brilliant talent. Especially his latest feat. The title of youngest living Grandmage was not only a monumental achievement in its own right but also a promise of an even brighter future yet to come.

“Well…” the announcer began, clearly searching for the right words. “Yer mentor’s name be known far an’ wide, even among our kin. Many a dwarf mourned his passin’.” His voice grew steadier, more respectful. “Rest easy, lad, Bombastus were held in high regard by us dwarfs, as be yer name. Ain’t no surprise no more ye’ve done so well in our contest.”

A ripple of approval swept through the crowd, a testament to Maximilian’s greatness. To be remembered and revered even among a foreign people, so far removed from his homeland, was proof of a legacy that transcended borders.

The announcer cleared his throat, his voice rising above the murmurs of the crowd. “As I were sayin'… Only three contestants left: Drogar Ironhide, Eldrin Stormshield, an’ Ezekiel, heir o' Hohenheim.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, and Zeke sensed the shift in their attitude. His declaration had erased any lingering doubts about his worthiness. No longer was he an outsider to be dismissed or doubted; instead, the three finalists were now regarded as equally formidable contenders. To Zeke’s surprise, a small but noticeable group of dwarves even cheered for him.

It was unexpected, but far from unwelcome.

With a calculated move, Zeke commanded his body to wave to the crowd. He understood dwarven culture well enough to know that they valued humility and approachability far more than the image of a distant, untouchable hero. This suited Zeke just fine—it aligned with the impression he wanted to leave as well as his own preference.

“Ye three will now be takin’ th' third shot o' Dreamwalker brew,” the announcer bellowed, his voice heavy. “Be warned: both th' dose an' purity o' this round are a cut above th' last.”

Zeke caught the sound of nervous gulps from either side of him. He didn’t judge them for it—he couldn’t. If he had been in his physical body, he doubted he could have stopped himself from doing the same.

The previous dream had been harrowing, leaving scars he hadn’t fully shaken off. He knew it would take days, perhaps longer, before he truly recovered. Now, with the third dose looming, a single, unsettling question echoed in his mind: What nightmare would await him this time?

However, before he even had time to dread that thought, the next round of brews was placed before the three finalists and Zeke knew it was time to return to his body.

He wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if his body consumed the concoction while his soul remained untethered, but he suspected the brew would have little to no effect. After all, he had already confirmed that its primary influence was on the Soul itself.

The thought was tempting—an easy way to bypass the ordeal entirely. But Zeke dismissed it without hesitation. For one, it would be outright cheating. More importantly, it would be a coward’s way out—a silent surrender before the two dwarven prodigies who had the courage to face the brew head-on.

He had no qualms about using tricks to maintain his composure, but abandoning the challenge altogether?

That was not his way.

Zeke commanded his body to unseal the vial, timing his movements to match the other two contestants. Both dwarves cast wary glances at each other, doubtless hoping someone would surrender before it was too late.

But none of them did.

The moment the brew touched his lips, Zeke merged with his body. He barely had time to register any emotions before the now-familiar sensation of vertigo struck. In an instant, he was whisked away once more.

This time, however, the world didn’t snap into focus. Instead, he was bombarded by a chaotic flood of sensations—utterly alien, impossible to decipher. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t move. Yet he was not numb. He could still feel something, still perceive the world around him. But the information flooding his mind was so unfamiliar, so utterly bizarre, that he couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Zeke’s mind fought desperately to make sense of his existence, but it was futile. The only certainty was that he was not inhabiting a human body. Otherwise, these alien sensations would be impossible to explain.

His perception was paradoxical—both unbearably dull and unnervingly sharp at the same time. Unlike human senses, which were divided among different organs, everything he felt seemed to originate from a single, central point within him. It was as if his entire being revolved around this one organ, the core of his existence.

Eventually, he made some progress. Though he had to admit, it wasn’t due to his own efforts but rather the gradual assimilation with whatever entity he now inhabited. Just like before, the longer he remained in this foreign body, the more their memories intertwined. It was likely a sign that its existence was merging with his Soul.

He couldn't tell whether it had taken seconds, hours, or days, but at last, he managed to form a vague picture of his surroundings. This way of perception was closer to his Spatial Awareness than normal sight—a blend of sound and color that his human mind had to interpret into something comprehensible.

Thankfully, as his essence continued to merge with the strange being, the process grew easier. The once-alien sensations slowly settled into something he could begin to comprehend. As his perception improved, he became aware of his own existence. Unlike the limitations of human senses, this body seemed fully capable of perceiving itself, able to direct its awareness in all directions at the same time.

He was definitely something, but he wasn't sure what he was seeing.

Every sensation in his body felt as if it came from a single point that wasn't really a point at all. His awareness stretched outward, like a web, anchored to a center that wasn't a head or torso—just a roundness.

The body was featureless, smooth like polished stone, a perfect sphere without even a hint of a face. There was no mouth, no eyes, no nostrils—nothing suggesting he could take in or release anything the way he was used to. He was a core—nothing more than a thick, pulsing node of awareness.

Tentacles extended from every angle, a sprawling, undulating mass that seemed to grow out of the sphere. Each one twisted independently, yet they were all connected in a way that suggested they belonged to the same entity. They stretched outward, fanning out in an unnatural pattern. Some were thick and muscular, others thin and nearly transparent, but all shared the same strange purpose: to expand his perception. These limbs weren’t for movement, but for awareness—gathering sensations and memories like tendrils of thought.

Im not super happy with the image but it is the best I've gotten :/

Each tentacle carried a unique ‘feeling,’ but Zeke couldn't pinpoint exactly what each one relayed. They didn’t merely touch the world—they absorbed it. The way they twisted and flexed seemed like they were reaching for information from the very ether itself. Their movements were slow and deliberate, rippling with a liquid-like quality that suggested no visible intent.

This was one of the strangest beings Zeke had ever encountered.

There was no sense of hunger, of thirst, of need. And yet, it was clear that this creature did not exist without purpose. The tension in the tentacles—the way they ever so slowly crept over surfaces—was not one of desperation but a methodical, endless search. It wasn’t for food, not in any way Zeke understood. There was no desire to feed. It was simply seeking. Not a purpose he could comprehend, but it was there all the same, a deep, unrelenting instinct that drove it’s actions. It was as if it were a thinking machine, not concerned with what it wanted, but only what it understood.

The absence of a mouth, throat, or any opening made him feel like a vessel designed to exist in isolation—no need for connection, no space for speech. Communication had no place here. His thoughts felt... stifled, as if they were all being funneled inward, directed toward the cold, unfeeling logic of this entity.

Eventually, he shifted his focus away from himself and turned his attention to his surroundings.

The space around him felt strange, not due to the unfamiliar environment, but because it lacked the clear boundaries of space and time his human mind was used to. It was a disordered world—objects appeared and vanished, flickering in and out of his awareness like fleeting memories rather than tangible things. He could feel the cold stone beneath him, but it didn’t provide any sense of grounding. The tentacles were constantly shifting, making contact, but without urgency. It was like a reflection in a mirror—echoing reality, but disconnected from it.

And the air? It didn’t smell, didn’t feel like it ought to have in Zeke’s prior life. The sensation of air was more like a distant hum against his tentacles, a vibration that was neither warm nor cold, but something in between. It was as if the world itself was a dream, and this body—this creature—was merely existing in it, not acting or reacting, but simply being.

There was no notion of time, no hunger or thirst to signify a passing moment. Just endless reaching, endless seeking, as though the purpose of this existence was only to exist.

For a brief moment, Zeke felt a strange tug—a merging of his thoughts with those of the creature. Its tentacles weren’t just sensing the world; they were reaching into it. Through them, he began to perceive the creature’s intentions. It wasn’t like holding something in a hand, but more like cradling a thought—shaping it, twisting it, and letting it become part of him.

A strange, unsettling unity.

Then, another awareness drifted through him—deeper, more intense—giving him a clearer sense of the creature. This being had existed for eons in a place where time and death seemed irrelevant. Its mind was a vast repository, filled with mountains of information—memories, some of which were its own… others not.

This being carried a hunger for knowledge. It was a thirst unlike anything Zeke had ever known, an oppressive weight he couldn’t escape. Suddenly, everything clicked. It became crystal clear what—or who—this creature was.

B6 - Chapter 24: Aftermath

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.

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.

[Notice]

26% of the audience is inquiring about the host’s exact identity. 15% are questioning the method the host is using to resist the brew. The rest have either not voiced an opinion, or…

“Or…?” Zeke mentally prompted as Akasha hesitated.

[Answer]

…They are accusing Host of cheating.

Zeke chuckled to himself. Akasha might have considered this a problem, but he knew the dwarfs better. If he had found a way to gain an advantage—however subtle—they would likely respect him even more for it.

The brewmasters had deliberately allowed the use of Mana in these rounds, confident that no one would be able to overcome the brew’s effects. It was almost as if they were daring the contestants to find a way around it—if they could. They would obviously not cry foul if somebody actually took them up on that challenge.

Soon, one of these naysayers could no longer keep his silence and yelled loudly at the stage. “That human’s cheatin’, I tell ye! No way one o’ those long-limbed bastards could outlast all our young 'uns put together! Ain't no way I’m believin’ that!”

Zeke remained quiet, a slight smile on his face. He had no intention of defending himself. That was something only the guilty needed to do.

The announcer glanced at Zeke for a moment before turning toward the crowd with a frown. “The rules, as we set 'em, ain't been broken. Best keep yer trap shut if ye don’t want t’ be tossed out on yer arse.”

There was nothing more to be said. The announcer had made his verdict, putting the matter to rest.

However, a different voice could be heard only moments later. This one was more cautious and carried far less venom. “Do we know if th' brew does anythin' t' humans? I'd hate fer this t' be an unfair fight otherwise.”

This time, the announcer didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he turned toward the brewmaster family responsible for the concoction. This was a legitimate concern that needed serious consideration.

Zeke, for his part, wasn’t worried at all. In fact, he felt grateful to the man for bringing up this point. By asking if humans were affected at all, he was implying that Zeke hadn’t been affected, which only highlighted how ridiculous the challenge was. This was exactly what he had been aiming for.

As for the verdict from the brewmaster family?

Zeke wasn’t concerned in the slightest. He knew from experience that the brew did affect humans, so there was no chance of him being disqualified. This would only serve to prove that it wasn’t humans who were immune to the brew, but him specifically. It was just another way for him to stand out in the competition.

Soon, an elderly dwarf emerged from the rows of the Maltforge family brewmasters. He was one of the oldest dwarfs Zeke had ever seen. His back was so bent that he was almost parallel to the floor, and he leaned heavily on a cane as he staggered forward. Despite his frailty, Zeke could feel an undeniable strength emanating from the man, the Mana swirling around him like a vortex with every breath.

An Archmage.

“Th' brew works on every race under th' sun,” the old man announced, his surprisingly deep and powerful voice carrying despite his small stature. “We’re th' Maltforge family, not some back-alley brewshop. We’ve tested it enough times t' know. Don’t be underestimatin' us.”

Without waiting for further comment, the old man hobbled back to his seat.

The announcement caused another stir in the crowd, with even more people inquiring about Zeke’s identity. This was exactly what he had planned. From this moment on, he would be considered the frontrunner in the competition, with all eyes on him.

It was time to drive the point home. “Can we get on with it?” His body called out. “My throat feels rather parched. I could use a drink.”

A heavy silence followed his words, but it was most deafening among the other nine contestants. Zeke could sense many of them swallowing dryly, staring blankly ahead or weeping more pitifully.

“Hold yer horses, contestant,” the announcer chided, though there was an approving smile on his face. He clearly approved of the boldness. “Who o' th' rest o' ye tough bastards is willin' t' keep goin'?”

He swept his gaze over the group, but few dared meet his eyes. Some wept silently, while others glanced at Zeke before lowering their heads in shame. Only two dwarfs stood apart: Drogar and Eldrin. Though visibly pained, both met the announcer's gaze, one after the other.

“Very well,” the announcer said after confirming the result. "Only three contestants remain: Drogar Ironhide, Eldrin Stormshield, and... what was yer name again, human?"

Zeke raised his head and met the announcer’s gaze. “My name is Ezekiel,” he said casually.

"Ezekiel..." the man repeated, confusion clear in his voice. "No last name? Ye don’t hail from a family or clan?"

Zeke shook his head, his eyes darkening as he spoke. “I did, once... but the emperor of Arkanheim saw fit to strip me of that title.” He let the words hang in the air, a bitter truth he had carried for too long. He allowed the crowd to feel the weight of it. Though his body moved as he commanded, the truth behind those words was an open wound in his heart.

His gaze swept across the crowd, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. “You may call me Ezekiel—just Ezekiel. But if you insist on knowing the blood that runs through my veins…” He let the tension build, his words slow but deliberate,. “I am the disciple and heir of Maximilian Bombastus von Hohenheim, crowned number one talent of the empire… and lastly…” His voice dropped, thick with tension, drawing the crowd closer, “… the youngest living Grandmage.”

B6 - Chapter 23: Final Hunt

From the shadows emerged not a simple beast, but a creature of myth and legend—a living embodiment of primal majesty.

Its scales shimmered under the painfully bright torchlight, refracting in a dazzling prismatic sheen. A long, sinuous neck arched forward in a graceful yet menacing curve. Its reptilian head, crowned by two curved horns sweeping back, housed rows upon rows of knife-like teeth—designed not for grazing on leaves but for ripping flesh with brutal efficiency.

It was undoubtebly a Dragon.

Though young, its total length barely exceeding a dozen feet, the sheer presence it exuded was overwhelming. A newborn it might have been, but for their party, it still spelled almost certain doom.

The group collectively gasped, their years of experience the only thing keeping them standing in the face of its overwhelming presence. There was an indescribable majesty to the creature, as if its very existence demanded submission—a relentless, unspoken command pressing down on their minds.

The aura of a superior predator, an ability unique to the ancient races and one of the reasons they were considered the greatest threat to humanity.

But in that moment, Zeke could do nothing but stare, frozen, at the terror that had revealed itself as their prey.

They were finished.

“We have a chance,” a voice rang out beside him, defying the hopelessness clawing at Zeke’s mind. Instinctively, he turned toward the speaker, clinging to the faint hope those words offered. He wasn’t alone in his reaction; the rest of the group mirrored him, their desperate gazes locking onto the source of the voice.

It was Durrek.

Their leaders expression was grim, but unlike the others, despair hadn’t taken hold of him. His calm, steady demeanor stood out against the panic and resignation that clouded the air.

“It’s wounded,” he said, his tone sharp and unwavering. “Badly.”

Only after Durrek pointed it out did Zeke and the others notice. The young Dragon wasn’t standing straight—it was clearly favoring one of its hind legs, unable to put much weight on the other.

With remarkable precision, Finn hurled his torch in a wide arc. It bounced off the stone wall, skidding in a way that sent it curving around the Dragon's massive form before landing behind it.

In the magical fire's illuminating glow, the group finally saw the full extent of the Dragon’s injuries. This was no superficial wound—it was a crippling blow. A massive chunk of flesh had been torn from its backside, nearly severing one of its legs. The sight made it all the more astonishing that the beast could still walk at all.

It became painfully clear—the Dragon had recently lost a battle with an even larger predator. Its current weakness was likely the only reason it hadn’t attacked them outright. Instead, it lingered at a distance, watching them with an unsettling intensity.

“It must have just escaped from the jungle,” Helena said, a note of resolve creeping back into her voice as she straightened her armored form. “The Druids might even still be chasing it.”

“That explains why it preyed on the villagers,” Bram added, hefting his massive crossbow. “It was probably in a hurry, desperate for food.”

“Whatever the case,” Mara said, her tone sharp as her gaze regained its predatory focus, “if it’s this young and wounded, we can take it—if we play this right.”

Helena nodded, her eyes hardening behind her helmet. “Agreed. As long as we keep our distance, we should be fine. A Dragon this young shouldn’t have developed any Magic yet.”

For the first time, Zeke—or rather Cal—spoke. His voice was quieter than the others, almost like a whisper. “Can it… understand us?”

The group’s gazes collectively snapped to him, but what truly caught his attention was the Dragon’s reaction. Its sharp eyes had shifted to him as well, now watching him with an unsettling intensity. That confirmed it. It was listening. It could understand them. This was no ordinary beats but a sentient being, its intelligence at least equal to that of a human.

Zeke’s voice grew louder, emboldened by the discovery. “You can, can’t you?”

His question was directed at none other than the Dragon. The massive creature continued to observe them, its calm, calculating gaze locked onto Zeke.

For a moment, there was no response, only the oppressive silence of the cavern. Then, a low, rasping chuckle rumbled from its throat, reverberating through the space like distant thunder. “Well spotted, ant,” it said, its voice deep and ancient—an incongruous sound for a creature supposedly no more than a hatchling.

The Dragon’s words instantly shattered the fragile confidence the party had just regained. Facing a creature of such size and strength was one thing, but to confront a predator capable of not only understanding their language but also analyzing their strategy? That was an entirely different challenge—one they were ill-prepared for.

How could they possibly maintain their distance against an enemy that fully understood their intentions? The Dragon would never allow it. It would dismantle their plans before they could even begin.

The smug grin spreading across its scaled maw only underscored one chilling fact: they were utterly and completely doomed.

Durrek let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the moment settling on his shoulders. Once again, it fell to him to speak when all hope seemed lost. “We don’t have a choice,” he said, shifting the massive axe to his other shoulder as his gaze locked onto the Dragon. “If it’s this smart, it won’t let us leave—not if it’s being hunted.”

The Dragon remained silent, but its slitted pupils narrowed as they fixed on Durrek with a glimmer of killing intent. The subtle shift in its gaze made it clear: their leader had struck a nerve by correctly deducing its intentions. Yet, instead of backing down, the grizzled warrior bared his teeth in a feral grin, meeting the beast’s reptilian stare with unflinching defiance.

His words didn’t rekindle hope in the party, but they did ignite a grim determination. They all understood—this was where they would meet their end. The only question that remained was how they would face it.

Finn was the first to break the heavy silence, a familiar, easy smile returning to his face. “Well, I suppose there are worse ways to go,” he said, his tone almost casual. “Definitely beats getting taken out by a stray arrow from some random goblin.”

Zeke couldn’t help but marvel at the man’s cavalier attitude. Unlike others who merely pretended to be fearless, Finn was of a different breed. Even now, with death looming over them, it took him mere moments to make peace with the reality of their situation and slip back into his joking demeanor.

Though no one was in the mood to respond to his banter, Finn’s comment still managed to lift the oppressive weight in the air. More importantly, his relaxed demeanor made the others feel almost foolish for their tension. At least, that’s how Zeke felt.

It was only death, after all. Hadn’t he come to terms with this possibility long ago? Years ago, he had accepted that he was living on borrowed time. Now, it seemed that debt had finally come due.

“No strategy session,” Durrek finally said. “We’ll have to play this one by ear.”

The party members nodded, well aware that anything they said out loud would only benefit the Dragon. Instead, they would rely on the ingraned teamwork that they had honed over the years. Most of the time, verbal communication was not even necessary anymore.

Durrek was the first to make a move. Not because he was best suited for the job, but because he was a man who led by example—always.

His heavy footsteps echoed through the cave, axe raised high. But it wasn’t just brute force that powered his advance—it was the quiet confidence of a leader. Durrek's black steel axe gleamed ominously as he raised it, setting an example for the rest of the team. With a deafening clash, steel met claws, the screech of metal against scales reverberating through the cavern as Durrek faced the Dragon head-on.

Helena moved in behind him, her plate armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. She planted her feet firmly, shield raised and ready to block any incoming blows. Her breath came in heavy, steady bursts as she braced herself. Her role wasn’t flashy, but every time she intercepted a strike, she created the perfect opening for the rest of the team to land a blow.

Mara, hidden in the shadows of a nearby rock formation, nocked an arrow with the grace of someone who had spent years perfecting the craft. With a soft hum, an arrow shot forward, finding its mark in the Dragon's exposed flank. The creature let out a screech, twisting its body, the sound like grinding metal.

Bram followed through, his enchanted crossbow cracking the air with the force of a cannon. The bolt struck the Dragon's torso, causing it to stagger back.

Zeke leapt into the fray, his eyes blazing with determination as he muttered his incantation. Flames flickered to life around his hands, though weaker than he had hoped. He cursed his low affinity for magic, frustration boiling within him. With a sharp motion, a burst of fire erupted from his palms, striking the Dragon’s face with a searing hiss.

His magical assault was quickly followed by Durrek’s heavy strike, then Mara’s swift attack, Bram’s crushing blow, and finally, Finn’s hidden dagger flashing from the shadows. By the time Finn struck, Zeke’s next spell was already primed. Years of fighting side by side had honed their teamwork to perfection, their attacks flowing seamlessly, one after another, leaving the Dragon no room to breathe.

Or so they thought.

In a sudden, terrifying motion, the Dragon twisted its massive body, its tail swinging like a colossal club toward the group. Zeke’s jaw dropped in disbelief. It shouldn’t have been possible—not with its injured leg. Yet, somehow, the beast had defied logic, its movements swift and deadly.

Nonetheless, Helena was there, ready to intercept. The Dragon’s tail crashed into her shield with a force that sent a shockwave rippling through the ground. The stalwart woman gritted her teeth, stumbling backward as the impact threatened to overwhelm her. Clearly, she hadn’t fully regained her balance before the surprise attack hit. For a moment, it seemed she might hold her ground—but then the shield was ripped from her grasp.

The shock on her face was plain to see. Her eyes widened with unmistakable vulnerability as she stood defenseless before the towering reptile. Panic flashed across her features.

That fleeting moment of weakness was all the Dragon needed.

With a motion so swift it seemed as if the beast wasn’t even injured, the Dragon lashed out. Its claws sank into Helena’s exposed side, tossing her across the cave with contemptuous ease. Her scream echoed through the clearing as blood sprayed in all directions. She crumpled, weightless in the air, before collapsing to the ground in a heap of broken armor and torn flesh.

“NOOO!” A scream tore through the cave, but Zeke was too shocked to even register who it had come from.

The Dragon snorted with glee while the party stood frozen, momentarily paralyzed. Its amber eyes gleamed with malicious intelligence, its predatory gaze locking onto the remaining members.

Durrek roared in fury as he charged, but the Dragon was ready for him this time. And without Helena to back him up, their leader stood no chance. Its jaws opened wide, rows of razor-sharp teeth clashing with the swing of his axe. Durrek's form vanished in an instant, his scream briefly echoing before it was silenced.

Mara cursed, firing arrows at the Dragon with deadly precision, but it was futile. The earlier pain the creature had shown had clearly been an act, as none of her arrows even scratched its scales now. In the blink of an eye, the beasts was upon her, knocking the agile woman off her feet and sending her crashing into a stone pillar. She lay still after that.

Bram, now frantic, reloaded his crossbow in a desperate attempt to stop the beast, but the Dragon was already upon him. With a brutal swipe of its claws, Bram was sent flying, his crossbow splintering in midair. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, and blood pooled beneath him as his body lay limp.

Finn darted through the shadows to flank the Dragon, but it was already too late. The creature had either detected him or never lost sight of him in the first place. Before he could strike with his daggers, the Dragon snatched him up in its talons, squeezing with such force that his bones cracked like dry twigs.

Only Zeke was left now.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he summoned the last, feeble flickers of flame. His body trembled, exhaustion weighing heavily on his bones. He had never stopped casting, though his flames might as well have been useless, given the Dragon’s utter indifference—and the fact that it had saved him for last. Now, even that was gone. His Core was empty, the final traces of power spent.

The beast approached slowly, its steps deliberate. The playful glint in its eyes was unmistakable. It wanted Zeke to understand just how futile his efforts had been—like a child tossing pebbles at an armored knight. Then, without warning, its maw snapped forward with blinding speed.

Zeke, anticipating the attack, tried to throw himself out of the way. He avoided the worst of it, but he still felt like he was caught in the creature’s jaws. Razor-sharp teeth tore through flesh with brutal precision. He fell, but immediatly struggled to up. His efforts were futile. Somehow, he couldn’t get his feet under him.

His gaze dropped, and the horrifying realization hit him—one of his legs was gone, severed cleanly above the knee. Blood poured relentlessly from the gruesome wound, a steady torrent that quickly turned the cave floor into a crimson pool. He didn’t even feel any pain.

Unable to stand, he pushed himself backward, desperate to create distance. He tried to summon more fire, but his hands trembled uncontrollably. The creature loomed closer, its maw curling into a mocking sneer.

“Why do you struggle, little ant?” it asked, its voice dripping with disdain. “Can’t you see it’s hopeless?”

Zeke didn’t respond. He continued to claw his way back, his mind consumed by a singular, primal instinct—survival. Rational thought had abandoned him, leaving only the desperate drive to stay alive as the monstrous predator closed in.

The Dragon, evidently displeased by his silence, no longer smirked. Its eyes gleamed menacingly in the dim cave, piercing through the darkness like twin embers. They had moved far enough from the fallen torches that shadows now enveloped their surroundings. Only those glowing eyes lit the gloom, locked unyieldingly onto Zeke.

His retreat was abruptly halted as the Dragon's massive claw came down on his remaining foot, crushing every bone with a sickening crunch. This time, Zeke felt the pain, raw and unbearable, and a hoarse scream tore from his throat despite his efforts to hold it back. But the agony would be fleeting, as the Dragon’s gaping maw loomed above him, ready to deliver the final blow.

This was death.

Zeke was as certain of it as he had been of anything in his life. Yet, just as the cold embrace of the grave began to close in, something impossible happened—a miracle.

A colossal beast, larger than anything he had ever seen, erupted from the shadows and hurled itself at the Dragon. Its muscular arms locked around the Dragon’s neck, effortlessly flinging the creature against the jagged wall of the cave. Without hesitation, the beast lunged again, meeting the Dragon’s furious roar head-on. The air seemed to freeze as the two titans clashed in a brutal storm of claws and teeth, their ferocious battle shaking the cave to its core.

Zeke couldn’t tell if it was pure luck or deliberate intervention, but he remained untouched amidst the chaos. His vision blurred, his body trembling on the brink of collapse. Blood trickled down his face, blinding one eye, while the rest of his body grew heavier with every passing second. His leg was a numb, lifeless stump; his breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps. The cacophony around him faded into a dull roar, and the world sank into darkness.

Just before his mind slipped into oblivion, Zeke caught a final, fleeting glimpse of the two monstrous figures locked in their savage battle, their towering forms illuminated by the flickering glow of distant flames. Around them lay the broken bodies of his comrades—his brothers and sisters, the only people he had ever called family in this cursed world.

B6 - Chapter 22: Second Round

It took several more minutes for the other contestants to regain their senses, though a few dwarfs still appeared dazed and disoriented. However, Zeke hardly noticed. The remnants of his own experience lingered vividly in his mind, commanding his full attention.

[Notice]

Host has been in a hallucinatory state for exactly 4 minutes and 33 seconds.

Zeke let Akasha’s words wash over him as he continued to contemplate.

This had been no mere hallucination—of that, he was certain. Furthermore, the sensation felt oddly familiar. For a moment, he couldn’t quite place where he had experienced anything like this before. Then, it struck him. It was the unmistakable feeling of absorbing a fragment of someone’s Soul.

The memory came rushing back: the time in Tradespire when he had unintentionally ripped the Soul from that spy, experiencing flashes of the man’s life. However, that incident had been less intense than this—less vivid. The method he’d used back then had been crude and unrefined compared to the precision of the Mnemosyne Devourer, which had been distilled into the brew.

“Akasha,” he called softly in his mind. “Have there been any abnormal changes to my Soul?”

For once, the Spirit didn’t respond immediately. Her usual, almost instantaneous answers were absent, a sign she hadn’t anticipated the question.

[Answer]

It appears that Host’s Soul underwent significant growth during the brew’s period of effectiveness. This growth ranks among the most remarkable on record. Notably, there were no signs of rejection or instability, indicating an almost flawless integration.

Akasha’s answer confirmed many things for Zeke, not least among them that the devourer could indeed grow a Soul.

Zeke’s initial reaction to this realization was a deep sense of regret, quickly followed by a wave of shame—and then, finally, relief.

Regret came first. He understood at once that choosing the Mnemosyne Devourer as his familiar would have allowed him to expand the size of his Soul at an exponential rate. With its help, it was entirely possible that he might have achieved the level of Archmage within a few years.

Shame followed swiftly, stemming from two reasons. The first was the thought of abandoning Akasha. While Zeke would never truly entertain the idea of giving her up, the momentary consideration made him feel profoundly guilty. Akasha wasn’t just a tool or a familiar—she was a trusted friend and loyal ally who had saved his life on more than one occasion.

The second source of shame was tied to the Devourer’s method of growth. Zeke recoiled at his own willingness to feed on the Souls of humans to fuel his power. This wasn’t just ending a life—it was about consuming everything they were, every achievement, every memory, every spark of their being.

It wasn’t just taking a life; it was appropriating their very existence.

Zeke wasn’t quite sure what happened to Souls after death, but devouring them felt like a violation on a far deeper level than killing someone. It felt wrong in a way that words couldn’t adequately convey—a fundamental transgression against the essence of life itself.

And finally, there was relief—relief for the choice he had made that day. Zeke knew himself well enough to recognize the danger: had he chosen the Mnemosyne Devourer as his familiar, he doubted his ability to resist its temptations. The allure of rapid growth would have been overwhelming, and more likely than not, he would have succumbed, becoming something monstrous in the process.

The announcer’s voice cut through his swirling thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

“Ye’ve all had a taste o’ th’ brew, young ones," the man said, his voice resonating through the amphitheater. "Now, fer those still bold enough t’ carry on, stay in yer seats. Th’ rest o’ ye, stand up an’ step away. Remember this—there’s no shame in knowin’ yer limits, only in thinkin’ ye’re tougher than ye are.”

The words were uncharacteristically cautious for a dwarf, but Zeke understood the reasoning behind them. It was in no one’s interest to foster an environment where the dwarfs felt compelled to push past their limits, risking their sanity for pride’s sake. Offering them a dignified way to withdraw was the right call.

As expected, his words swayed some of the less prideful contestants. Roughly a third of them rose from their seats, their faces shadowed with defeat as they left the stage.

Now, only ten contestants remained—among them, Zeke, Eldrin, and Drogar.

“Quite th’ ride that was, eh?” Drogar said with a strained chuckle, though the weariness in his voice was impossible to miss.

“Had enough already?” Eldrin mocked, his tone sounded sharp but his composure was equally shaken. “Ye can quit whenever ye want, ye know.”

Drogar snorted, turning his attention to Zeke. “What about ye, human friend? How’d ye fare?”

Zeke tilted his head and adopted a puzzled expression. “Fare? With what?”

“The brew, ye numbskull,” Eldrin interjected.

“Oh,” Zeke replied with a nonchalant hum, “It was... quite pleasant, I guess. Nothing too remarkable though.”

Both dwarfs stared at him, their disbelief evident. Suspicion flickered in their eyes, though they said nothing. It was hard to fathom that the same brew, which had terrorized them so thoroughly, could leave Zeke unaffected. Yet his unruffled demeanor and the composed way he’d handled himself in the previous rounds seemed to give them pause. At least, neither challenged his claim, though it was clear they weren’t entirely convinced.

“Let’s see how long ye can keep up that act,” Eldrin muttered after a moment of tense silence, turning forward again with a grim expression.

Drogar studied Zeke for a beat longer, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Eventually, he, too, averted his gaze, choosing instead to await the next dose of the brew in silence.

Zeke maintained a calm, neutral expression throughout. Of course, it wasn’t true that the trial hadn’t affected him—but there was no advantage in letting that show, not with opponents like these. Both dwarfs carried pride as high as the peaks of their mountain homes, and neither was likely to surrender willingly before their minds completely shattered.

However, It wasn’t as if there was no way to deter them from continuing either.

Zeke had already pieced together the most likely scenario in which either might willingly concede. For that, at least two conditions need to be met.

First, they would only entertain the thought of surrender if the final victor wasn’t their rival—each dwarf’s pride would demand they fight to the bitter end rather than concede to the other.

Second, they had to be utterly convinced that winning was impossible. This second condition was the one Zeke was carefully working toward at the moment.

If he could make them believe that the brew didn’t affect him, it would plant the seed of doubt. After all, nobody wanted to endure a grueling, mind-breaking trial just to realize they were competing against an anomaly. By appearing immune, Zeke could make them question whether continuing was worth the effort.

Of course, it would require more than just one casually uttered statement to plant that notion in their minds. However, Zeke was confident that with his mind affinity, he would at least be able to put on a convincing front.

“Very well,” the announcer called out after it became clear that no one else was leaving. “Ye’ve made yer choices. Let’s move on th' second round o’ brews.”

A collective gulp rippled through the remaining contestants as a tray of fresh vials was brought out. Even Zeke, despite his best efforts, couldn’t entirely stop the tremor in his hands.

Soon, each of the ten held their second dose. Nervous glances darted around the group, but no one seemed eager to take the lead—until the lone human among them stepped forward.

“I’ll go first,” Zeke said, surprising even himself with how casual his voice sounded.

He brought the vial closer to his face, noticing that his composure wasn’t entirely an act. Though the life and death battle at sea still lingered heavily in his mind, another part of him was eager for what lay ahead. The possibility of growing his Soul in such an extraordinary way was too tempting to ignore.

After all, opportunities like this didn’t come often.

As the brew slid down his throat, Zeke’s gaze swept over the group. To his satisfaction, he caught the collective shock etched on their faces. Smiling broadly, he guzzled the Dreamwalker brew as if it were nothing more than a refreshing sip of water.

The now-familiar cold rush swept through his chest, sharp and fleeting, before vanishing entirely. The world began to dissolve, colors blending and twisting chaotically, only to snap back into sharp focus with startling speed.

This time, Zeke handled the transition far better than before, his familiarity with the process lending him a measure of control.

He blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim light filtering through the narrow tunnel. The weight on his shoulders felt unfamiliar yet natural. A sturdy leather chest plate encased his torso, and a sword hung at his hip. The metallic tang of sweat and blood lingered in the air. He glanced around, finding himself surrounded by five other figures—their faces illuminated by the soft glow of enchanted torches.

"Eyes sharp, everyone," a gruff voice called out from ahead. The speaker was a broad-shouldered man with a thick, gray-streaked beard. His axe rested casually on his shoulder, but his sharp eyes darted around the tunnel. "This place gives me the creeps."

"Relax, Durrek," a lithe woman beside him teased, her bow loosely gripped in one hand. "You say that about every cave we’ve been in."

"And I’m usually right," Durrek retorted, his tone carrying a hint of humor. "Nothing good ever comes from places like this."

"Except our coin," Bram, the jovial man with the crossbow, chimed in from the rear. His crooked grin flashed in the torchlight. "Big paydays come from big risks, aye?"

"Only if we live to spend it," Helena, the armored woman, cut in sternly. She glanced at Finn, the wiry youth with twin daggers, who smirked in response.

“Details, details,” he quipped. “What’s life without a little danger?”

“How about we focus on the danger in front of us instead of cracking jokes?” Mara’s tone was light, but her eyes stayed fixed on the shadows ahead. “What do we know about this thing?”

Durrek sighed, his free hand scratching at his beard. “Not much, to be honest. The villagers only saw it in glimpses—too fast, too big, and too quiet.”

“Quiet?” Bram echoed, cocking an eyebrow. “That doesn’t line up with the marks we saw outside. Whatever left those wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Helena nodded, her brow furrowed. “It doesn’t make sense. The tracks look like they belong to a predator—a big one. But if it’s a beast, why would it leave most of the villagers untouched?”

“Fear,” Mara offered, her voice steady. "Predators do that sometimes. A display of power. Keeps the rest of the herd in line.”

“Maybe,” Finn said, spinning one of his daggers idly. “Or maybe it’s not a predator at all. What if it’s something... smarter?”

The group fell silent at his words, their expressions grim. Zeke, or rather Cal, felt the weight of their unease, and his own thoughts churned. He’d been piecing together the fragments of information, and an unsettling possibility had started to form in his mind. Something about the erratic behavior, the strange mix of violence and restraint, didn’t sit right.

But he couldn’t voice it—not yet. The idea was too disturbing. He wasn’t even sure it was possible.

“Whatever it is,” Durrek finally said, breaking the silence, “we’ll deal with it like we always do. Stick to the plan, watch each other’s backs, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“So,” Bram said, his grin returning as he loaded a bolt into his crossbow, “All in a day's work, eh?”

Helena rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. The group pressed on, their banter fading as the tunnel widened into a cavern. The air grew colder, carrying a faint, metallic tang that set Zeke’s teeth on edge. The silence deepened, broken only by the soft crunch of their boots on the rocky floor.

Zeke’s heart pounded as they reached the edge of a deep pit. The enchanted torches barely illuminated the far side, where a jagged opening yawned into darkness. A distant sound—a shrill, high-pitched scream—echoed from within.

Everyone froze.

“That’s not encouraging,” Finn whispered, his grip tightening on his daggers.

“Stay sharp,” Durrek murmured, his axe at the ready. “It’s here.”

The noise grew louder, reverberating through the cavern. Zeke’s blood ran cold as a massive shadow began to emerge from the darkness, its silhouette shifting and unnatural. His worst fear took form, the thought he hadn’t dared to voice now standing before them.

The monster had arrived.

B6 - Chapter 21: Dreamwalker Brew

Zeke stared at the vial set before him. It was smaller than any of the previous ones, but its size didn’t make it any less intimidating. His instincts were screaming, warning him to tread carefully. A strange sense of apprehension coiled in his stomach as he regarded the swirling liquid within.

The announcer’s voice cut through the tension. “This extraordinary brew, graciously provided by th’ Maltforge family, is an exceptionally rare treasure. Th’ batch ye see here today is th’ only one o’ its kind that’ll ever exist. That’s how special it is.”

Zeke’s attention sharpened as the announcer’s words sank in. It sounded as though this brew had been crafted using an irreplaceable resource, something so rare it could only be acquired through sheer luck or extraordinary circumstances.

“Fortunately,” the announcer continued, “We’ve got more than enough t’ carry on wi’ th’ final round. An’ as a gesture o’ goodwill from th’ Maltforge family, th’ winner o’ this competition’ll be awarded th’ entire remainin’ stock o’ this exceptional brew.”

Zeke eyed the swirling liquid in his hands, a glint of greed flickering in his gaze. He didn’t yet know the brew’s purpose or effect, but its rarity alone made him want to possess it. Something this unique couldn’t possibly have an ordinary effect.

“Now, without further ado,” the announcer proclaimed, “allow me t’ introduce th’ Maltforge family’s masterpiece: th’ Dreamwalker Brew.” At his words, everyone leaned forward in their seats, hanging on his every word. “Usually, we wouldn’t be lettin’ on about th’ effects o’ th’ brews beforehand. But fer this final round, we’re makin’ an exception.”

“The Dreamwalker Brew is a mighty special drink, crafted from th’ remains o’ a powerful beast called th’ Mindflayer. A rare creature wi’ th’ Mind affinity, it preys on th’ thoughts an’ dreams o’ livin’ beings. From its corpse, they managed t’ extract th’ essence o’ its power.”

Zeke’s ears perked up. This description sounded eerily familiar. Hadn’t he encountered a creature similar to this? One of the Spirits that had offered to contract with him had described itself almost exactly like that. It had called itself a Mnemosyne Devourer—though it was possible the dwarves simply called it by a different name.

“…As fer its effects, they’re a wee bit different each time. What we know is that the brew causes powerful hallucinations, lettin’ the drinker experience fragments o’ th’ beast’s devoured memories. As ye can imagine, there’s no tellin’ what kind o’ memories might be unleashed. So, th’ challenge o’ withstandin’ it might come down t’ a bit o’ luck as well.”

Zeke frowned. There was a real chance that the brew could trap the contestants in a nightmare, with no way out. At least Zeke might be able to use his Mind affinity to fight back against its effects, but the others would likely be at the brew's complete mercy.

“A fair warnin’, though,” the announcer continued. “Time don’t flow th’ same way durin’ th’ hallucination. It’s possible t’ experience a whole lot while under its effects. If any o' ye want t’ forfeit, now’s th' time...”

His words sent a ripple through both the audience and the contestants. Some seemed to reconsider, their confidence wavering. Zeke couldn’t blame them—gambling with their minds like this wasn’t something to take lightly. But, true to their stubborn dwarven nature, no one chose to bow out.

“Ye’re a tough bunch, every last one o’ ye. Just how I like it,” the announcer said, his voice thick with pride. “Now, let’s not waste any more time. Bottoms up, ye lot!”

Zeke opened the lid, knowing there was no point in testing the concoction with a smaller sip. The vial held little more than a single drink, clearly meant to be consumed in one go. With his resolve firm, Zeke swallowed the entire contents of the vial, its strange, unsettling texture unlike anything he’d ever encountered.

It didn’t feel like liquid at all—more like a vapor, something intangible that disappeared as soon as it touched his tongue. A cold rush swept through his chest, the sensation lingering for only a fraction of a second before his surroundings warped and dissolved entirely.

One moment, he was seated in the amphitheater, the sounds of distant cheers and murmurs filling the air. The next, he was somewhere else—no longer in his own body, but in the body of someone else. His vision blurred, his sense of self fraying at the edges as if he were submerged in water, distant and muffled.

It all snapped into focus with a sudden, jarring clarity.

Zeke gasped—no, the man whose body he now inhabited gasped—his breath ragged and harsh. He could feel his chest heaving, lungs struggling for air as the smell of saltwater and oil hung thick in the air. A storm raged overhead, with jagged streaks of lightning slicing the sky in sharp, silver flashes. The wind whipped against his face, carrying with it the biting sting of the sea.

“Akasha?” Zeke called out in his mind. “Can you hear me?”

There was no response. Clearly, his connection to the Spirit had been severed after entering this strange place.

Zeke—or the man—was on the edge of a massive ship. The towering figure of the mast loomed above him, its sails billowing violently as the ship lurched in the angry waves. The creaking of the timbers beneath his feet reverberated through the soles of his boots, threatening to shake him loose at any moment.

Zeke instinctively tried to call upon his Magic to get a sense of his surroundings, but there was no response. After a few more unsuccessful tries, he realized the shocking truth: He had no Core. He was just an ordinary man, with nothing but his body to rely on.

One of his hands gripped the ship’s rail, knuckles white from the force. His other hand clutched a thick, bloodstained cutlass, the blade gleaming darkly beneath the intermittent light of the storm.

“Hold fast!” a voice barked from behind him, a commanding tone that struck through the chaos of the storm.

Zeke turned, his eyes widening as a large, broad-shouldered man appeared in the corner of his vision. The man's face, weathered by salt and sun, was set against the storm, but his eyes held something more—recognition. A bond formed in something deeper than the raging winds.

The voice belonged to Captain Varel, the leader of this crew. Zeke felt a deep, instinctive loyalty to the man’s commands, a bond forged through years of shared battles, blood, and hardship. There was no time to question it, no time for hesitation.

In that moment, Zeke couldn’t tell where his memories ended and where the memories of this stranger began. It was clear he wasn’t fully himself, yet his body moved with an instinctive precision, as if guided by fate. It didn’t feel forced, though. It felt exactly right.

A sharp cry broke through the cacophony of the storm—a call that echoed off the ship's walls, bloodcurdling and primal. A massive shape loomed in the waves, its back rising from the water like the rise of a mountain. A massive serpent of the deep, its scaled hide slick and glistening in the flickers of lightning.

“Brace yourselves!” Captain Varel shouted.

Zeke’s—no, the man’s—heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the weight of years of history in his arms, the callouses of countless battles, the instincts of a warrior who had survived the worst of what the sea could offer.

The storm raged on, but the real battle was here.

Zeke—or the man—dashed forward, dodging a swing of a massive tentacle that lashed out from the depths, striking the deck with a thunderous crash. He leapt, landing on the slippery surface with practiced ease, the cutlass raised above his head. The crew roared, a unified force of men and women all fighting for the same goal.

His feet slid on the wet boards, but his muscles—so familiar, so strong—tensed with every movement. His breath came in hard, fast gasps as he sprinted across the slick deck, narrowly avoiding another strike of the serpent’s massive tentacles. The ship’s deck groaned beneath the weight of the chaos, but the crew held steady, weapons raised high in the face of certain death.

Zeke felt the man’s rage, the deep, primal urge to survive that surged through his veins. He felt it as he rushed forward, his body moving on pure instinct, the ship rocking under his feet with each moment.

And then he saw it. The serpent's massive maw opening wide, rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting in the lightning’s flash. It was coming for them—coming for him.

Without thinking, Zeke’s body reacted. He leapt into the air, his body twisting with the precision of years of experience. He swung the cutlass with all his strength, the blade cutting through the air with a whistle. The blow landed squarely on the serpent’s exposed eye, the shock reverberating through Zeke’s entire being. The creature let out a terrible screech, a howl that echoed across the storm-tossed sea.

The world seemed to freeze for an instant, the ship still rocking beneath him, the serpent reeling in pain.

Zeke’s heart raced. Was this the moment the man had always remembered? The one battle, the one strike, that would echo through his mind even long after death had claimed him?

Before Zeke could fully process, the vision shattered. The ground beneath him cracked, the wind and storm fading into a distant memory.

Zeke’s breath came in ragged gasps as he blinked rapidly, trying to shake the lingering image from his mind. He still gripped the phantom cutlass, though his knuckles had relaxed, and the storm had faded. The harsh reality of the world returned, the hum of the crowd filling his ears as the announcer’s voice crackled through the air.

The memories weren’t his own, but the experience felt as real as anything he’d ever lived.

No.

He was himself again—He was Ezekiel… A Mage… A Mind Mage…

A pulse of Mana gathered in his Core and surged through his body almost instinctively. The Mind attuned Mana was like a powerful drug, clearing the fog in his mind. Clarity hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, banishing all errant thoughts. In an instant, Zeke was fully himself again, his heart quickly returning to a steady rhythm.

He looked around and found the amphitheater in a strange state. None of the dwarfs had collapsed, but none had regained their senses either. Their vacant stares and drool-covered lips made the scene feel like something out of a nightmare.

Drogar and Eldrin were no better. Though it was clear their hallucinations had ended, neither had fully collected themselves yet.

Their state made Zeke reflect on his own experience. Had he been one of the lucky ones, granted a mild memory, or had he simply handled it better? Judging by the horror etched on some of the dwarfs' faces, he was pretty sure he hadn’t faced the worst the brew had to offer.

This final round was truly in a league of its own. Zeke wasn’t sure how to feel about the very real possibility of taking another dose of the Dreamwalker brew right away. The experience was too real, as if he had just emerged from the battle of his life. Even though he could rationally tell nothing of the sort had happened, his entire being screamed the opposite.

A sense of apprehension slowly built within him. This wasn’t a physical struggle, but a battle of the mind. There were no tricks to overcome this challenge, and none of the remaining contestants had any advantages left. It all came down to sheer willpower now.

This was truly a battle of grit, just as the dwarfs had wanted.

B6 - Chapter 20: Brewers Festival VII

“Look who’s finally back among th’ livin’,” Eldrin’s voice called from the side. “Didn’t think ye’d bounce back so quick after going that pale.”

Drogar nodded in agreement. “Aye, good t’ see ye pulled through. That Stonefist brew ain’t fer th’ faint o’ heart. Ye’re more resilient than I’d expect fer a human.”

Zeke smiled at the compliment, but the reaction it provoked was unexpected. Drogar flinched back, his eyes widening. Zeke stared at him, puzzled, and even Drogar seemed unsure why he’d reacted that way.

“Didn’t notice it before,” Drogar said, his tone somewhere between humor and unease, “but yer smile’s got a wicked edge t’ it—like ye’re thinkin’ o’ takin’ a bite outta me.” The words were meant as a joke, but the faint tremor in the Dwarf’s voice revealed his lingering discomfort.

Zeke instinctively closed his mouth, hiding his incisors. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the subtle sharpness of his newly transformed teeth. But he suspected there was more to it than just the physical changes. Though he couldn’t sense it himself, he was almost certain a hint of his draconic aura was leaking out—his amulet no longer able to suppress it entirely.

Something else to address—soon.

“Never tried dwarf before,” Zeke quipped, injecting a playful tone into his voice. “But you don’t look too appetizing—too much muscle, not enough fat.”

“Damned right!” Drogar shot back, flexing his massive arms with a grin. His usual confidence returned, and the momentary fear seemed to evaporate.

"Contestants, brace yerselves fer th’ next round," the announcer’s voice boomed, cutting through the scene. "Next up is th’ Alewin family wi’ their new Coldfist brew!"

The announcement diverted the dwarves’ attention, sparing Zeke from any further scrutiny.

Before long, another vial was brought out. This one was a striking blue, its contents swirling with an ominous, almost hypnotic pattern. The moment Zeke uncorked it, an unnatural chill seeped into his body, ignoring the barrier of his clothing entirely.

The contestants were allotted another hour, marked by the turning of the massive sand timer.

Zeke eyed the vial cautiously. After his earlier experiences with dwarven brews, he wasn’t about to dive in recklessly. He took a small sip first, testing its effects. Almost immediately, a lazy, mischievous grin spread across his face.

Under the disbelieving stares of Drogar and Eldrin, Zeke tilted his head back and downed the rest of the vial in a single gulp.

The two dwarves stared at him as if they expected his head to explode at any moment. Instead, Zeke smacked his lips in satisfaction and let out a contented burp.

“Not bad,” Zeke remarked with a smirk. “This stuff’s got a pleasantly mild taste.”

The dwarves' eyes widened in disbelief, nearly bulging from their sockets. They were stunned by the effortless composure with which Zeke had mastered the second challenge. After his struggles in the first round, they must have unconsciously begun to underestimate him. That was a perception Zeke couldn’t allow to linger. He wasn’t just here to participate; he was here to leave a lasting impression. And judging by the murmurs around their section, plenty of spectators were taking notice.

This was the perfect moment to stage his comeback.

Zeke had a good idea of what the Coldfist brew was intended to do—it likely enhanced one’s resistance to cold. But who was Zeke? Having once sipped on the diluted venom of a Progenitor beast, there was little he could gain from whatever formula the Alewin family had concocted. By comparison, their brew, while well-crafted, felt like a refreshing drink rather than a challenge. It was mild—almost pleasant—next to the grueling poisons he had used to temper his body in the past.

Honestly, Zeke wasn’t even trying to put on a brave face—the brew genuinely tasted good. It was exactly what he expected from the Alewin family. Their creations weren’t just alchemical tonics designed to strengthen the body; they were also crafted for leisure, a testament to the dwarves’ talent for combining function with enjoyment. For once, Zeke found himself in a rare position to simply savor the experience.

With a cheeky grin, he turned and winked at Varek Alewin in the crowd. The brewmaster, who had been watching him with eager anticipation ever since his family’s product had been presented, now wore a peculiar expression. Seeing Zeke completely unaffected, Varek seemed oddly... disappointed.

Seizing the opportunity to show off even more, Zeke turned to one of the attendants. “Any chance I could get another serving?” he asked casually.

The dwarf stared at him in disbelief, unsure if Zeke was joking. But when he saw the sincerity in Zeke’s expression, he hesitated before relaying the request to his superiors. After a brief discussion, another vial was brought out.

Zeke didn’t even pause. He tipped the vial back and drank it down as if it were nothing more than water, savoring the cooling sensation as it slid down his throat. However, moments later, the effect faded once more, leaving him wanting more. He turned his gaze back to the attendant with an unmistakable look of expectation.

The poor dwarf shifted uncomfortably under Zeke’s greedy stare before reluctantly heading back to consult his superiors again. This time, however, Zeke’s request was denied. The Alewin family had caught on—they weren’t about to offer him more free drinks only to watch their prized brew rendered ineffective and their reputation further diminished.

Zeke didn’t mind the refusal. He had already accomplished what he set out to do. By now, even the most inattentive spectator was well aware of his presence. In this round, Zeke had undoubtedly been the most eye-catching participant, outshining even the two dwarven scions seated on either side of him.

It was enough.

For the remainder of the hour, Zeke leaned back and relaxed, occasionally tossing out snarky remarks at Eldrin and Drogar, who were still visibly shivering from the brew’s lingering effects. The atmosphere grew lighter as Zeke's playful barbs elicited a few chuckles, even from the dwarves. Before he knew it, the hour had flown by, and the contestants were called to regroup.

To Zeke’s surprise, this round had proven far more grueling for the dwarves than the first. The number of participants had dwindled to around thirty—a sharp drop from the nearly eighty who had advanced earlier. It seemed the Coldfist brew had claimed its share of challengers, separating the truly resilient from the rest.

Despite his performance somewhat overshadowing the results, the Alewin family had undeniably proven their skill in this round.

“Listen up, ye hardy bastards! It’s time fer th’ next round!” the announcer’s voice boomed across the hall. “Next up is th’ Hopsgrin family wi’ their Infernofist brew!”

Zeke watched with a mix of curiosity and caution as the attendants presented the new concoction. The liquid inside the vial glowed with an intense, fiery red, flickering like a miniature flame trapped in glass. Its appearance, combined with its name, made its effects easy to guess. This was likely the counterpart to the Coldfist brew, designed to enhance resistance to heat instead of cold.

Uncorking the vial, Zeke was immediately hit by a wave of intense warmth. The sensation was akin to standing too close to a roaring forge, its heat radiating through his entire body. The dwarves, however, seemed unbothered—some even appeared to relish the fiery sensation, their expressions shifting to ones of appreciation and satisfaction.

Just as Zeke was about to test the brew, a deep, resonating voice echoed inside his mind.

“Don’t hesitate,” the Dragon urged.

Zeke paused mid motion. “Are you sure?”

The voice sounded almost mocking as it responded. “What kind of Dragon fears fire, whelp? Go on.”

Trusting Khai'Zar’s words, Zeke decided to replicate his previous action, slamming the brew back like a glass of hot milk on a cold winter day. His bold move once again drew the attention of the crowd.

Many had been watching with eager anticipation, clearly hoping for him to repeat his impressive performance. But now that he had gone through with it, most seemed genuinely surprised by his daring display. They hadn’t expected him to actually follow through.

Zeke felt the liquid slide down his throat, leaving behind a faint heat, similar to the burn of a particularly spicy dish. As it reached his stomach, the warmth quickly spread throughout his entire body, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. The heat was all-encompassing, yet instead of feeling overwhelmed by it, Zeke found it surprisingly pleasant.

Though his mind logically understood that the sensation should be uncomfortable, he couldn't help but enjoy it. It was like pulling his favorite cozy blanket over himself and settling into a warm bed—a feeling of comfort and relaxation.

Zeke was baffled. He was certain that his body had never reacted to heat this way. This ahd to be one of the changes from his recent evolution.

Without realizing it, he smiled in contentment. The attendant, who had been watching him cautiously, sighed, already resigned to his fate. Zeke didn't make him wait long. After savoring the warmth for a moment, he eagerly asked for another dose.

The Hopsgrin family immediately refused Zeke’s request, clearly wary of a repeat performance from the previous round.

This time, Zeke was genuinely disappointed. Unlike in the last round, he actually stood to benefit from this brew, since his heat resistance wasn’t as developed. Yet, there was nothing he could do but blame his past self for showing off too much.

With nothing else to do, Zeke settled in for another long wait, boredom creeping in. But his attention was soon caught by the first contestant dropping out. The dwarf had clearly overestimated himself, taking a large gulp of the brew, possibly hoping to mimic Zeke. However, the result wasn’t pretty—he began to sweat and groan in pain.

Zeke watched as the unfortunate dwarf collapsed from his seat. It wasn’t uncommon to see contestants fall, but his attention wasn’t focused on the fallen dwarf. His gaze was fixed on the vial that had tumbled to the floor beside him. After a moment’s thought, Zeke decided to take a small risk.

With a quick activation of his Magic, Zeke surrounded the vial with a thin layer of Spatial Mana, teleporting it into the sleeve of his robe. His body tensed as he waited for someone to call him out on the act. But despite the long pause, no one said anything.

Zeke let out a quiet sigh of relief. He hadn’t exactly expected to go unnoticed, but it was clear that those powerful enough to detect his actions didn’t care. After all, it was unlikely the already-opened vials would be of any use. In fact, thinking about it that way, Zeke figured he might even be doing the organizers a favor.

At least, that was how he chose to think about it.

For the rest of the hour, Zeke kept an eye out for any contestants dropping out. By the end, he had managed to collect six vials—more than enough to improve his Fire resistance.

A smile tugged at his lips as he considered it. This competition had turned out to be surprisingly beneficial, even without factoring in his main goal. He definitely hadn’t lost anything by coming here.

“…An' here we have it, th' contestants who've made it t' th' final. Give 'em a round o' applause, everyone!"

Zeke was momentarily startled by the announcer’s voice. He had somehow forgotten they were already in the final round. Looking around, he saw only sixteen of the original one hundred still standing. Drogar and Eldrin were among them, but they looked far worse for wear. Compared to Zeke’s relaxed state, the two dwarfs seemed downright bedraggled.

“All o' these sixteen are already quite impressive, truly th' pride o' our dwarfen kind..." his gaze went to Zeke, and he awkwardly added, "An' human kind, I s'pose." However, his voice regained its spirit in the next moment. “However, as always, there can be only one champion. In this final round, th' contestants’ll keep drinkin’ till only one o’ ‘em can still stand. Are ye all prepared fer this final showdown?”

The crowd erupted into a deafening cheer as the attendants emerged once more, carrying the final brew. Even Varek had called this one a wildcard, and Zeke believed him. Just looking at the swirling purple concoction sent a shiver down his spine. Whatever the Maltforge family had created, it was clear that this would be unlike anything from the previous rounds.

B6 - Chapter 19: Brewers Festival VI

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, but Zeke barely registered it. He was consumed by the storm raging within his own body, his mind nearly overwhelmed by the torrent of sensations. The large dose of Stonefist brew he had ingested at the end was merging with his blood, its effects rapidly taking hold.

The concoction seemed to have reached a critical threshold, completely beyond his ability to control. For now, Zeke was entirely at the mercy of whatever transformation the brew had in store for him.

Relegated to the role of a passive observer in his own body, he could only grit his teeth and endure, hoping for the best.

The first target of the brew’s rampage was his head. It seeped into his brain, triggering a headache so severe that his vision swam. His eyes and teeth came next. His eyes burned as if strained far beyond their limits, while the pain in his teeth was just as uncomfortable. It felt as though he was a newborn teething for the first time—every tooth shifting and creaking as the brew worked its way through his system, reshaping his entire dental structure.

The transformation surged downward, scorching his throat before spreading to his major organs. By this point, Zeke’s entire existence was consumed by pain. The torrent of sensations overwhelmed him, a chaotic mixture of agony and discomfort that defied his ability to track the changes occurring within his body.

For a fleeting moment, he considered ejecting his Soul to escape the torment, but an instinctual warning stopped him cold. This process felt deeply personal, as though it was designed specifically for him. He had the unshakable sense that detaching himself from it would disrupt something crucial, something that couldn’t be undone.

Beyond that instinct, Zeke recognized another truth: using his Soul as an escape from pain could become a dangerous habit. While the technique was a lifeline for emergencies, he knew relying on it too often would make him weak, dependent, and incapable of enduring even minor discomforts on his own. That was a fate he refused to accept. Gritting his teeth, Zeke resolved to endure.

Zeke dimly noted that Drogar and Eldrin, seated on either side of him, were similarly consumed by their own experiences. It seemed the contestants had been granted time to process their gains—a respite for which Zeke was deeply thankful. If the next round had started immediately, he might have been forced to bow out.

Relieved of that pressure, Zeke turned his focus inward, bracing himself as his body continued to adapt. The searing agony that had wracked him earlier had now diminished into something more bearable. The sharp, lancing pain had ebbed into a dull ache, one he could endure without much difficulty.

Then, unexpectedly, a new sensation emerged. A faint, tingling warmth began to radiate across his skin, soothing and invigorating in equal measure. It spread gently, like a lover’s soft touch, banishing the remnants of discomfort.

The shift was so stark, so profoundly different from the torment he’d endured, that Zeke had to steel himself to keep from voicing the pleasure aloud. His jaw tightened as he fought to maintain his composure, determined not to draw unnecessary attention.

After several waves of energy coursed through his body, the sensations abruptly ceased, leaving Zeke in a peculiar state. Despite the intensity of the experience, he felt remarkably refreshed. The pain was gone, completely erased, as though it had never existed. It was difficult to believe anything strenuous had just occurred. If anything, Zeke felt better than he had in years.

It was akin to waking from a perfect night’s sleep—alert, energized, and ready to face the day.

For a while, Zeke lingered in the sensation, content to remain in this tranquil state. He wasn’t in any rush to open his eyes and confront reality. Instead, he lazily directed a question inward. “What just happened?”

[Answer]

The alterations to Host's physical structure have been significant and nearly total. The process may be described as a minor evolution, in a manner of speaking.

A smirk tugged at Zeke’s lips as he envisioned himself soaring through the skies with wings of his own. “Did I grow horns or something?” he asked with a playful tone.

[Answer]

Negative. The modifications to Host's appearance are not that thorough, though certain adjustments have occurred.

The smile vanished from Zeke’s face. While the idea of growing wings appealed to a small, childish part of him, the notion of losing his humanity sent a cold ripple of unease through him. The thought of becoming something other than human was deeply unsettling. The ramifications were likely far beyond anything he could foresee.

After all, the Ancient Races had been all but eradicated from the continent, and Zeke doubted that his Draconic lineage would be welcomed with open arms.

With a sudden sense of urgency, Zeke turned his Sphere of Awareness inward, carefully inspecting his body. Relief washed over him as he confirmed there were no horns, wings, claws, scales, or talons to be seen. At first glance, his appearance seemed almost unchanged. But as he delved deeper, the subtle alterations Akasha had mentioned began to reveal themselves.

His skin, for instance, appeared unchanged to the naked eye—soft, smooth, and entirely ordinary. However, beneath the surface, a profound transformation had taken place. The flesh now carried a faint crystalline sheen, as if the essence of scales had begun to take root. It felt tougher, more resilient, as though an invisible armor lay just beneath the surface—supple yet unyielding to harm.

Deeper still, the layers of tissue beneath his skin had thickened slightly. Their fibers were interwoven with a strange, otherworldly energy that seemed to emit a faint hum, alive and pulsating with latent power. Even the subtle tint of his skin had changed, catching and refracting light in unusual ways. In the right angle, it shimmered faintly, like sunlight glinting off a rippling lake.

The changes were subtle, almost imperceptible at a casual glance, but undeniable to anyone who examined him closely. The more Zeke observed, the more he realized the extent of his transformation—skin, bones, organs, everything had undergone a transformation, subtly displaying traces of his inhumanity.

At the moment, Zeke was simply relieved that there were no obvious signs of his draconic heritage yet. Any inspection close enough to reveal more would be intrusive enough that Zeke had the right to refuse. For now, his secret remained safe.

“Calm yourself, whelp,” the Dragon’s voice rumbled with a low, resonating edge. “You’ve yet to show even a glimmer of the more pronounced draconic traits.”

Zeke frowned, though he was genuinely relieved to hear Khai’Zar’s voice. “Easy for you to say,” he countered. “It’s not your ass on the line.”

The Dragon let out a sharp snort. "Oh, is that so? I seem to recall we’re sharing this vessel, yet you don’t see me flailing about, now do you?"

Zeke took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. Bickering with Khai’zar wouldn’t help. Besides, the Dragon was right—there was no reason to panic just yet. Still, the possibility of inhuman traits emerging in the future was something he needed to consider carefully. He would have to make a decision on how to handle them, now that it seemed almost certain he'd face that situation sooner or later.

“Do you know how long I have before I won’t be able to hide the signs anymore?” he asked earnestly. The Dragon’s response, however, wasn’t particularly reassuring.

“No clue.”

Zeke’s frown deepened. “Could you take this a little more seriously, please?”

The Dragon fell silent for a long, contemplative pause. "I am taking this seriously, whelp. But as for a timeline... ha! I can’t even begin to guess. In all my centuries, I’ve never encountered anything remotely like this. This... situation is held together by sheer chance and my stubborn willpower, keeping the worst at bay. And let me tell you something—based on everything I know about Draconic Blood, this merger between our kinds should be nothing short of impossible. It is a small wonder your body didn’t explode the moment I planted my heart.”

Zeke shook his head in exasperation. “You didn’t mention that at the time.”

The Dragon muttered, almost begrudgingly, "Well, I was desperate, and I didn’t exactly want you to refuse." His tone carried a rare hint of sheepishness. "But now that you know, stop pestering me about your changes. I’m just as clueless as you are. Probably more so. After all, when it comes to Bloodline sensitivity, there are probably few who can rival you in the world.”

Zeke had to admit, the Dragon was right. He had long since discovered that his Perfect Blood affinity gave him an unnaturally keen ability to sense even the subtlest fluctuations. Now that he knew he couldn’t rely on Khai’Zar for answers, his mind quickly began working to figure out his exact situation.

Most likely, the fact that the merger between their bloodlines had worked at all was also due to his unusually high Blood Affinity. It made him more adaptable and resistant to the overpowering effects of foreign influences. If he was right, the success of the fusion also depended on both of them being willing participants. It seemed highly probable that such a bloodline merger could only occur if their wills were perfectly in sync.

However, none of these insights were particularly helpful when trying to figure out how much time he had before he couldn’t hide his bodies abnormalities anymore. Thankfully, he had an expert analyst at hand.

[Notice]

If the changes continue to occur at the precious rate without any further exalarations. Then it will likely still take decades before the signs of an alternative bloodline become to pronounced to hide.

Zeke breathed a sigh of relief. He had absolute confidence in Akasha’s prediction, fully aware that the Spirit wouldn’t voice her opinion if she wasn’t confident.

Now, with an open mind, Zeke was finally able to fully inspect the changes. What he discovered both amazed and made him reflect cautiously. There were no dramatic, external signs—no horns or wings marking a draconinc influence. Yet beneath his skin, his very structure had been transformed and fine-tuned in ways that were hard to believe.

His bones, for instance, felt denser, more resilient. The brittle fragility of mortal bone had given way to something far sturdier, akin to the material of a creature built for survival at the highest level. He could almost sense the microscopic changes, the layering of rich deposits within his skeletal structure that gave him enhanced durability. The shift was so precise, so natural, that Zeke found it hard to believe that only moments ago, his body had been wracked with agonizing pain.

His organs had evolved too. His heart now beat steadily, as if it had been tempered to endure anything. His lungs felt clearer, more efficient. Each breath felt deeper, more powerful, filling him with energy that he could channel at will. Even his digestion seemed to have improved, working with almost predatory precision to extract and utilize nutrients, making him feel lighter and more energized. Without testing it, Zeke was confident his stomach could now process even raw meat with ease.

The most obvious change, though, was to his eyesight. Where once Zeke’s vision had been sharp, it was now nothing short of extraordinary. Colors seemed brighter, more vivid, and he could perceive the tiniest of details with startling clarity. Every flicker of movement, no matter how small, caught his attention.

His mind, too, had undergone a sharp improvement. Thoughts that once felt foggy now surfaced with startling clarity. Concepts that would have taken him hours to work through now unfolded in his mind like a well-structured map.

He marveled at his teeth next. His canines had become ever so slightly longer and sharper, a faint reminder of his newfound, more dangerous form. Even without the distinct appearance of a dragon’s fangs, they were undeniably more suited for tearing into flesh. His jaw felt stronger too, as if it had been redesigned for crushing harder substances.

Perhaps the most unsettling discovery was the subtle shift in his mind. He couldn’t place it exactly, but Zeke was almost certain that there was something different in the way his thoughts processed. A clarity, yes, but also a slight undercurrent of something more primal. It was as if the edges of his personality had been shaped ever so slightly, bent just enough to make him more attuned to the world around him—more focused, more alert, and more predatory in his instincts.

It wasn’t enough to cause immediate concern, but Zeke could feel the quiet stirrings of change within himself.

As he continued to inspect his transformed body, Zeke couldn't ignore the overwhelming strength now coursing through him. He flexed his muscles, feeling the power that pulsed beneath his skin. As he moved, a restlessness began to build—a surge of energy demanding an outlet, an exuberant vitality that urged him to take action.

He felt powerful, almost invincible.

He was undeniably stronger than before. His body felt compact and solid, and his physical abilities had been enhanced in ways he couldn’t yet fully understand. He felt like he could face off against a Chimeroi in a contest of might without fear of being overwhelmed. If one of those brutish fighters charged at him now, Zeke wasn't sure he’d be at such a disadvantage anymore.

As he was reveling in the sensation of his transformed body, the announcer’s voice crackled to life once more, cutting through the silence.

"Th' recuperation period’s ended! Contestants, brace yerselves fer th' next round!"

Zeke let out a soft sigh, the reality of the situation swiftly descending upon him. Despite the incredible changes to his body, there was no time to fully explore them now. The next round was about to begin, and he had to be ready.

B6 - Chapter 18: Brewers Festival V

The amphitheater was abuzz with excitement as the announcer stepped forward, his voice booming over the crowd. “And now, we begin th’ second stage o’ th’ competition! Presented by none other than th’ esteemed Barrelthane family, the Stonefist brew!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, their enthusiasm palpable. Servants appeared once more, carrying trays filled with small, intricately sealed containers. Zeke raised an eyebrow as one of the containers was placed before him. It was unlike anything he’d expected. Instead of the oversized mugs they had used during the elimination round, each contestant was presented with what resembled a potion vial. The container was crafted from polished crystal, etched with dwarven runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering light.

Zeke picked up the vial, turning it over in his hands. The liquid inside was an opaque, molten gold that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. He glanced around and saw similar expressions of curiosity and apprehension among the other competitors. Even Drogar and Eldrin, who had exuded unshakable confidence earlier, now regarded their vials with a certain level of respect.

“A potion?” Zeke muttered under his breath. This was no ordinary drinking competition. The Stonefist brew’s presentation and the faint aura emanating from the vial told him this was a different beast altogether.

The announcer’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd. “Listen well, contestants! Ye’ve got one hour to finish yer portion. Fail t’ do so, an’ yer out!” As he finished the words, the ancient-looking dwarf flipped the giant hourglass at the center of the stage. The steady flow of sand signaled that the timer had begun.

Zeke’s eyes narrowed. A time limit and a mysterious brew?

The dwarves certainly knew how to keep things interesting. He uncorked the vial, a faint hiss escaping as the seal broke. The aroma that followed was sharp and metallic, with a bitter undertone that made his nose wrinkle. Whatever this brew was, it was no ordinary drink.

Drogar, seated to his right, leaned in with a grin. “Take it slow, lad,” he warned, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “This ain’t like th’ ale from before. This stuff’ll knock ye flat if ye rush it.”

Zeke gave a small nod, appreciating the advice. Still, part of him wondered if Drogar was trying to psych him out. His instincts urged caution, though, so he decided to heed the warning. Raising the vial to his lips, he took only a tiny sip.

The moment the liquid flowed down his throat, Zeke’s body was thrown into chaos. It was as if a molten river had been poured into his veins. His muscles spasmed involuntarily, and his vision blurred. The sensation wasn’t just physical; it was as though the brew had reached deep into his very essence, pulling and twisting at something fundamental within him.

The brew was unlike anything Zeke had ever encountered. The liquid merged with his blood, and as it did, it seemed to awaken every part of him. His Draconic Essence roared to life, intertwining with his Blood Magic in a volatile dance. The two forces, usually under his careful control, now surged wildly, ignited by the brew’s relentless energy. It was both exhilarating and horrifying.

Zeke gritted his teeth, struggling to stabilize the chaos within him. He activated his Blood Magic, attempting to isolate the brew's influence. To his shock, the effort failed entirely. It wasn’t just that the brew was overwhelmingly potent—it outright rejected his Magic, deflecting his attempts with an almost contemptuous ease.

A deep frown settled on his face. He knew this sensation. It was the same phenomenon he had encountered with the Frostscale Patriarch’s poison—a substance imbued with such intense will that it behaved almost like a sentient force.

“What in the…?” Zeke gasped, his voice barely audible. His Blood Magic surged in a desperate attempt to fight back, but it was like trying to hold back a raging river with his bare hands. The brew’s will was relentless, coursing through his body and mingling with his blood. He could feel it changing him, merging with his essence in ways he couldn’t fully comprehend.

A sudden wave of strength surged through him, but it came at a cost. Zeke’s muscles felt like they were being stretched to their breaking point, his bones creaking under the strain. The brew’s effects amplified his vitality, his Blood Magic, and his Draconic Essence, creating a mixture so potent that his body struggled to contain it. For a moment, he felt as if he were being crushed by his own strength, the raw power threatening to tear him apart from within.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he forced himself to stay calm. Panic would only make things worse. Instead, he focused on observing the brew’s effects, taking stock of every sensation, and reaction. The heat was the most immediate. It burned through his veins like liquid fire, but it wasn’t just pain. Beneath the searing agony was a strange vitality, a raw, untamed energy that seemed to fuel his body even as it threatened to destroy it.

Zeke clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to regain control. Slowly, methodically, he adjusted his approach. Rather than fighting the brew head-on, he shifted his focus inward, aligning his will with the flow of his blood. He didn’t try to expel the substance; instead, he sought to harmonize with it, allowing its energy to circulate freely. The process was excruciating, but it worked. Gradually, the searing heat began to ebb, replaced by a steady, rhythmic pulse that resonated with his Core.

Around him, the other contestants were visibly struggling as well. A dwarf two seats down let out a strangled cry before collapsing, his face pale and drenched in sweat. He was quickly carried away by attendants. Even Drogar, who had warned Zeke to take it slow, looked strained. His usually hearty complexion was flushed, and his hand trembled slightly as he brought the vial to his lips for another cautious sip.

Zeke's eyes returned to his vial, the golden liquid inside glinting ominously. He had barely consumed a fraction of it, yet it felt as though he had endured hours of grueling battle. Taking a deep breath, he worked to steady himself. If just one sip had pushed him this far, he could only imagine the trials that awaited with each subsequent drink.

A nagging thought tugged at the edge of his mind—something had changed within him. Whatever that brew was, it hadn’t just tested him; it had altered him in ways he didn’t fully comprehend.

[Notice]

Several abnormal changes to Hosts vital functions have been detected.

Zeke had nearly forgotten that with the return of the ambient Mana, the Spirits’ full capabilities were restored as well. It was a welcome surprise, as he was eager to find out what that potion had done to him.

“What did you find?” he asked mentally.

[Answer]

I cannot definitively determine the full extent of the changes. However, based on my observations, all vital functions appear to have been slightly enhanced. Organs, skin, bones—every aspect of the Host’s physique has undergone subtle improvements.

Zeke’s eyes widened. That sounded almost too good to be true. If the dwarfs possessed a potion capable of enhancing the body with just a small sip, they wouldn’t hand it out to an outsider so casually.

“There have to be certain drawbacks, right?”

Akasha hesitated, which was not typical for her.

[Answer]

I don't think the potion affects everyone the same way. It seems to be designed to draw out the hidden strength of whoever consumes it.

The realization came to Zeke immediately, even without Akasha spelling it out: Draconic Essence.

The once almost dormant power now thrummed through his body, more potent than ever before. His blood felt like it was on fire, coursing with a power he had only glimpsed in fleeting moments. The sensation was both terrifying and exhilarating.

But as he steadied himself, his mind raced.

Draconification.

The process that had already begun, one that would irrevocably alter him. The brew had accelerated it, drawing out the Dragon within him, and in doing so, it had enhanced his physicality. His bones had hardened, his muscles had expanded, and his skin seemed to glow with vitality. The changes were almost visible to the naked eye.

Zeke clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the vial.

His chest tightened at the thought of what this might mean for him. Embracing this strength could cost him his humanity—his very body. Yet, despite the growing unease, part of him craved it. The promise of power called to him, an allure he could barely resist.

Zeke raised the vial to his lips once again, his hand trembling with both strain and the tension of his decision. The thick, golden liquid slid over his tongue, a searing warmth spreading through him. His muscles clenched involuntarily as the energy surged, threatening to spill out of him. His heart pounded, a wild rhythm syncing with the blood coursing through his veins. The familiar taste of molten fire burned its way down his throat, and Zeke fought the wave of dizziness that tried to claim him.

As he struggled to contain the overwhelming force within, Zeke’s eyes scanned the amphitheater, searching for any sign of what was happening to the others. His glance revealed that he wasn’t the only one suffering, but his torment felt different—raw, primal, and far more intense.

That said, the others weren’t faring that much better.

The rest, all of whom were dwarves, had begun to visibly struggle as well, their faces pale and strained. Some of them were leaning heavily on their chairs, barely able to hold their vials. They were gasping for breath, sweat pouring down their faces.

Drogar, seated to his right, paused to wipe his brow, his usual boisterous demeanor subdued by the struggle. Eldrin, on his other side, gripped the edge of his seat, his breath shallow. Neither of them was in any condition to continue at their previous pace, but they were still making good progress. Zeke noticed that both had already drained over half of their vials. Even at their slower pace, they would easily finish within the allotted time.

Zeke took a deep breath, steadying his focus. The contest was a race, but the other contestants weren’t the real challenge. It was a race against time—and his own limits.

Focus, he reminded himself.

A bead of sweat trickled down his neck as he accidentally locked eyes with one of the spectators. The dwarf’s gaze shifted from Zeke’s face to his vial, which still contained most of the brew. Pity flickered in the man’s eyes, and a strange softness seeped into his previously stoic expression. For a brief moment, Zeke felt a tightness in his chest—a mix of indignation and frustration. The spectators were looking at him like a man who had already lost, as though he were already doomed.

However, instead of disheartening him, their gazes only fueled his determination. The challenge was far from over, and Zeke wasn’t about to bow out.

Slowly, he picked up the pace, taking another sip of the brew. His muscles screamed even louder as the liquid hit his blood. The burn inside him intensified, making him feel as though he were being pulled apart from the inside. It was like a massive beast was gnawing on his bones, biting into the very marrow, while fire ants marched across his bloodstream in cruel formation. His insides twisted, as though the brew were actively rewiring him, forging new connections, pushing his body beyond its limits.

Each drop was agony, but Zeke bore it. He clenched his teeth, enduring the searing heat that ripped through his organs, the burning ache that laced his muscles as they fought to expand, to become something more. Something different.

And yet, through the pain, there was a strange sense of triumph. His body was enduring. He was enduring.

Some of the other competitors were starting to struggle in earnest now. A dwarf two rows down let out a strangled cry, his chest heaving as his face twisted in agony. With one final, gasping breath, he collapsed backward, the vial rolling from his twitching hand. The attendants rushed forward, swiftly whisking the unconscious dwarf away.

Zeke’s focus tightened, he refused to end up like that. He could faintly hear the distant hum of the crowd, their voices a blur, but all that mattered was the vial in his hand. The liquid inside was rapidly depleting. Only a small fraction remained now.

His vision swam as he pressed on. The fire inside him was relentless, the searing agony near unbearable, but he was still enduring. Sweat poured from his every pore, drenching his clothes, his hands slick against the smooth surface of the vial. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, the rhythm matching the surge of power flooding him.

Zeke focused his bleary eyes on the only thing that mattered right now. The sand in the hourglass was running low, the grains slipping quickly toward the bottom.

Just a little more.

The seconds felt like hours as he forced himself to take another minuscule sip, then another. His body was on the verge of collapse, but Zeke’s will pushed him onward. He had to finish. He had to complete the challenge.

And then, just before the last grains of sand fell through the hourglass, Zeke tilted the vial back one final time. The last drop slid down his throat, and for a brief, fleeting moment, everything went still. The world seemed to pause.

And then it all came flooding back.

The pain was excruciating. His organs screamed in protest, his muscles locking in spasms that felt like they might snap. His blood felt like it was boiling, like his very body was going to combust.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with exhaustion, but he had done it. He had finished the challenge.

The announcer’s voice rang out, his words just barely able to cut through Zeke’s haze.

“Congratulations to all those who managed to finish in time!”

B6 - Chapter 17: Brewers Festival IV

The announcer raised his hand, and the hall fell silent. The tension in the amphitheater was palpable as hundreds of competitors sat at the ready. A single gong echoed through the chamber, signaling the start of the elimination round. Zeke immediately picked up on an odd sensation—the Mana in his surroundings shifted unnaturally. It wasn’t that his power was being suppressed, but rather that the ambient Mana seemed to vanish, as if drawn into an unseen void. The feeling was unnerving, like trying to breathe in a room where all the air had been sucked out.

He flexed his fingers subtly, testing his Core. It responded as usual, but there was almost no reaction from the environment. Akasha, his ever-watchful companion, whispered in his mind.

[Notice]

The Mana in the environment has been sealed. Our internal reserves remain intact, but external sources have been rendered inaccessible. I will reduce my activities to a minimum in order to maintain function as long as possible.

In an instant, all of Akasha’s projections vanished, robbing Zeke of that subtle advantage. He also noticed that the Spirit was tightly holding on to all the remaining Mana in his core, like a frugal housewife managing a tight budget.

Zeke suppressed a frown, keeping his face carefully neutral. The absence of ambient Mana wasn’t crippling, but it was unsettling, making him feel like he had lost a part of himself. It also clarified why Magic hadn’t been explicitly banned in the competition rules—there was simply no Mana available to work with.

Even so, Zeke’s curiosity was piqued. How had the dwarves achieved this? Depleting Mana from such a vast area was no trivial feat. At least, he couldn’t think of a method capable of producing such an effect, but the potential applications were staggering. If this could be weaponized, it would reduce even the most formidable Mages to ordinary humans.

“Drink up!” the announcer bellowed, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Servants scurried into the arena, each carrying trays loaded with oversized mugs of foaming ale. The scent was rich and potent, wafting through the air like a challenge. Zeke took his first mug and studied it carefully. The liquid was an amber hue, its surface alive with bubbles. Whatever this concoction was, it practically radiated potency.

Around him, the other competitors had already begun, each downing their first mug with practiced ease. Drogar raised his mug in a mock toast to Eldrin before slamming it back, draining it in a single gulp. Eldrin followed suit, refusing to be outdone. The crowd roared their approval.

Zeke took a more measured approach. He raised the mug to his lips, letting the first sip roll over his tongue. The taste was surprisingly complex, a mixture of malt and spice with an undertone of bitterness that lingered. But the real surprise came moments later, as a wave of heat coursed through his body. The ale carried a magical potency, a subtle enchantment designed to test both body and mind.

Zeke drained the rest of the mug in one smooth motion, placing it back on the table with a satisfying clink. The heat intensified, spreading through his limbs and settling in his head like a warm haze. Yet compared to the poison and toxins he’d trained his body to resist, it was nothing more than a mild buzz.

One by one, mugs were refilled, and the competition pressed on. Soon, the first signs of strain began to show among the weaker competitors. A dwarf three seats to Zeke’s left hiccupped loudly before slumping over, his face flushed and his eyes unfocused. He was quickly escorted out by attendants. Another human staggered to his feet, only to collapse moments later, spilling his drink in the process. The crowd’s laughter was merciless.

As the rounds progressed, the number of competitors dwindled. Zeke kept pace, methodically emptying mug after mug while monitoring his condition. The enchanted ale’s effects built gradually, the heat evolving into a slow, deliberate fog that sought to dull his senses. But his body, reinforced by years of Blood Magic refinement and Draconic Essence, processed the substance with startling efficiency.

The haze barely managed to take hold before his internal equilibrium restored itself. Compared to the stocky dwarves around him, many of whom were beginning to sway in their seats, Zeke remained remarkably steady.

By the time the competition reached its tenth round, the initial pool of over a thousand had been whittled down to less than half.

Zeke surveyed the remaining competitors. Drogar and Eldrin were still going strong, though signs of wear were beginning to show. Drogar’s cheeks were ruddy, and his laughter had grown louder and more frequent. Eldrin’s movements were slightly less precise, a subtle sway betraying his mounting intoxication. Despite their legendary reputations, they weren’t immune to the ale’s effects.

Zeke, however, was an exception. Despite matching the others drink for drink, he felt only a faint buzz—a testament to his unique physiology. The sheer volume of blood in his body alone granted him an alcohol tolerance at least ten times greater than that of an average human. The only visible change was a faint flush on his cheeks, so subtle it was barely noticeable.

His unwavering composure did not escape attention. Both Drogar and Eldrin cast sidelong glances in his direction, their eyes narrowing as they silently reevaluated their human competitor.

“Ye’re holdin’ up better than I expected,” Eldrin admitted, his tone grudgingly respectful. “But don’t get cocky. The real test hasn’t even begun.”

Drogar nodded, leaning back in his seat with a smirk. “Aye, this elimination round’s just fer weedin’ out th' lightweights. What comes next’ll make this look like a tea party.”

Zeke leaned forward slightly, his crimson hair catching the light as he met their gazes. “Is that so?” he replied, his tone calm but laced with confidence. “Then I look forward to seeing what the two of you are truly capable of.”

Drogar chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s got spirit, I’ll give him that. But spirit alone won’t carry ye through th' next rounds.”

Eldrin raised his mug in mock salute, his grin sharpening. “Enjoy yer little advantage while it lasts, human. This is just th' start.”

Zeke smirked as he accepted the next mug from the attendant, exuding an air of calm confidence. Without hesitation, he continued to drink, one mug after another, maintaining his silence. Only when the warmth began to creep across his face did he feel the faintest tug of strain at the corners of his composure.

Then came the sound.

GOOOONNNNNGGGGG!

The deep chime reverberated through the amphitheater, drawing everyone’s attention. Zeke glanced around, assessing the scene. The field had thinned considerably since the start of the competition—nearly 90% of the contestants were either disqualified or unable to continue. By now, in the twenty-third round, the elimination phase had come to an end.

The crowd erupted into applause and cheers as the final hundred competitors remained seated, their mugs drained and their expressions ranging from defiance to barely concealed exhaustion. Zeke, still seated between Drogar and Eldrin, leaned back slightly, his crimson hair catching the flickering light of the braziers overhead. Despite the constant waves of enchanted ale, his composure remained intact, marked only by a faint flush on his cheeks.

Meanwhile, the intoxicated dwarves who had succumbed to the ale’s effects were being carefully escorted out. Some stumbled along with bleary-eyed grins, reveling in the festive atmosphere despite their loss. Others groaned or muttered curses under their breath, their pride clearly stung.

As Zeke continued to watch the ongoing exodus of defeated competitors, he suddenly noticed a change in the air.

A faint hum began to ripple through the air, like the first trickle of water breaching a dam. The Mana that had been absent throughout the elimination round was returning, saturating the arena in an ever-growing flood. Zeke flexed his fingers, feeling the familiar feeling of his Core as it reconnected with the ambient Mana once more.

The sudden return of Mana was disconcerting. First, it highlighted how uncomfortable he had felt in its absence—a discomfort he hadn’t fully realized until now. It was a stark reminder of the dependency he had developed over the years. The very thought that he had lived most of his life without this constant companion now seemed almost inconceivable.

But beyond that, Zeke was puzzled by the timing. Why allow Mana to flow freely again? The competition had only just started. What purpose could it serve to reintroduce such a potent force at this stage of the competition?

Before he could delve further into his thoughts, the announcer stepped forward, his booming voice cutting through the din. “Congratulations to our final hundred! Ye’ve proven yerselves in the first trial, but the journey’s far from over!” His words were met with a chorus of cheers and raised mugs from the audience.

The announcer raised a hand to silence them. “For those still in the race, ye’ll be pleased t’ know ye’re allowed to clear th' effects o' th' ale from yer systems by any means you have. Take this chance to recover, for th' next rounds’ll test ye in ways ye cannae imagine!”

The announcement sent a ripple of murmurs through the competitors. Zeke arched an eyebrow, his curiosity deepening. He hadn’t expected such an allowance. If the dwarves intended to push them to their limits, why offer this reprieve? It seemed almost counterintuitive.

Regardless, Zeke wasn’t about to question the opportunity. Drawing on his Blood Magic, he directed his focus inward. He quickly identified the enchanted ale circulating through his veins, its presence like a faint warmth diffusing through his body. With practiced precision, he activated the cleansing properties of his magic. His blood moved with a deliberate rhythm, isolating and binding the remnants of alcohol. Moments later, he expelled the substance through the pores of his skin, encased in a thin, glistening membrane of blood that evaporated before it hit the ground.

The display didn’t go unnoticed.

Drogar let out a low whistle, his bushy eyebrows arching as he leaned back in his seat. “Impressive work,” he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Though I must admit, ye’ve a flair for th' dramatic.”

Eldrin, sitting on Zeke’s other side, snorted. “Aye, I’ll give ‘em that. But there’s easier ways t’ do it, y’know.” He reached into a pouch at his side and withdrew a small, glass vial filled with a shimmering, golden liquid.

Zeke's gaze lingered on the vial, taking in the intricate etchings adorning its surface. Clearly, this was no ordinary item—it radiated a faint magical signature, its enchantments resonating with the natural properties of purification. Judging by its aura, it was almost certainly a detoxification potion of exceptional quality.

He gave a small nod, acknowledging its craftsmanship. “Convenient,” he remarked, his tone calm and unaffected. There was no trace of admiration in his voice. Zeke had always preferred to rely on his own abilities whenever possible. It was the same principle that had led him to forgo the use of weapons in combat altogether.

As Drogar and Eldrin each downed their respective detox brews, Zeke took the opportunity to address the question that had been nagging at him. “I noticed the Mana returning to the arena,” he began, his tone carefully neutral. “Does that mean Magic will be allowed in the next rounds?”

The two dwarves exchanged knowing smirks, their expressions practically radiating mischief. Drogar chuckled, his laughter rumbling like distant thunder. “Allowed? Lad, ye can use all th' magic ye want,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “In fact, ye’ll be needin’ it.”

Eldrin leaned forward, his piercing gaze locking onto Zeke’s. “But don’t think fer a second that yer Blood Magic’ll make it easier on ye,” he added, his tone carrying a hint of warning. “If anythin’, it’ll make things harder. Ye’ll see soon enough.”

Zeke frowned slightly, his mind racing to piece together the implications. If magic was permitted, it stood to reason that the upcoming trials would demand its use. But what sort of challenges would require such a shift in approach? Also, how could the challenge remain fair if the competitors all had different affinities? It seemed utterly counterintuitive.

The questions gnawed at him, but he knew better than to press for answers. Drogar and Eldrin seemed content to let him stew in his curiosity, their expressions a mix of amusement and anticipation. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear that the elimination round had been nothing more than a prelude.

As the last of the intoxicated competitors were escorted from the arena, the remaining hundred leaned forward in their seats, the air thick with anticipation. The Mana in the chamber continued to swell, its presence now a steady, thrumming pulse that resonated through the space.

Zeke seized the opportunity, channeling Mana throughout his body. The infusion sharpened his focus to a razor's edge and filled his muscles with vitality. He felt like a finely honed blade, poised and ready for whatever came next.

This was it—he was as prepared as he could possibly be.

Drogar clapped him on the shoulder, his grin wide and unapologetic. “Get ready, lad,” he said, his tone equal parts encouragement and challenge. “Ye’ve made it this far, but th' real fun’s just about t’ start.”

Eldrin nodded, his expression more measured but no less confident. “Hope ye’ve got more tricks up yer sleeve. Ye’ll need ’em.”

Zeke locked eyes with them, his crimson gaze radiating quiet determination. The elimination round had been a straightforward test of endurance, barely enough to trouble his enhanced physique. Yet, it was clear the real challenges lay ahead. Judging by the unwavering confidence radiating from the two dwarfs beside him, his Blood affinity alone wouldn’t be enough to guarantee success in what was to come.

A smirk slowly spread across Zeke’s face. If they had meant to intimidate him with their words, the dwarfs had utterly failed. If anything, their ominous warnings had the opposite effect. It had been far too long since he’d faced a genuine challenge, and Zeke found himself eager to test the limits of his abilities.

Just then, the announcer’s booming voice echoed through the hall, resonating with the gathered crowd:

“First up, we’ve got th’ Barrelthane’s newly crafted Stonefist brew! Good luck t’ all th’ competitors!”

B6 - Chapter 16: Brewers Festival III

"Ladies an' gentlemen, th' moment ye’ve all been waitin’ fer has finally arrived! Th' annual brewin’ competition is about t’ begin. Only th' worthiest among us can rise t’ th’ challenge an’ stand tall in this legendary contest!"

The announcer's voice thundered through the lively crowd, cutting through the festive atmosphere like a hammer striking an anvil. His booming declaration commanded immediate attention, shaking the very air.

The stocky dwarf spoke into a strange contraption held to his mouth, a device clearly designed to project his voice—but in a most peculiar way. Instead of amplifying his words, the sound didn’t seem to come from the device at all. Instead, it reverberated throughout the hall as if dozens of identical dwarfs were hidden in the walls, repeating his words in flawless unison.

The effect was mesmerizing—and overwhelming. His voice easily drowned out the collective clamor of thousands, leaving no doubt that the event had truly begun.

"As usual," the announcer continued, his tone now much softer, yet still commanding enough to hold the attention of the hushed hall, "I’ll begin by explainin’ th' rules—fer those joinin’ us fer th' first time… an’ fer our guests."

At his words, numerous eyes turned toward the scattered clusters of humans and elves mingled throughout the hall. Some gazes brimmed with genuine curiosity, but others were laced with open disdain. Zeke didn’t need to guess why. The dwarfs likely resented the outsiders who attended the event not for its traditions or camaraderie but to forge connections and advance their own agendas, diluting the spirit of the gathering.

Once again, he felt relieved by his decision to compete rather than merely spectate. Judging by the sharp glares from the larger families, they had nothing but contempt for those who stood on the sidelines. His goal would have been virtually impossible to achieve if he was among them.

"First off, let me make this clear," the announcer declared, his tone firm and uncompromising. "Only those who ain't reached th' level o' Unification may enter th' contest. Th' reason fer this should be obvious t’ all but th' most stubborn fools. Second, it’s forbidden t’ use any kind o' artifacts, trinkets, or other outside means durin' th' competition…"

Many of the older dwarfs barely glanced up, their expressions bored as if they had heard these words dozens—if not hundreds—of times before. In contrast, the younger and less experienced members of the audience leaned forward, their attention fixed on every word.

Zeke was firmly among the latter. He wouldn’t squander the opportunity to learn the competition’s rules inside and out. If he intended to bend or break them later, he needed to understand them better than anyone else. After all, the most successful cheaters were always those who knew the law better than the most diligent enforcer.

However, he soon found himself baffled by the simplicity of the rules. The competition essentially boiled down to just a few guidelines:

“Below Archmage level. No artifacts. No outside help. And no attacking your competitors.”

Surprisingly straightforward for an event of such prestige. They hadn’t even said a single word about the use of Magic, confusing Zeke greatly. Had Varek lied to him or was there something else he was not aware of?

After that brief introduction, the host wasted no time ushering the competitors onto the stage. Around him, dwarves began moving into position, and Zeke quickly followed suit. Thanks to his height, he stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of stocky figures. It was clear that a human competing in this event was a rare sight, as more and more spectators began to take notice of him.

His Sphere of Awareness allowed him to catch their mutterings, even those spoken in hushed tones:

"Is that a human lad?"
"Look at that hair—like his head’s on fire."
"How long d'ye think that beanstalk’s gonna last?"
"Some folk really don’t know whats good for em."
"I bet th' lad collapses after a single sip."
"He looks so young—not even a proper beard. Ye think he’ll be fine?"

Though Zeke wasn’t the only human competing, the others blended in far more seamlessly. Many had the stocky builds and rugged appearances of those who had clearly spent years living among the dwarves. In contrast, Zeke’s flashy crimson hair and fair skin made him stand out like a beacon. It was no surprise that so many eyes were drawn to him—he was an anomaly among both his fellow humans and the dwarves.

Zeke didn’t mind the attention—in fact, he welcomed it. He was here to make an impression, and if his height and heritage helped him stand out, so be it. As for the less flattering remarks? He’d let his performance do the talking soon enough.

Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, Zeke strode confidently alongside the other competitors into the competition area. The space was a semicircular amphitheater, open on one side to face the larger hall. Unlike traditional stages meant for theatrical performances, this one was designed so every contestant was fully visible to the larger audience, amplifying the pressure and the spectacle.

The first arrivals took their seats along the amphitheater’s lowest tier, proudly displaying themselves for the cheering crowd. Zeke scanned the competitors, noting several faces from Varek’s earlier rumors. While he didn’t recognize most of them, small floating nameplates hovering beside the more prominent figures caught his attention. Akasha, ever diligent, had already identified many key players. The spirit had been working tirelessly, monitoring conversations and gathering critical intel for Zeke’s plans. Now, that effort was paying off.

There they were—the evening’s main attractions.

Drogar Ironhide and Eldrin Stormshield.

The two rivals had claimed seats in the front row, separated by only a few feet. Despite their proximity, neither acknowledged the other, each seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Around them, a noticeable gap had formed; none of the other competitors dared sit too close, likely wary of getting entangled in their legendary feud. The tension between them was palpable, a storm waiting to break, and Zeke couldn’t help but feel a spark of anticipation.

Zeke smirked. He couldn’t have asked for a better stage. With confident strides, he bypassed the hesitant dwarfs, heading straight for the duo at the center of attention. His approach went largely unnoticed—until he stopped directly between them. Without hesitation, he lowered himself into the narrow space, almost brushing against both of their shoulders as he squeezed in as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Two heads turned in unison. Both young dwarfs stared at him, their expressions a blend of confusion, amusement, and annoyance.

"I think ye've made a mistake, friend," said Drogar, the dwarf to his left. "This ain’t th' place fer ye."

Eldrin, seated to his right, was far less diplomatic. ‘Leave,’ he barked curtly, turning his gaze back to the front as if dismissing him entirely.

But Zeke remained unfazed. If anything, his grin grew wider. Now that he’d claimed the prime spot, there was no chance he was moving. This was the center of attention, where all eyes would naturally drift—and it was exactly where he intended to stay.

“There is no mistake, young Ironhide,” Zeke replied smoothly, ignoring Eldrin’s curt dismissal entirely. “I came here deliberately, fully aware of who you both are.”

Drogar frowned, clearly weighing his response, but Eldrin didn’t give him the chance. “If ye really know, then why’re ye butting in?” he snapped. “This is a fight 'twixt me an' that bastard—not somethin' ye can interfere with.”

Zeke turned to his right for the first time, meeting Eldrin’s glare with a calm, unwavering gaze. “I have no interest in your feud,” he stated firmly. “I came here because I’ve heard the two of you are held in high regard among your people. I wanted to see how the younger generation of dwarfs compares to us humans.”

Eldrin blinked, visibly taken aback by the response. For a moment, he was silent, and Drogar seized the opening. Unlike his rival, his tone was measured, almost cordial. “We are indeed held in some esteem,” he said. “But do ye really have th' qualifications t’ represent yer kind against us? I, fer one, 'ave never 'eard o' a mage with yer... particular characteristics among th' human elite.”

His eyes flicked briefly to Zeke’s striking crimson hair, a subtle hint of skepticism in his gaze.

Zeke turned back to the dwarf on his left, a glint of amusement sparking in his eyes. Drogar was clearly the more cunning of the two. Instead of outright dismissing Zeke’s challenge, he had framed the refusal as conditional. In essence, if Zeke turned out to be a nobody, he wouldn’t be worth their time. But if Zeke was someone of importance, Drogar’s measured response ensured he wouldn’t appear overly dismissive or rude.

It was a surprisingly diplomatic move, especially for a dwarf, prompting Zeke to reevaluate the young scion sitting before him.

“Ezekiel of Tradespire,” Zeke said, his tone calm yet deliberate.

“Ezekiel, ye say...” Drogar repeated, his voice tinged with skepticism. His expression faltered, and it was clear he was quickly losing interest in the human who had so boldly forced his way into their midst.

“Let me try that again,” Zeke continued, unfazed by the growing hostility emanating from his two competitors. “I’m Ezekiel of Tradespire—Disciple of Maximilian von Hohenheim, youngest human Grand Mage in history, and the soon-to-be next Merchant Lord of Tradespire.”

Both dwarfs froze, their expressions betraying a mix of disbelief and shock. Each of those titles carried significant weight across the continent, but hearing all three attributed to a single individual left them momentarily speechless. Zeke’s grin widened as he alternated his gaze between them. “So, Ironhide,” he said, his voice brimming with confidence. “Am I fit to compete against the two of you?”

Drogar remained silent, his head bowed as if deep in thought. Eldrin, however, was far less composed. The irritation he had momentarily suppressed surged back to the surface. “Qualified or not,” Eldrin snapped, his tone sharp, “this here’s a drinkin' contest, not somethin' a human can hope t' excel in. Best ye get lost before ye embarrass yerself.”

Zeke met Eldrin’s glare with a calm, steady gaze. “The elimination round comes first, doesn’t it? If what you’re saying is true, I won’t be around long enough to bother you. Why not wait and see?”

Eldrin snorted, crossing his arms in irritation but refrained from continuing the argument. He seemed content to let the natural order settle things. After all, the idea of a human holding their own against a dwarf in a drinking contest was laughable. Dwarves were built of sterner stuff, their bodies hardened by years of rugged living and an early introduction to strong brews. It wasn’t worth the effort to exchange more words with someone bound to fail.

Drogar, however, maintained a more measured demeanor. Though he likely shared Eldrin’s sentiments, his response was far more diplomatic. “Very well, young Mage,” he said with a nod. “Let’s compete fair an' square. I 'ope ye manage t’ surprise us again.”

With the matter settled, Zeke leaned back in his seat. The curved stone bench was far from comfortable, but he felt a sense of satisfaction with his progress. He had successfully forced his way onto the main stage of the night’s event, and now everything rested on his performance. His preparations were complete; there was no more time for strategizing.

As Varek had said, it was now a straightforward contest: man against man, liver against liver. Fortunately, Zeke had every reason to trust in the strength of his body. Now came the moment of truth—testing his resilience against the legendary iron-bellied constitution of the dwarves.

B6 - Chapter 15: Brewers Festival II

Zeke raised his refilled mug to his lips, savoring another swig of the Alewin family’s rich brew. Across from him, Varek Alewin’s eyes glinted with amusement as he set his own tankard down with a clink.

“So, lad,” Varek said, stroking his thick, braided beard, “are ye here just t’ drink, or is there somethin’ more yer after? Ye’ve got the look of a man on a mission.”

Zeke grinned. “You’re sharp, Varek. I’m here for the competition.”

The old dwarf let out a booming laugh, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the mugs. “A human in th’ brewer’s contest? Now that’s a tale I’ll enjoy tellin’. But do ye even know what yer gettin’ yerself into, lad? This ain’t some tea party.”

Zeke leaned forward, his interest piqued. The four brewmaster families played a central role in organizing the event, so any insights from this man would be far more reliable than the fragmented rumors Zeke had gathered beforehand.

“I've heard bits and pieces,” he said, “but I'd appreciate it if you could fill me in on the details.”

Varek’s eyes narrowed with a mixture of pride and mischief. “Well, if yer serious, I’ll tell ye all about it. But fair warnin’—what yer hearin’ now might make ye rethink yer plans.”

The dwarf signaled to one of his apprentices for a fresh round of drinks before continuing. “The competition’s held in five stages,” he began, his tone growing serious. “First round’s what we call th’ hard elimination. Everyone drinks until only a set number o’ contestants are left standin’. It’s brutal, lad. No tricks, no fancy brews, just drinkin’ ‘til ye drop.”

Zeke’s lips twitched in amusement. “Sounds straightforward enough.”

Varek shook his head, a knowing smile curling his lips. “I can see the gears turnin’ in yer head, lad. Smell the schemin’, too. But let me tell ye—yer magic ain’t gonna save ye. Us dwarfs, we ain’t fools.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Zeke asked, his curiosity piqued.

“It means yer Magic’ll be restricted durin’ the contest,” Varek said, leaning forward as if sharing a closely guarded secret. “This ain’t some flashy magic show—it’s a fair fight. Man against man. Liver against liver!”

Zeke frowned. This was news to him. His plan to rely on his Blood Magic to filter out the alcohol would be useless if that was true. It made sense, though. Without restrictions, Blood or Life Mages would dominate every year. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how the dwarfs intended to enforce this rule. Something to investigate later.

“Noted,” Zeke said with a grateful nod. “What about the other rounds?”

Varek smirked. “Oh, that’s where things get interestin’. Each o’ th’ next four rounds is hosted by one o’ th’ Brewmeister families. They’ve all prepared their strongest, most unique brews t’ knock out as many contenders as possible. Ye’ll face the Barrelthane’s stout first. It’s thick as porridge and packs a punch that’ll make yer knees buckle.”

He paused, taking a hearty gulp from his fresh mug. “After that, ye’ll be dealin’ with my kin’s creation. Let’s just say it’s got a bite as sharp as a mountain wind.”

Zeke nodded, listening intently as Varek detailed the remaining challenges. The Maltforge family’s brew, he explained, was deceptively smooth but carried a potency that sneaked up on its victims. The Hopsgrin’s concoction was the wild card—a riot of flavors and an unpredictable kick that left even seasoned drinkers baffled.

“…Only those who survive all five rounds can claim the title o’ brewing champion,” Varek finished, his expression a mixture of reverence and excitement. “It’s not just about holdin’ yer liquor, lad. Ye’ve got t’ have endurance, will, and a stomach o’ steel.”

Zeke swirled the contents of his mug thoughtfully. “Sounds like quite the challenge,” he said aloud. But even as he spoke, he balanced the tankard on one finger, spinning it rapidly with his other hand. The mug whirled at dizzying speeds, yet remained perfectly steady—a feat of dexterity that defied the expectations for someone who’d been drinking. It was a subtle but striking display, sure to catch the attention of anyone watching.

Varek’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit! Though I’ll be watchin’ from th’ sidelines. Ain’t nothin’ more entertainin’ than seein’ a bold fool test his mettle.”

The two continued drinking, the conversation drifting into lighter topics. Varek shared anecdotes from past festivals, tales of legendary drinkers, and a few choice jokes that left Zeke chuckling. When the two had gotten a little more comfortable with each other, Zeke decided to broach another topic he was interested in.

Leaning in closer, he whispered conspiratorially. “Say, Varek, is there anyone I should watch out for in particular?”

The dwarf gave him a knowing grin. “Scoutin’ out th’ competition, eh? A fine thought, but don’t bother. There’s too many t’ count—it won’t do ye any good t’ start frettin’ now.”

Zeke smiled, his expression full of confidence. “Do I look worried to you? You misunderstand. I just want to know the names of the fools I’ll be beating.”

Varek shook his head in exasperation, though a hint of amusement played on his face. "Will ye get a load o’ this kid? Barely a hair on his chin, an’ he’s talkin’ like he could wrestle a Titan!"

Zeke merely shrugged, well aware that the dwarfs favored bold talk. “Bring me one and I’ll see what I can do.”

Varek laughed loudly, slapping the table a few times for emphasis. The oak groaned under the force, highlighting the strength hidden in those muscular arms. The dwarfs’ stocky build was clearly not just for show.

“Fine then, lad, I’ll let ye in on what I know,” Varek said after a moment of thought. “Can’t say for sure who th’ favorites’ll be this year, but some o’ th’ bigger families’ve got a few younger ones in th’ race this time. Likely gonna be a showdown between 'em.”

Zeke leaned in, silently urging the dwarf to continue—and continue he did. Grimforge, Ironhelm, Frostbeard, Oathshield, Stonefist, and many more. Varek rattled off details about each family as though his profession was gossip rather than brewing. After a while, even Zeke was impressed by how much idle gossip the man was aware of.

“…An' that’s how Thrain an’ Keldor started their feud. All 'cause o' that lass with the blue eyes. Let me tell ye, she’s stolen the innocence o' more than a few of th' young ones. A spicy one, that lassie.”

Zeke nodded, mentally storing the information for later use.

“…But those two are downright civil compared th' feud between Drogar an' Eldrin,” Varek continued, catching Zeke’s attention with one of the names.

“Drogar Ironhide?” he asked, pretending not to be overly interested.

“Aye, ye know 'im?”

Zeke shook his head. “I’ve only heard the name. What’s the feud about?”

"Eh, those two’ve been fightin’ since the day they were born," Varek explained. "Their families never got along, an’ it sure didn’t help that they were born ‘bout the same time. I reckon they use each other t’ compete, each tryin’ t’ outdo th' other."

Zeke nodded, already familiar with the rivalry between the families. However, the competition between their younger generation was new information.

"Anyways, they were about even fer most o' their lives, but then th' younger o' th' two, Eldrin, managed t’ win in an important contest. That were a big blow t’ young Drogar, an' I reckon he’s tryin’ t’ prove himself tonight. Lot o’ eyes gonna be watchin’ 'em."

Zeke’s mind raced. If he wanted to get closer to the Ironhide family, this rivalry might be an opportunity. However, it wouldn’t be easy to capitalize on it. Helping Drogar directly would likely not work. In fact, it could backfire. Zeke knew exactly how prideful the younger generation of powerful families could be, and he didn’t think the dwarfs would be any different in that regard.

Even so, he would need to pay close attention to these two, not only because of the powerful families backing them but also due to the attention their rivalry would draw. If he could somehow insert himself into their conflict, he’d at least be able to get eyes on him.

As he considered his options, Akasha once again demonstrated her value, bringing up detailed profiles of both dwarfs. As Zeke skimmed the information, his eyes began to shine.

Drogar and Eldrin were renowned blacksmiths, enchanters, and warriors, leading their generation in all these fields. Though over 50 years old, the two were still considered young by dwarf standards—barely more than adults, not unlike Zeke among humans.

This was getting interesting.

It had been a long time since he had the chance to face off against his peers. Ever since leaving the Empire, Zeke had missed the opportunity to compete with the best his generation had to offer—the cream of the crop. But now, it seemed fate had answered his unspoken wish. He was about to face the dwarven elite in an unexpected contest.

This was the kind of challenge he had been craving since becoming a Grand Mage.

Well, almost. If given the choice, he would have preferred a competition that tested skill rather than alcohol tolerance, but he wasn’t about to complain. It was better than nothing, and Zeke wasn’t naive enough to think the drinking contest would be simple.

Though it seemed straightforward, the dwarfs wouldn’t be making such a big deal out of the event if it only came down to the strength of one's stomach.

Suddenly, a deep, resonant gong echoed through the hall, silencing the lively chatter. The sound reverberated off the stone walls, commanding attention. Varek’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he drained his mug in a single motion.

“That’s th’ call, lad,” he said, rising to his feet. “Time for ye t’ prove yer worth.”

Zeke stood as well, offering a respectful nod to the brewmaster. “Thanks for the insight, Varek. I’ll do my best not to embarrass myself.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Ye’ve got guts, I’ll give ye that. Now off with ye, and remember—pace yerself, or ye’ll be on th’ floor before ye know it.”

Zeke made his way toward the center of the hall, where a raised platform had been set up. Contestants were already gathering, their expressions ranging from eager to apprehensive. He glanced back once to see Varek watching him, a tankard in hand and a grin on his face.

With a deep breath, Zeke stepped onto the platform, ready to face the first challenge. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation as the crowd roared its approval. The brewer’s festival was in full swing, and the real test was about to begin.

B6 - Chapter 14: Brewers Festival I

“I can’t wait t’ try Master Alewin’s new creation. I’ve heard it’s somethin’ mighty fine!”

“Don’t go actin’ like some kinda connoisseur, lad. Ye couldn’t tell yer mouth from yer ass. Ye just want t’ get yerself smashed!”

“At least I can hold me liquor, ye old bat. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how ye went down in the seconds round last year. A downright embarrassin’ sight, it was!”

"How many times do I have t’ tell ye—that didn’t count! There was somethin’ wrong with me drink that day, I swear it!"

Zeke listened amusedly to the two dwarves walking ahead of him. Despite their sharp words, he was almost certain they were mother and child. The way they both wore wide smiles, clearly unbothered by the exchange, made it obvious that their banter was all in good fun.

Soon, the two dwarfs were allowed onto the large plaza, and it was Zeke’s turn to approach the checkpoint. The stocky dwarf gave him an disapproving look. “Are you sure you want to attend the festival boy?” he asked.

Zeke flashed the man his most confident grin. “Naturally. Otherwise, you dwarves might start thinking you're the only ones who can hold their liquor.”

The dwarf snorted, a grudging smirk tugging at his lips, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he pocketed the hefty entrance fee—an entire gold coin—and stepped aside to let him pass.

Zeke pushed open the unnecessarily massive doors and stepped into one of the largest halls he had ever seen. The cavernous space was carved directly into the heart of the mountain, its vaulted ceiling soaring high above and supported by colossal stone columns. Each pillar was a masterwork, intricately sculpted to resemble ancient dwarven heros, their solemn expressions etched into the stone as if bearing the weight of the mountain.

The air was alive with a blend of tantalizing scents—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and the sharp, heady aroma of ale and mead. The cheerful hum of chatter and laughter mingled with the lively tunes of a dwarven band playing in the corner, creating an atmosphere of warmth and celebration.Massive wooden tables stretched across the hall, their surfaces scarred and stained from countless revelries over the years.

Every seat was occupied by dwarves of all shapes and sizes, their hearty laughter and booming voices reverberating off the stone walls. The festival was in full swing, with apprentices frantically rolling in barrels of frothy brews on creaking carts, barely keeping pace with the insatiable demand.

The sheer energy of the scene stole Zeke’s breath.

He had never witnessed anything of this scale before. It seemed as if every dwarf in the city had raided their coffers to join the festivities. No wonder Gunner had spoken so highly of the event—it was a spectacle unlike any other.

Zeke strolled past the tables, taking in the crowd. While dwarves dominated the hall, he noticed the occasional non-dwarf mingled among them. A pair of burly humans, likely apprentice metalworkers, raised their mugs in a toast. Scattered merchants stood out with their polished smiles and silken words, working the room as naturally as breathing. Even a small group of elves sat apart, their elegant postures contrasting starkly with the raucous atmosphere around them.

Zeke grabbed a mug from a nearby table and settled into a quiet corner, his eyes lingering on the fragrant brew in his hand. While he appeared absorbed in the drink, his Sphere of Awareness was hard at work. His attention was primarily fixed on the merchants flitting from group to group, exchanging pleasantries and engaging in what seemed to be business discussions.

It didn’t take him long to piece together who they were speaking to and why, but the findings left him unsatisfied. The merchants were leveraging their personal contacts, seeking introductions to the truly influential dwarves in the room. While effective for some, it wasn’t the kind of strategy Zeke was after.

For one, he lacked such connections to rely on. More importantly though, he understood that dwarves didn’t truly respect this approach. While ingratiating oneself through intermediaries might be acceptable—even commonplace—in human culture, dwarves preferred bold, direct tactics. It was a cultural divide that the merchants apparently struggled to bridge, and Zeke was determined not to make the same mistake.

Taking a hearty gulp of his ale, Zeke discreetly shifted his location, continuing his reconnaissance. Moving steadily through the hall, he repeated his subtle observation routine. By the time he was done, Zeke had gotten a detailed understanding of the event. He now knew where the most influential families were seated, where the master brewers resided, and everything else worth noting.

To his surprise, Akasha had gone a step further. She had crafted a mental map and neatly overlaid it in the corner of his vision. The map featured an outline of the hall, complete with tiny annotations marking the locations of his most important targets. It was an unexpected but welcome application of her abilities—one Zeke hadn’t even considered before.

He sent Akasha a wave of gratitude. Her timely assistance would make his next move significantly easier.

Tilting his tankard upward, Zeke savored the final drops of the dwarven ale. What had started as a simple prop to help him blend in had turned into an unexpectedly enjoyable indulgence.

As he studied the empty tankard in his hands, his gaze caught on a small emblem embossed on the handle—a grinning dwarf. Recognition flickered in his mind, he had read about this. This was the insignia of the brewmaster responsible for crafting the ale.

Zeke had seen it somewhere in this hall. His eyes quickly scanned the venue, a tasks that was made easy by the fact that he towered over nearly everyone by at least a foot. Soon, he found what he was looking for. Each of the four corners of the room were dedicated to one of the four brewing families.

In the north, there was the Barrelthane family. Their stall was a sturdy construction of dark oak, adorned with iron banding that mimicked the look of their famed giant barrels. The family members were unmistakable—broad-shouldered and clad in leather aprons, their hands rough from decades of crafting both barrels and brew. Above their heads, the Barrelthane mark gleamed proudly: a circular oak barrel with a hammer embossed on its face, surrounded by runic carvings that seemed to glow faintly in the warm light of the hall.

To the east, the Alewin family presided over their corner with an air of practiced hospitality. Their area was draped in dark brown banners trimmed with gold, matching the colors of their emblem: a tankard overflowing with foam, crossed by two barley stalks. The foam rose into the shape of a mountain peak, a subtle nod to their dwarven roots. The Alewin dwarves were merry and loud, raising mugs high as they toasted with passersby, their laughter echoing across the hall.

In the south, the Maltforge family had taken a more austere approach. Their corner was marked by a glowing forge centerpiece, its flames flickering like real fire beneath the copper and black banner bearing their emblem. The forge on the banner showed a grain stalk lying across an anvil, the steam curling upward into a mug’s outline. The Maltforge dwarves were a quiet and disciplined bunch, their focus on perfection clear in the way they poured and presented their drinks with care and precision.

Finally, in the west, the Hopsgrin family’s corner burst with life and humor. Emerald green decorations adorned their area, and their emblem—a jovial dwarf face with a beard of cascading hop vines framed by a brewing vat—stood tall above the scene. The Hopsgrin dwarves matched their mark’s energy: beaming, hearty folk who were quick to offer a joke or a sample of their brew to anyone who passed by. Their laughter mixed with the chatter of the crowd, creating an atmosphere of unrestrained joy.

Zeke’s gaze swept over the four brewing families, each corner of the hall radiating its own unique energy. Unexpectedly, he felt a growing urge to sample the creations of each one. Running a quick calculation in his head, he realized he still had plenty of time before the main event began. Besides, getting to know the brewmasters might not be a bad idea—they held considerable influence in their own right.

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he questioned his motives. Was he genuinely strategizing, or simply finding excuses to indulge himself? Either way, it hardly mattered—his feet were already carrying him toward the nearest stall.

He approached the section marked by dark brown banners bearing the emblem of the Alewind family. Having already sampled the Maltforge brew earlier, he was eager to see how their rivals measured up.

To Zeke's surprise, there was already another human at the stall. As he approached, he overheard the tail end of the man's conversation.

“…offer better terms than your current partner, Mr. Alewind. The taxes could be waived under special circumstances, nearly doubling your profits.”

Zeke winced inwardly, not because the offer was unconvincing, but because he saw a shadow of his former self in the merchant. Just days ago, he might have attempted a similar approach to win over the dwarf. However, he now knew the merchant was doomed to fail.

As expected, the dwarf didn't even let him finish. "Do I look so poor to ye that I’d care about a bit o’ gold, lad? Listen close, an’ listen well—I ain’t interested in whatever it is yer tryin’ t’ offer.”

Zeke stood back and watched as the merchant failed repeatedly to convince the stubborn old dwarf. It was almost amusing to see the confusion grow on the man's face as he tried to figure out where he went wrong. Eventually, the brewmaster had enough and flat out asked him to leave.

Swallowing his frustration, the merchant asked for the dwarf to think about the offer before finally walking off. Seizing the opportunity, Zeke stepped forward. However, the dwarf didn't seem pleased to see him.

“I swear, lad, if yer tryin’ t’ sell me somethin’, I’ll clobber ye t’ death right where ye stand!”

Zeke snorted, amused. He was starting to develop a liking for the dwarves' straightforwardness. Ironically, it reminded him of the Titan woman he had met in the jungles of Irroch. The two species were opposites in stature, yet nearly identical in character.

“What are you on about, old man?” Zeke asked, pretending not to have overheard their earlier conversation. “I came to drink, but if that’s your way of saying you can’t fulfill that request, I’ll just head somewhere else.” Zeke glanced around the hall theatrically, his eyes lighting up when he spotted the nearest stall. “Oh, the Maltforge area looks busy. Maybe I’ll just—”

"Who says I can't fulfill that blasted request? Sit yer arse down, ye stinky human bastard. Ye ain’t leavin’ this place ‘til yer properly shitfaced, ye hear me?"

Zeke smirked and obediently sat down in front of the bar, waiting for the old man to serve him. The dwarf glared at him for a moment before turning to inspect his inventory, muttering about how the Maltforge family were unimaginative hacks who would be better off making machine oil than ale.

After rummaging for a while, the dwarf found a crate of bottles hidden behind a wall of boxes. With a triumphant exclamation, he brought it over to the bar, filling two mugs from the deceptively small bottle. Zeke immediately noticed the spatial enchantment on the bottle, guessing it contained much more than it appeared.

“Ha!” the man exclaimed, placing one mug in front of Zeke and taking the other for himself. “This’ll put some hair on yer chest, lad. Let’s see how ye walk over to those blasted blabbermouths after ‘avin’ a proper brew.”

Zeke ignored the man’s boasting, his attention already on the swirling dark liquid in front of him. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was made of, but it smelled like sweet berries mixed with something pleasantly sour.

He clinked his cup with the dwarf’s and took a careful sip. It exploded in his mouth—sweet, ripe berries clashing with the sharp bite of fermented barley, followed by a rich, smoky undertone. The warmth spread quickly, not just through his mouth but down into his chest, a comforting heat that tingled at the edges of his senses. As the aftertaste lingered, he detected a subtle, earthy depth, like a forgotten forest floor, leaving him wanting more.

Before he knew it, Zeke found himself taking a second, larger gulp, then a third. In no time, he was holding the cup upside down over his head, urging out the last drop of the rich liquid.

He only snapped back to his senses when he heard a chuckle from across the table. The dwarf had been watching him the entire time, an amused grin plastered across his smug face.

"Not too shabby, eh?"

Zeke put the cup down, cleared his throat, and tried to regain some dignity. “The taste is quite pleasant, but it’s a bit too weak for my taste.”

The dwarf’s grin faltered for an instant, then redoubled with a devious edge. “Ye brat. Hope ye know what yer doin’, challengin’ me like that.”

Zeke smiled, unbothered. His response seemed to please the dwarf.

“What’s yer name? I’m Varek, by the way—Varek Alewin.”

“Ezekiel,” he introduced himself. “My friends call me Zeke, though. You can call me that too—if you pour me another mug of that berry juice.”

The dwarf chuckled heartily, finishing his drink and refilling both their cups. "Tell me, Zeke, what brings a human lad like yerself all th’ way t’ our little corner o’ the world?"

B6 - Chapter 13: A Slight Change of Plans

“Thank ye for yer visit, Mr. Ezekiel,” the apprentice said politely, his tone measured. "I’ll make sure to pass yer offer along to the master."

Zeke nodded, keeping his frustration well hidden. It was clear he was being dismissed. “That would be appreciated,” he replied. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

The apprentice gave a small bow before returning to his work, leaving Zeke to find his own way out of the smithy. Not intending to linger, Zeke headed for the entrance. As he stepped outside, a weary sigh escaped his lips.

Gunner had been right—it wouldn’t be easy to secure a deal with the more influential dwarves. Even the few who agreed to meet with him showed no interest in his proposals. It didn’t seem to matter what he offered; the dwarves remained indifferent, as if all the gold in the world held no value in their eyes.

It was as vexing as it was incomprehensible.

Somewhat dismayed, Zeke made his way back to Gunner’s place, mulling over his options. He had been hesitant to place all his hopes on the Brewers Festival, but it now seemed like his best—and perhaps only—chance to strike a deal.

He had spent the past day gathering information about the festival, learning everything he could. Despite his initial doubts, he had to admit that Gunner’s suggestion had merit. Dwarves, it seemed, had a penchant for blending business with revelry. Many famous dwarven pacts, including some of the most enduring brotherhoods, had been forged over mugs of ale in drunken camaraderie.

The real question was, could Zeke achieve the same?

After taking the elevation platform nearly to the top, he once again found himself outside Gunner’s smithy. The dwarf had generously offered him temporary lodging, an invitation Zeke had readily accepted. While Gunner wasn’t among the most celebrated craftsmen in the city, he still had valuable information that could prove useful.

Stepping inside, Zeke found the dwarf exactly as he’d left him that morning—hunched over the partial schematic of the Gondola, utterly absorbed in his work. Gunner didn’t even glance up as Zeke entered and settled into a chair nearby. His intense focus was almost palpable, his eyes locked in what seemed like a staring contest with the parchment.

Zeke couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or exasperated. On one hand, the dwarf’s dedication and concentration were remarkable. On the other, his complete lack of awareness made his shop an open invitation for thieves. It was hard not to imagine how easily someone could walk out with half the workshop without Gunner noticing.

Zeke stepped behind the dwarf and leaned over to get a better look at what he was doing. The schematic Zeke had left had undergone significant changes, now adorned with dozens of annotations and additions. Most of them appeared to be Gunner’s deductions about the functions of various components and their interconnections.

From what Zeke could see, the dwarf had deduced that the design was part of an airship, though he hadn’t pinpointed it as a Gondola. That wasn’t particularly surprising—after all, the luxurious aircraft was predominantly used in Tradespire, far removed from Stonehearth’s culture.

What truly caught Zeke’s attention were the numerous attempts to improve the design. Each modification was meticulously sketched, only to be scratched out and accompanied by notes explaining why the changes wouldn’t work.

Zeke nodded in approval, genuinely impressed by Gunner’s level of insight after such a short time. Perhaps the dwarf might just prove capable of earning the hefty reward Zeke had promised.

“How’s it going?” Zeke asked, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Gunner flinched at the sudden voice but quickly composed himself, responding with a grunt. “Bit o’ a challenge,” he admitted after a pause. “…But I’m still confident.”

Zeke stepped back, giving the dwarf some space. “I’d be very pleased if you could manage it,” he said. “But there’s no rush. The offer stands indefinitely.”

Gunner sighed and finally turned to face him, studying Zeke's expression before breaking into a knowing grin. “And how did it go for ye, lad?”

Zeke let out an annoyed grunt. “Pretty much as you said. Nobody was willing to commit to anything.”

“’Cause they don’t know ye,” Gunner repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.

“That’s a stupid reason…” Zeke said before he could stop himself.

Gunner chuckled, his laughter rumbling like distant thunder. “Aye? I reckon it’s downright wise, meself.”

“Care to explain that one?” Zeke asked, half mocking half genuinely interested.

“The logic’s plain enough, really,” Gunner said with a shrug. “A man o' character’ll never let ye come up short, no matter what’s been agreed. But a weasel? They’ll always find a way to cheat, no matter what was promised.”

Zeke blinked, momentarily stunned by the blunt yet airtight reasoning. It struck a stark contrast to the way business was conducted in Tradespire. There, negotiations often felt like verbal chess matches, each side maneuvering to trap their ‘partner’ while avoiding being ensnared themselves. It was a game of wits where trust had no place, and self-interest ruled supreme.

But the dwarves operated by a wholly different mantra.

In an instant, Zeke realized his earlier missteps.

No wonder everyone had dismissed his offers without a second glance. To the dwarves, words on paper meant little. Contracts, no matter how meticulously crafted, were secondary. What they valued was the integrity of the person standing across from them, not the promises scribbled in ink.

It was a better safeguard against deceit, Zeke realized. Instead of relying on legal jargon to enforce honesty, they simply chose to work with those who didn’t need enforcing.

Zeke nodded slowly, finally beginning to grasp how the dwarves conducted their business. “...At the festival then,” he said after a pause, deciding not to approach anyone else until that time.

Gunner grinned, his teeth gleaming beneath his thick beard. “Aye, laddie. That’ll be for the best.”

Given this unexpected break, Zeke suddenly remembered the other reason he’d come to the city. Reaching into the folds of his robes, he pulled out an object he’d been puzzling over for far too long. “Say, Gunner, do you know what this is?”

In his palm rested a peculiar artifact: a perfectly spherical cube. Its surface was inscribed with faint symbols that spiraled along its sides, yet it felt unnaturally smooth, as though crafted from a single, seamless piece of material. At first glance, the object seemed unassuming—plain, even—but Zeke was certain it held secrets far beyond its mundane appearance.

It was the mysterious cube he had acquired from the Giger ruins all those years ago, hailed as one of the holy treasures. Its significance had eluded him ever since.

At first, Gunner’s gaze skimmed over the cube with little interest. But then, he did a double take, his eyes narrowing as they studied the intricate inscriptions carved into its sides. “By the Forge,” he muttered, his tone shifting to one of cautious reverence. “Where’d ye get that thing, lad?”

“From Arkanheim,” Zeke replied, his voice even. “Any idea what it is?”

Gunner didn’t respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the glyphs, his expression growing more intense with each passing second. With a flick of his hand, he deployed several magnifying lenses from his headgear, each one clicking into place like a jeweler inspecting a rare and valuable gem.

“Not exactly,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “But these markings... they remind me o' an old script I've seen before. Could be dwarfen, but if it is, it’d be ancient—older than most records we’ve still got.”

Zeke’s brow furrowed. “Can you decipher it?”

Gunner shook his head. “This be the kinda thing ye’d need a proper scholar to make sense of. But I can tell ye one thing, lad…”

“What’s that?”

The dwarf’s gaze met Zeke’s, his tone solemn. ”Whatever this be, it ain’t just some common trinket. I can’t even tell what blasted material it’s made from—an' that don’t happen often, let me tell ye.”

Zeke wasn’t surprised. He had known for a long time that the cube held secrets, but he still hadn’t been able to uncover any of them. This might be his first real chance to learn more. “Looks like I’ll need to visit one of those scholars soon,” he said.

Gunner snorted at the thought, but when he saw the seriousness on Zeke’s face, his amusement quickly faded into a tired sigh. “By the forge, yer serious,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead with one large hand. “Listen here, laddie. Folks with that kind of knowledge are rarer than the coins in me pocket. Even a dwarf o' high standing would have a hard time getting a meeting with one of ‘em.”

Zeke sighed. Of course, it couldn’t be that easy. “Do you have any names, at least?”

Gunner waved his hand dismissively. “Aye, I know 'em all, I reckon. But that ain’t gonna help ye. I told ye, those aren’t folks ye can just waltz up to.”

Zeke motioned for Gunner to write the names down, and within moments, he had a list. There were fewer than two dozen names on it, and none were familiar to him. Despite their apparent prominence in dwarven society, these scholars had little fame outside the kingdom. It made sense—other races wouldn’t have much use for scholars focused on ancient dwarven history.

At a closer look, Zeke noticed something. Toward the bottom of the list, the second-to-last name seemed vaguely familiar.

Thoren Ironhide.

Zeke hadn’t heard of Thoren himself, but the Ironhide family was one of the few he had considered as potential trade partners. His mind immediately began to race. If he could make an impression on someone from that line, he might kill two birds with one stone.

At the very least, it would give him a chance to ask for a meeting with the scholar once they were on better terms.

But that also added more pressure. It would be much easier to make a good impression on any of the powerful dwarven families during the festival than to target one specific family. After all, it was possible that the representative from Ironhide simply wouldn’t like him, for reasons entirely unrelated.

However…

If—and that was a big if—he could find an angle, a clear path to impress the Ironhide family, it might be worth pursuing.

With renewed determination, Zeke began questioning Gunner about the Ironhide family, digging for every detail he could. He asked about their members, relationships, skills, business dealings, rivals, politics—everything.

With only two days left until the Brewers Festival, Zeke was determined to make the most of every moment.

B6 - Chapter 12: Gunner

Zeke followed the surly dwarf at a leisurely pace, having decided to accept the man’s roundabout invitation to visit his shop.

For one, Gunner had assured him it was close by. For another, Zeke realized he could learn a lot from the dwarf. Despite Gunner’s dismissive attitude toward every craftsman he mentioned, Zeke could still gauge how much respect—or lack thereof—the man had for their abilities. If nothing else, the number of curse words he used to describe each one was a telling indicator.

“Who’d be the best person to talk to if I need to buy resources in large quantities?” Zeke asked as they passed a group of miners. The men barely glanced up, their faces smudged with soot as they worked.

Gunner turned halfway, giving Zeke a sidelong look. “Depends on what ye mean by large quantities. If it’s just a few wagon loads, I might be able to sort ye out myself.”

Zeke smirked faintly, shaking his head. Gunner’s knack for sniffing out business opportunities was almost impressive, but in this case, it was unlikely he could deliver.

“Over a million gold’s worth,” Zeke said, his tone casual.

The effect was immediate. Gunner staggered to the side, his wheelbarrow teetering dangerously. “How much?” he barked, regaining his balance with an audible grunt.

“Over a million,” Zeke repeated, his expression calm.

For a long moment, Gunner said nothing, his eyes fixed forward as he resumed pushing the wheelbarrow in silence. Eventually, he muttered, “Aye… that’s a wee bit outside my range.” The words sounded forced, as if admitting them caused him physical discomfort.

Zeke chuckled softly but refrained from calling out the obvious bluff. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, feigning disappointment. “Do you know anyone who could handle an order like that?”

Gunner fell silent, his brow furrowed as though weighing his words. Finally, he let out a low grunt, signaling that he’d made up his mind. “There aren’t many who could handle an order that size,” he admitted, his tone cautious. “But this ain’t the place to be discussing such matters. Let’s get to my shop first.”

Zeke nodded in agreement, opting not to press further. As long as Gunner could provide him with a lead or two, the detour would be worth the time. The pair continued on in silence, Zeke using the opportunity to take in his surroundings.

While the city itself was impressive with its bustling streets and industrious energy, Zeke found himself captivated by what lay beneath the surface, revealed only by his Spatial Awareness. The true marvel of Stonehearth unfolded underground. The entire mountain was riddled with an intricate web of pipes and tunnels, a network so vast it seemed almost alive.

Thousands of interconnected conduits crisscrossed through the rock, forming a labyrinth that would be a logistical nightmare for anyone else. Yet somehow, it all worked seamlessly. As far as Zeke could tell, every building had access to fresh water, clean air, and a steady supply of heat in one form or another.

Where the resources originated or how they were distributed remained a mystery, but there was no denying the genius behind the system. If nothing else, Zeke had to admit that the dwarfs’ reputation for ingenuity was well-earned.

“We’re ‘ere,” Gunner announced, steering his cart toward a sturdy doorway. A small ramp led up to the entrance, allowing him to push the wheelbarrow seamlessly over the threshold and into the building.

Zeke followed, stepping inside and taking in the space. To his surprise, the city—despite being designed primarily for dwarven use—was remarkably accommodating for someone of his height. He had expected cramped quarters, low ceilings, and narrow doorframes that would force him to duck constantly. Yet, none of those concerns had materialized.

In fact, the opposite was true. The dwarves seemed to have a penchant for building things on a grand scale. Most doorways were tall enough to fit three dwarves stacked atop one another, and the ceilings soared high overhead. The rooms themselves felt almost cavernous, leaving Zeke to wonder if such spaciousness was truly necessary or simply a quirk of dwarven architectural style.

Zeke glanced around the room and immediately recognized it as a workshop. Unlike specialists who focused on a single craft, Gunner appeared to be a jack of all trades. The room was equipped with a forge and anvil, a rune-carving table, and various engineering projects scattered across workstations lining all four walls.

As soon as they entered, Gunner hurried to unload his cart and began draping cloths over the workstations, clearly attempting to conceal their contents. Zeke watched the frantic effort with an amused smile. Did Gunner forget the state of the room before inviting him in? It was far too late to hide the clutter—Zeke had already seen everything.

Not that it mattered. Zeke wasn’t the type to judge someone’s skill by the tidiness of their workspace. In fact, he knew that some of the brightest minds thrived in chaos, using it as fuel for their creativity. Instead of focusing on the disarray, Zeke activated his spatial perception, allowing him to examine the contents beneath the hastily thrown coverings.

The first table he scrutinized held a mechanical valve designed to open and close through the application of Mana. Zeke analyzed the design briefly before moving on, unimpressed. It was clever enough, but he could devise a superior mechanism in minutes if necessary.

The second table, however, held something more intriguing: a mechanical arm—or rather, a prototype of one. The device seemed intended to be worn like a gauntlet, amplifying the strength and durability of the wearer. On the surface, it was an impressive concept, but Zeke quickly noticed several glaring flaws. In its current form, the arm would not only fail to function properly but could even pose a danger to the user. It was a far cry from a finished product.

Zeke’s interest only grew as he continued surveying the room. Though the projects scattered around lacked polish, they radiated the unmistakable energy of innovation. He could tell that most of these creations hadn’t been commissioned by clients but had sprung from Gunner’s insatiable curiosity.

It was clear now why the dwarf had been so eager to secure business with him. Maintaining a workshop like this—with its assortment of half-finished prototypes and experimental designs—would be incredibly costly. Without a steady stream of income, such indulgent creativity would be difficult to sustain.

When Gunner finally draped a cloth over the last table, he turned to face Zeke with an air of triumph, as if proud of his quick effort to tidy up. Zeke couldn’t suppress a small smirk. Did the dwarf genuinely think he’d managed to conceal the chaos? Even if Gunner had been faster, it wouldn’t have mattered—Zeke had already taken everything in.

Still, he kept his observations to himself, choosing not to shatter the man’s sense of accomplishment. Instead, he leaned slightly against the wall, waiting to see what Gunner would say next.

“Welcome to my smithy,” Gunner declared, a wide grin lighting up his face.

Zeke raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping the room. “Doesn’t seem like there’s much for sale,”he replied, nodding pointedly at the covered workstations, where not a single item was on display.

Gunner followed Zeke’s gaze and visibly winced, clearly realizing the problem. In his haste to cover the mess, he had also concealed all his creations, leaving him in an awkward spot.

“Well…” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “I do my best work on commission anyway. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it for you!” He puffed out his chest and struck a fist against it, his pride shining through as if daring Zeke to challenge him with a difficult task.

Zeke couldn’t help but chuckle at the display, but an idea soon crossed his mind. Why not put Gunner to the test? The dwarf’s creativity was evident, but Zeke still had no gauge of his actual skill as an engineer. This could be an excellent opportunity to evaluate both. Two birds, one stone.

With his decision made, Zeke strode to one of the tables and pulled back the cloth. Beneath it lay a workspace littered with blueprints, drafts, and half-formed ideas. This was clearly where Gunner brainstormed his creations. Zeke brushed aside the cluttered stack of unfinished plans, grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, and placed it squarely in the center of the table.

A quill lifted into the air as if guided by invisible strings, dipped itself into an ink pot, and began sketching on the blank parchment. Its movements were precise and steady, outlining a detailed diagram as Zeke turned to face Gunner.

“Alright,” he said, grinning at the dwarf’s wide-eyed stare. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Zeke jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the floating quill. “That’s part of a project I’ve been working on for some time. Here’s the deal: I want you to take a look and suggest any improvements to the current design. For every meaningful enhancement you come up with, I’ll pay you 1,000 gold. Sound fair?”

Gunner’s jaw dropped, his ruddy face a mix of shock and disbelief. “A thousand gold? Per improvement? Just fer the plans?”

Zeke nodded, his satisfaction growing at the dwarf’s reaction. The design he was sharing was for the Gondola—a cornerstone of his most lucrative venture to date. If Gunner could genuinely improve on it, the reward would be more than worth the cost. In truth, Zeke considered the offer a bargain.

Still, he tempered his expectations. While the test was a legitimate opportunity for Gunner, Zeke had a secondary motive. He hoped this gesture would win over the dwarf’s cooperation and loosen his tongue when it came to sharing the information Zeke needed. Gunner seemed like the type to cling to potential business opportunities, but with this enticing offer on the table, that reluctance might just melt away.

“So,” Zeke began, snapping Gunner out of his trance. “Who do I need to talk to in order to find a large-scale business partner?”

Gunner reluctantly tore his gaze from the parchment where the enchanted feather continued its meticulous work. Meeting Zeke’s eyes, he let out a thoughtful grunt. “If yer lookin’ fer someone who can trade on the level of a merchant lord, there’s only a handful in all of Stonehearth. But it won’t do ye any good to track ‘em down.”

Zeke frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s not how business is done down here,” Gunner replied with a casual shrug.

Zeke sighed, his frustration creeping into his voice. “I thought dwarves were supposed to be less rigid.”

Gunner raised a bushy brow, an amused glint in his eyes. “Rigid? I wouldn’t call us rigid. But most dwarves won’t do business with strangers, lad—especially not on a handshake deal, let alone some fancy contract.”

Zeke tilted his head, curiosity piqued. “What’s wrong with a contract?”

Gunner extended his hand, palm up, as if inviting Zeke to shake it. “Do ye know what this is?” he asked.

“A handshake?” Zeke replied, his tone edged with confusion.

Gunner scoffed, a deep chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Among dwarves, it’s a bond, lad. A word given, sealed by a firm shake, is as good as any writ.”

Zeke nodded slowly, his brow furrowing in thought. “So, no contracts at all?”

Gunner shrugged again. “It’s not that we can’t use ‘em. It’s just... words carry weight. A dwarf who breaks his handshake oath? He’s finished. Our reputation is our wealth, and no bit of parchment can replace that.”

The explanation made sense in its own way, but Zeke couldn’t help but feel the weight of an unfamiliar culture pressing down on his plans. If trust was a prerequisite for partnership, then earning it might prove to be a more significant challenge than he’d anticipated.

“How hard would it be to gain their trust?” Zeke asked, already dreading the answer.

Gunner grinned. “Hard for some, effortless for others,” he said, speaking cryptically as he rummaged through his pockets. He soon pulled out what he was looking for and handed it to Zeke. “But you’re in luck,” he added. “This could be your best chance to make an impression.”

Zeke took the object from Gunner’s hand. It was a slightly crumpled piece of paper. He unfolded it, smoothing out the creases before reading it carefully. It appeared to be a flyer promoting an event called the Brewers Festival.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Only one of the biggest events in Stonehearth,” Gunner said, a hint of pride in his voice. “All the big shots will be there. If you impress them at the festival, I wouldn’t be surprised if they came to you with a deal of their own.”

Zeke’s gaze returned to the flyer, his eyes catching the date. The festival was just two days away. Now only one question remained. “How do I make an impression?”

Gunner grinned. “Skill and Guts, lad.”

B6 - Chapter 11: Stonehearth

"Please step into the center of the circle, sir."

Zeke complied, his curiosity piqued as he observed the process. Technically, this was his first time using an official gate, as he had previously traveled with his own Magic. The procedure seemed overly intricate, requiring multiple layers of verification on both sides. Perhaps the stringent checks were due to the fact that he was leaving human territory.

After a short wait, the Archmage overseeing the transportation finally gave him the go-ahead. "They’re ready to receive you now, sir. Are you prepared? This can be rather disorientying if you’re not accustomed to it."

Zeke allowed himself a small smile and briefly flared his Space affinity. The Archmage’s posture eased noticeably, a nod of understanding accompanying his relaxed demeanor. "Ah, I see. I suppose this won’t be an issue for you then. Safe travels, sir."

With those words, Zeke felt the space around him solidify, locking him in place with an unyielding force. It was far beyond anything he could achieve, and he was certain that no amount of struggle would free him from this invisible prison. This was the undeniable difference in power between an Archmage and a Grand Mage.

Moments later, he sensed a membrane of spatial Mana beginning to envelop him, spreading from head to toe. If not for his enhanced perception, the entire process would have been over in the blink of an eye. Now, experiencing it in slowed detail, Zeke could fully appreciate the precision and skill of the Archmage's work.

He could replicate something similar at a comparable speed—but only for himself. Encasing another person in spatial Mana would take him significantly longer, and the difficulty would increase dramatically if the target moved. This explained why he had been immobilized beforehand.

Soon, his body was encased in a robust cocoon of spatial Mana, and Zeke felt the familiar pull of a connection forming with another location. No matter how much he heightened his perception, he couldn’t detect the traversal of space itself. One moment, he stood in Tradespire; the next, he was in a nearly identical location, though manned by a completely different set of people.

“Welcome to Stonehearth, Ezekiel of Tradespire,” a voice greeted him.

Zeke looked up and saw a human addressing him. This was expected—dwarves, after all, couldn’t develop a spatial affinity. In fact, humans were the only race on the continent capable of mastering the domains of Space and Time. It was one of the reasons for their dominance.

He nodded respectfully at the Archmage. “Am I good to go?”

The man returned the gesture with a friendly smile. “Yes, you’re properly registered with the network, and the Department of Immigration has already approved your visit. There’s no restriction on how long you may stay.”

Zeke was pleasantly surprised by how smooth the process had been. Compared to his journey to Korrovan, this was worlds apart. He recalled sneaking through the land with Leo, avoiding roads and settlements, their every move shrouded in caution. Back then, they had looked more like beggars or thieves than travelers.

But he hadn’t had a choice. As a mere True Mage, nearly anyone posed a threat. Even a small group of wandering Grandmages could have overwhelmed him. And with the bounty on his head, there had been no shortage of people eager to try.

Fortunatly, the situation was entirely different now. With his current strength, Zeke no longer feared Grandmages. Of course, he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he could defeat all of them in a head-on fight—far from it. However, with his repertoire of spells and abilities, he was confident in his ability to escape nearly any peril.

His mastery of a perception-slowing technique, combined with his lightning-fast teleportation, made him a nightmare for attackers and nearly impossible to pin down. This was one of the reasons he had opted to travel alone. Though his mansion was staffed with capable guards, they would only hinder his movements if he needed to make a swift retreat.

As for an Archmage attacking him?

Zeke dismissed that notion outright. For one, Archmages couldn’t move freely without strict oversight, and those who did were typically under constant supervision. Especially here, in dwarven territory, the likelihood of encountering an Archmage from the Empire was virtually nonexistent.

Moreover, Zeke was confident in his ability to evade most Archmages. Only when faced with a Space or Time Mage would things become tricky. However, such specialists were far too valuable to be deployed as expendable assets, and he had never heard of them being used in such a manner.

Zeke gave the man a final nod before making his way toward the exit. The structure of teleportation gates was fairly standardized, so navigating wasn’t difficult. Before long, he was stepping outside, his heart pounding with an excitement he hadn’t experienced in ages.

The first thing that greeted him was a blast of scorching air. It was so dry and intense that it made his skin tingle, as if a flame’s tongue were brushing against him. The sensation was startling. If even Zeke, with his enhanced strength and resilience, felt it this strongly, how would an ordinary person fare? Likely, they’d suffer severe burns just by standing here.

His gaze swept across the landscape, searching for the source of the oppressive heat. But instead of pinpointing a single origin, he quickly realized the truth: the heat came from everywhere. Finding a place untouched by its relentless presence would have been the real challenge.

Zeke stepped outside, finding himself before a railing crafted from gleaming black steel, seamlessly fused with the stone platform beneath his feet. The craftsmanship was impeccable, but he hardly noticed, his attention stolen by the breathtaking sight before him.

The city unfolded like a colossal, inverted pyramid, its monumental scale almost incomprehensible. Tier after tier of stone terraces descended deep into the earth, each layer glowing with veins of molten metal that bathed the city in a fiery, golden light. Homes, shops, and workshops were carved directly into the walls, their facades adorned with intricate runes and elaborate murals that told stories of the dwarves’ legacy.

From his elevated position, Zeke observed streams of people bustling along streets etched into the terraces, the layers alive with purpose and industry. Steam hissed and coiled into the air from vents and pipes embedded in the stone, while the clang of hammers and the whir of machinery formed a relentless, rhythmic symphony.

As his gaze drifted downward, the air seemed to shimmer with heat, a tangible distortion rising from the city’s core.

At the very bottom of the pit, a pulsing, fiery glow emanated like the heart of a living giant. Zeke knew immediately what it was: the Omniforge. The forge, powered by ancient geothermal veins running deep beneath the mountain, burned with an intensity unmatched anywhere else. It was the lifeblood of Stonehearth, the source of its power and pride.

Before Zeke could lose himself in the sight of the city, a sudden noise broke his focus—gears grinding and metal scraping. With a loud screech, a massive metal platform descended from above, coming to a halt right beside him. The land bridge, now stationary, connected his terrace to the one on his left.

Zeke glanced around and saw that similar platforms were installed all around the city. They moved up and down constantly, providing a quick way to travel between the layers. The large, movable terraces could easily transport goods, and, as Zeke watched, a group of dwarves quickly boarded the platform.

Fascinated, he watched as the platform descended again, stopping one layer below. Some passengers disembarked, while others stayed on, preparing to travel further down. Not too far away, another terrace ascended in tandem with the one going down, forming a seamless loop. It was an ingenious system, one that could be of great use in Tradespire. But Zeke knew there was no way to replicate such a massive operation back home—there simply wasn’t the power to run something of that scale.

Zeke’s gaze returned to the massive pool of molten stone at the center of the city. It was hard to believe that the dwarves powered all their inventions simply by converting heat. He had learned about steam engines, but he still couldn’t grasp how it was possible to harness that power on such a grand scale. Yet, with the proof before his eyes, there was no denying it any longer.

"Aye, ye plannin' to stay 'ere forever, lad, or ye thinkin' o' movin' on someday?"

Zeke turned to see a stout man pushing a massive wheelbarrow. He was heading toward the area where the next platform would soon descend but was blocked by Zeke. "Sorry about that," Zeke said, stepping aside. "I was a bit mesmerized by the sight."

The man’s gruff expression softened slightly as he glanced over the railing, his small stature barely allowing him to peek over. “It sure is a sight, ain't it? I reckon this be yer first time in the city, eh?”

Zeke nodded, gesturing to the Gate building behind him. "Just arrived."

The dwarf nodded, setting down his wheelbarrow and rolling his shoulders. “Where ye headin', lad?”

Zeke studied the man more closely. He seemed to be middle-aged, with a massive bushy beard and ruddy cheeks. His height barely reached Zeke’s chest, but his shoulders were almost twice as wide. It was a common misconception that dwarfs were small. In terms of overall mass, they often outweighed the average human. This man, for example, had arms thicker than Zeke's legs.

“I’m looking for the Steelbender Forge. Do you know where it is?” Zeke asked.

“Aye, I do,” the dwarf replied, then spat on the ground in apparent disgust. “But what’s it to ye? Everyone knows ol' Steelbender’s nothin' but a bandit an' a scoundrel. His wares ain't even half as good as what others can churn out and twice as expensive.”

Zeke had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. According to David, Steelbender was a highly respected artisan and a master of his craft. He wasn’t about to take the word of this random stranger to heart. Still, there was no harm in playing along for now.

“Is that so?” he asked, feigning surprise. “Then, where do you suggest I go instead?”

The dwarf gave him a long, appraising look, as if trying to determine whether Zeke was being honest. After finding nothing suspicious, he nodded with a satisfied grin. “It’s a good thing ye’ve crossed paths with me, lad. Others might try an' swindle ye, but I ain’t like 'em. If ye want th' best wares in all o' Stonehearth, ye best be headin' to ol' Gunner’s smithy.”

Zeke wracked his brain, even asking Akasha for help, but he couldn’t recall ever hearing of a place called ‘Gunner’s Smithy.’ It was likely either a hidden gem or a completely insignificant shop.

“Never heard of it,” he admitted.

The dwarf flushed slightly but quickly regained his composure. "Course ye haven’t, lad. Ye’ve only just arrived. Where would ye’ve heard of it? In yer human lands? Ha!"

Zeke had no intention of contradicting the man. Instead, he simply extended his hand. “Makes sense. I’m Ezekiel.”

The dwarf seemed to appreciate the straightforward gesture and firmly clasped Zeke’s hand, his palm nearly enveloping Zeke's. “Pleasure meetin' ye, lad. Name's Gunner.”

B6 - Chapter 10: Endorsement II

Zeke continued reading the letter, his eyes scanning each line as his thoughts grew increasingly tangled. What had initially seemed like a straightforward proposal quickly revealed itself to be far more complex than he had first assumed.

The offer of endorsement was genuine, promising Zeke a clear path to joining the Merchant Council—even if his qualifications fell short in other areas. However, it was far from an unconditional offer. The King had attached several stipulations, and the more Zeke considered them, the more he doubted whether accepting the proposal was truly in his best interest.

One of the conditions required Zeke to establish Tradespire as his permanent base of operations, maintaining a constant presence in the city. At first glance, it didn’t seem like a significant demand. However, upon closer reflection, Zeke realized it would bind both him and his family far more closely to the city than he had ever intended.

For now, Tradespire was an ideal location. It offered abundant connections, wealth, and opportunities, making it the perfect place to build his influence. Yet, its position on the Empire's border posed a grave risk. If the Empire ever decided to annex the city, staying in Tradespire would be nothing short of suicidal. The bounty he had placed on every member of the four great families was still active, and Zeke had no illusions about the number of powerful individuals harboring grudges against him for their personal losses.

Yet, if that were the only condition, Zeke might still have considered accepting the endorsement. It was the second stipulation that gave him a real headache. The king demanded first purchasing rights to all of Zeke’s future products.

This presented a massive problem.

The King of Tradespire wasn’t merely a ruler; he was the king of merchants, commanding the largest trade network on the continent. If Zeke agreed to these terms, he would lose control over where his products ultimately ended up. He harbored no illusions about the king’s intentions—there was no scenario in which Tradespire’s ruler wouldn’t sell Zeke’s creations to the Empire.

Even if the king wanted to refrain, such a restriction would risk compromising Tradespire’s cherished neutrality, a cornerstone of its power. This meant that if Zeke accepted the deal, he would effectively be barred from creating any products with military applications or strategic potential. Doing so would risk them falling straight into enemy hands.

Zeke’s eyes lingered on the final line of the letter.

“…This offer will remain valid until the day of your hearing. There is no need to send me a formal response. If you claim my support during the meeting, I will take it as your acceptance of my terms.”

His thoughts began to race. This… felt ominous. It was almost as if the king didn’t particularly care whether Zeke accepted or not. But then, why send the offer at all?

Zeke had never met the enigmatic ruler, and there was certainly no debt or connection between them that would justify such a favor. The endorsement, on the surface, appeared far too generous, yet the underlying conditions were anything but simple.

No, this wasn’t altruism—it couldn’t be. There had to be more to this offer than what appeared on the surface.

With a sigh, Zeke folded the letter neatly and slid it back into its envelope. What had initially seemed like a potential solution to one of his biggest problems was starting to feel like yet another headache. Thankfully, he didn’t have to make a decision right away. Who knew? Perhaps he would secure another endorsement before the deadline, allowing him to sidestep this predicament entirely.

Lost in thought, Zeke made his way back to his chambers. Night had already fallen, and the only thing visible outside his window was the illuminated pathway winding up the gentle incline. He stood there for a while, gazing at the blackened landscape, his thoughts drifting aimlessly.

No matter how long he pondered, he couldn’t unravel the Kings motives. Though, a vague suspicion lingered—this man’s intentions and methods were far from simple. After all, one did not rise to the position of the king of merchants by accident.

Even if Zeke couldn’t gauge the king’s character, he was certain of one thing: this was a man as crafty and resourceful as they came. Underestimating him would be a grave mistake.

Shaking his head, Zeke pushed away the useless thoughts. He didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on uncertainties. An entire day had already slipped by without him making any headway on the critical trade agreements he needed to secure. If he started chasing shadows now, he might as well admit defeat.

With a forceful slap to his cheeks, he jolted himself back to focus. The sharp sting on his skin helped clear away the lingering haze of distractions. That’s right—there was real work to be done.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Akasha manifested a small booklet before him. Zeke blinked, stunned by its appearance. Though it was clearly a product of thought manifestation, the object looked and felt disarmingly real.

Tentatively, he reached out, his fingers brushing the leather binding. He recoiled immediately, his eyes widening in shock. The texture was unmistakable—warm, supple, and tangible.

“What in the…?” Zeke muttered, eyeing the floating construct with a mix of intrigue and unease. Was this truly Akasha’s doing? For the first time, he hesitated, unsure of the answer.

A moment later, the spirit appeared beside the book, her eyes locked on him. Zeke studied her face, intrigued by the peculiar expression she wore—a mix of pride and amusement, as if she couldn't decide which to settle on. At least it confirmed that she was behind this phenomenon.

“What did you do?” he asked. “How am I able to touch it?”

Akasha's expression shifted fully to pride as she explained, “I’ve convinced your mind. Even though your fingers aren’t actually touching anything, your brain interprets the signals as if they are.”

Zeke’s expression faltered for a moment. This meant that Akasha could soon have full control over his perception, capable of making him believe in any reality she wished. He had always known that giving the Spirit absolute freedom was a risky choice, but only now did he realize just how many ways she had to manipulate him.

By altering his reality, she could have him dancing to her tune like a puppet on strings. And considering how well Akasha knew him, orchestrating such a scenario would be child’s play.

However, after the initial shock subsided, Zeke’s body relaxed, and a smile spread across his face. Reaching for the book again, he grabbed it firmly, flipping it open and inspecting the pages with care. He even brought it to his nose for a sniff. No matter how he inspected it, the mental construct appeared fully real to all his senses.

Well, not all of them. His spatial perception still confirmed that there was nothing physically present, giving him at least one way to differentiate illusion from reality. Zeke wasn’t entirely sure if Akasha was incapable of altering his spatial perception or if she had simply chosen not to. After all, her goal wasn’t to deceive him but rather to create a lifelike projection of an object.

“Marvelous,” Zeke said, noting the visible delight on the spirit’s face. “Is this what you’ve been working on lately?”

Akasha nodded, a faint smile gracing her lips. Though her expression still carried a hint of stiffness, it was evident she had been refining this aspect of her manifestation. Compared to their earlier encounters, she appeared far more natural. Yet the surprises didn’t end there. Akasha took a sudden step toward him.

Curious, Zeke remained silent, watching intently as the spirit slowly raised her hand toward his face. At first, he couldn’t fathom her intent—until he felt it. A touch, as soft as silk, grazed his cheek, light and delicate. The sensation was almost ethereal, far too soft to be mistaken for real skin. Whatever signal she was sending to his brain, it transcended the ordinary, offering a touch that felt nothing short of divine.

Zeke stared at the spirit, dumbfounded. The book in his hand felt so real that he couldn’t distinguish it from a physical object. Yet somehow, her touch had been... different.

“Why is it like this?” he asked, his tone unsure as he tried to address the strange inconsistency.

Akasha didn’t seem to hear—or perhaps she simply ignored—his question, continuing to stroke his cheek with the same deliberate motion. Zeke decided to let her be, assuming she was likely gathering data to refine her illusions. But as the moments stretched on and her hand lingered, he felt compelled to interrupt.

“Akasha?”

The single word seemed to jolt her out of her focused state. She pulled her hand back abruptly, retreating a step as though caught in some awkward act. “That was a good test,” she said, her voice as cold and monotone as ever. “I will work on improving my technique.”

Without waiting for a response, she vanished, leaving Zeke alone with the illusionary book still in his hands. For a moment, he stared at the empty spot where she had stood, blinking in mild disbelief. When it became clear she wouldn’t be returning, he shook his head and dismissed the spirit’s eccentricities for now.

His gaze shifted to the book. It was a summary of all the reports David had compiled during his time with the dwarves. Inside were his insights, connections, advice, and various discoveries from months of observation and interaction.

Zeke settled into his plush leather chair and flipped open the first page. If he was going to visit the dwarves tomorrow, he needed every possible advantage. Cultural missteps were not an option this time. Success would require precision and preparation, and the more he understood their ways, the better his chances.

For hours, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic flipping of pages as Zeke diligently studied the booklet. Occasionally, he would pause to visualize the scenarios described in David’s reports. Some of the details were almost beyond belief.

Machinery as large as houses, powered by steam rather than magic. A sprawling network of tunnels delving so deep into the earth that molten stone marked their boundaries. A civilization utterly unlike anything he had encountered before.

The world of the dwarves was fascinating—and utterly alien.

This cultural divergence extended far beyond technology. The dwarves were fundamentally different in their societal structure as well. Unlike most civilizations Zeke was familiar with, they appeared to have little regard for social hierarchy—at least, not one rooted in power or lineage. Instead, their respect was reserved for two qualities: Skill and Guts.

Skill and Guts.

The phrase echoed repeatedly throughout David’s report, almost like a mantra for the dwarven people. David had attempted to define it at one point but eventually abandoned the effort, unable to find the right words. From what Zeke could gather, it boiled down to an appreciation for those who were bold, boisterous, and capable of backing their words with action.

Zeke smirked as he considered this. It wasn’t his usual style to put on such a show, but he couldn’t deny the appeal of trying something new to win their favor. After all, he had just shattered the record for the fastest advancement to Grand Mage. If that didn’t grant him the right to strut a little, what would?

Zeke found himself unexpectedly eager for the journey ahead. Despite the litany of complaints and colorful language scattered throughout David’s report, the dwarves were depicted in a surprisingly positive light. They seemed to be a hardworking, no-nonsense people who valued effort over status. Even their Exarchs, the highest-ranking among them, were known to mingle freely with the common folk.

As Zeke read on, the plan forming in his mind grew clearer with each passing moment. By the time the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon, he had completed his preparations. It was time to visit the dwarves.

B6 - Chapter 9: Endorsement

Merry Christmas! I hope you have a fantastic holiday filled with joy and relaxation!

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When Zeke stepped out of the headquarters, the sun was already sinking below the horizon.

He did not leave after his evaluation, choosing to converse with the many onlookers who had crowded around the area. After all, these weren’t ordinary people—anyone daring enough to challenge the rankings had to be remarkable in some way and so were the powers fostering such exceptional talents.

Normally, meeting such individuals would require effort and persistence. But after his performance, those obstacles vanished. Nearly everyone came to congratulate him, eager to make his acquaintance.

Zeke naturally wouldn’t turn them away in that situation.

Whether it was a farm owner from Rukia, a slave trader from Korrovan, or a merchant from Tradespire, he made a point to exchange a few words with each. After all, one could never know too many people, and who could say when these connections might prove useful?

By the end of the afternoon, the day’s events left him both energized and drained. He felt a surge of pride, thinking about all he’d accomplished in one day—joining the portal network, breaking two records, and forging ties with some of the continent’s elite. Yet, the endless smiles and nods had also stiffened his face, and his energy was spent. Though he had been trained to navigate noble circles, Zeke had never found any real enjoyment in such tedious interactions.

Thankfully, that was all behind him now. All he needed to do was head home and prepare for his journey to the dwarven capital tomorrow. With any luck, the commotion over his recent achievements would have died down by the time he returned in a few weeks.

The streets, fortunately, were the same as always, and no one paid him any special notice. It seemed news of his exploits hadn’t yet reached the general populace. Relieved, Zeke quickened his pace and disappeared into the crowd, heading toward his estate, where he would be safe from prying eyes and unwanted attention.

Zeke let out a deep breath as the heavy gate clanged shut behind him. Home at last—surely, there was nothing left to worry about now.

But his relief was short-lived. Just as he stepped onto the cobbled path leading to the mansion, a figure burst out of the house, racing toward him. It only took a moment for him to recognize her—it was his little sister, Maya.

The blonde girl raced down the incline, her wide smile lighting up the evening. Zeke couldn’t help but mirror her expression, his face shedding the polite mask he’d worn all afternoon. As they closed the distance, Maya leaped into his arms, and Zeke caught her in a spinning embrace, her melodic giggles filling the air.

“What’s got you so excited?” he asked, setting her gently back on her feet.

“What did you do this time?” she asked, skipping past his question entirely.

“What makes you think I’ve done anything?” he replied, keeping his tone neutral and his face unreadable.

Maya pouted, her expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. Even so, Zeke held firm, meeting her gaze with a silence that pressed her to give up the source of her knowledge.

“Fiiiiiine,” she relented with a dramatic sigh. “The estate was swamped with messengers all afternoon. Many even demanded to see you personally. And plenty of them were sent by Merchant Lords—I recognized several of their emblems.” She pointed her finger at him accusingly. “Tell me what you did!”

Zeke sighed, watching his hopes for a quiet evening crumble under the weight of more social obligations. But there was no avoiding it. If he truly intended to join the Merchant Council, he couldn’t afford to alienate its members before his hearing.

“I’ll explain everything soon,” he said. “But first, I need to check if Mom needs help with our guests.”

Maya’s expression made it clear she was reluctant to wait, but she relented when he mentioned their mother. That could only mean the situation was worse than Zeke had anticipated. Once again, he felt a flicker of relief knowing he’d soon have an excuse to leave—if only for a little while.

Holding Maya’s small hand, Zeke guided her up the path to the mansion. She happily chattered about the various emblems she had recognized on the visitors, but his thoughts were already focused on the challenges ahead. Socializing earlier had been tolerable, even pleasant at times, but he knew the Merchant Lords would be a far different experience.

The idea that they had come simply to congratulate him didn’t even occur to him. Merchants were driven by profit—it was his task to uncover how they intended to benefit from associating with him now. Ideally, he’d find a way to turn their schemes to his advantage. At the very least, he had to ensure he didn’t suffer a loss himself.

When they reached the entrance, Maya bounded off to join her friends for practice, leaving Zeke to follow a maid to the audience chamber. He didn’t need to see it to know what awaited him—his Sphere of Awareness had already warned him.

The chamber was packed to capacity with visitors. At some point, it seemed the staff had given up trying to vet the guests and simply ushered everyone in.

In the midst of the chaos, Zeke spotted his mother, flanked by a handful of her most trusted aides, attempting to bring order to the unruly crowd. But even at a glance, it was clear she was fighting a losing battle.

Scanning the room, Zeke recognized several faces. Some rather influential figures had chosen to come in person instead of sending a representative—a sure sign that their business was significant. Unfortunately, such individuals wouldn’t be satisfied with polite words or vague assurances.

The faint sheen of sweat on his mother’s forehead spoke volumes about the strain she was under.

Zeke left the maid behind and strode toward the hall with purpose. Pausing briefly at the door, he straightened his appearance before stepping inside.

“Apologies,” he announced, his voice cutting through the clamor. “I was delayed by other obligations.”

As planned, his entrance immediately captured the attention of the guests. The crowd shifted, their focus turning away from his mother to fixate on him—the man they had all come to see.

In those eyes, Zeke caught a glimmer of their intentions. They viewed him as easy prey, their gazes sharp and predatory, like hunters sizing up their next target. A broad smile spread across his face as he took it all in. To a casual observer, it might have seemed friendly, even innocent. But behind that smile, his thoughts were anything but.

A pot-bellied man was the first to move, stepping toward Zeke with a wide smile that was as artificial as the flattery likely poised on his lips. But before the man could utter a word, Zeke raised his hand, halting him in his tracks.

The gesture was undeniably rude, especially toward a guest, but Zeke couldn’t afford to let the crowd dictate the pace. If he allowed himself to get swept up in their rhythm, mistakes would be inevitable.

Instead, Zeke softened the blow with an apologetic expression and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Kuffels, I didn’t mean to offend you, but I must decline any one-on-one meetings for now.”

The man’s expression, which had soured slightly at being ordered to stop, began to relax. Zeke’s quick apology and use of his name seemed to placate him. To the onlookers, it signaled that Zeke held Mr. Kuffels in high regard—why else would he have bothered to memorize his name and face?

Of course, this wasn’t true at all. Without Akasha’s input, Zeke wouldn’t have known who the man was. Even now, he found Mr. Kuffels rather unimpressive. His family had been in steady decline since he’d taken over from his late father, and this visit was likely a desperate bid to reverse their fortunes.

Zeke naturally wouldn’t hesitate to offend someone like that if the situation called for it, but if a perceived insult could be smoothed over with a few well-placed words, he preferred to keep things amicable. After all, flattery didn’t cost anything.

Mr. Kuffels cleared his throat. “Ahem, no offense taken, young friend. However, if you don’t intend to agree to any meetings, why even come? Surely, it wasn’t just to tease us?”

Zeke’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. No offense, my ass. The veiled barb was impossible to miss, subtly turning the gathered crowd against him by highlighting their wasted time. Still, his smile remained firmly in place as he responded.

“Far from it,” Zeke said smoothly. “I simply prefer a more expedient way of communication.”

Before anyone could question his meaning, Zeke issued a silent command to Akasha. Just as she had coordinated the soldiers of the Icefang Tribe, she was now assisting him in managing these guests. Moments later, his voice echoed in each of their minds, as distinctly clear as if he were speaking directly beside them.

Zeke’s smile widened at the expressions of shock rippling through the crowd. Though there were only several dozen present, such a display was well beyond the capabilities of most Mages. In fact, this was one of the very feats that had earned him his recent evaluation. The demonstration left no doubt—the rumors about his Multicasting abilities were anything but exaggerated.

A hush fell over the room as every guest became absorbed in their ‘private meeting’ with Zeke. Of course, the man himself had no idea what was being discussed in these simultaneous conversations. It would have been impossible for him to follow so many exchanges at once, so he didn’t even attempt to listen in. Instead, he placed his trust in Akasha to handle the situation.

With nothing else to occupy him, Zeke let his eyes wander over the crowd. Before long, his gaze settled on a peculiar figure off to the side and his heart momentarily stopped. He had not noticed them so far because that person had not shown up in his spatial perception at all.

The figure was clad in a flowing black gown that concealed them entirely, leaving not a single patch of skin exposed. Zeke had encountered similar attire often enough to know what it meant. This was unmistakably a messenger from the king.

Zeke made his way over to the messenger, offering a polite greeting. “My apologies. I didn’t notice you before.”

The messenger stared at Zeke for a long moment, creating an uncomfortable silence. Finally, the figure spoke, their voice modulated in a way that made it impossible for Zeke to discern their gender. “No matter,” they said emotionlessly. “Ezekiel of Tradespire, I hereby deliver this to you.”

From the folds of their enchanted robe, a pristine letter appeared.

Immediately, the eyes of many onlookers were drawn to it. They knew what it meant. The king often sent messengers to act on his behalf, and most had interacted with them before. However, an official document was something different—it usually signaled either a formal contract or an official decree from the king.

Zeke tried to glimpse the contents of the letter with his spatial awareness, but it, like the messenger, was immune to his probing. Though it was regretful, it also meant none of the others could pry into it either. Clearly, the king was a meticulous person.

Zeke accepted the letter, taking it from the messenger, who had remained motionless like a statue until the document was in his hands. As soon as Zeke took it, the messenger sprang to life, striding past him toward the exit without so much as a word of farewell.

For a moment, Zeke hesitated, considering whether to open the letter right then and there. His curiosity about its contents was immense. However, he decided against it, reigning in his impatience. He tucked the letter away for later and refocused on his duties. Now, he was even more eager to deal with the current crop of unwanted visitors.

Thankfully, Akasha worked efficiently, and it didn’t take long for the first of them to start leaving the hall. Some wore pleasant expressions, nodding at Zeke as they departed, while others, disgruntled, stormed out without even glancing in his general direction.

As each person left, Akasha kept him informed about their requests and how she had responded. Hearing her reports, Zeke was pleased. She had a keen understanding of his priorities and could identify opportunities that aligned with his goals. In a way, it was unsettling how well the Spirit knew his preferences. Sometimes, he even felt that she understood him better than he did himself.

Finally, the last visitor departed, leaving Zeke alone in the large audience chamber. His mother and her assistants had slipped away the moment he took over, sending him grateful glances as they left.

When the door closed and the sound of footsteps faded, Zeke retrieved the king's letter once more. His heart pounded as he sliced open the envelope with a blade of hardened blood.

He pulled out the contents and unfolded the single page. Though it appeared plain, Zeke knew better than to judge a message from the enigmatic king by its simplicity. And indeed, even the first sentence was enough to send his heart into turmoil:

“In my name and capacity as King of Tradespire, I extend a formal offer of endorsement to Ezekiel of Tradespire to join the Merchant Council…”

B6 - Chapter 8: Mage’s Association III

Rank 1: Ezekiel of Tradespire (Von Hohenheim) — 17 years — Middle-tier Grand Mage.

Rank 2: Linus Geistreich — 21 years — Intial-tier Grand Mage.

Rank 3: Lara Sonnenstrahl — 21 yers — Intial-tier Grand Mage.

…

Zeke’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk at the sight of the name he had just surpassed. He didn’t know much about Linus Geistreich, but that last name told him everything he needed to know. A descendant of the Emperor of Arkanheim, no doubt—likely a prodigy in his own right, judging by his swift advancement.

Yet, no matter how impressive Linus’s achievements were, his first-place record on the advancement list had just been obliterated. Zeke hadn’t just beaten the record; he had shattered it by a full four years. And as for the strength of their respective Cores, there was simply no comparison.

Of course, Zeke knew that part of his advantage came from his unique circumstances. Having three affinities instead of one naturally resulted in a larger Core and a higher overall Mana capacity. While it was true that his individual affinity output lagged behind specialists, the sheer volume of his Mana allowed him to be rated as a Middle-tier Grand Mage—despite having only just advanced.

The confirmation of his placement caused a far greater uproar than his earlier performance. It seemed the weight of what had just occurred was finally sinking in—a long-standing first-place record had been broken. A new name had not only entered the rankings but claimed the very top spot.

Zeke’s smile widened further as he noticed how the Mage’s Association had chosen to display his name: Ezekiel of Tradespire (Von Hohenheim). The inclusion of his former title was a clear affront to the Empire that had publicly stripped him of that honor. Yet, it also served as a subtle tribute to his mentor, Maximilian. Zeke suspected that was the deciding factor behind their choice.

Whatever else Maximilian might have been, he had always been a scholar—a man devoted to advancing the field of Magic. His ideals, whether by coincidence or design, aligned closely with those of the Mage’s Association. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the organization favoring such a figure, regardless of political affiliations or accusations leveled against him.

Licking his lips, Zeke’s gaze drifted to the list on the right—the one displaying records for reaching the Archmage level. His excitement vanished in an instant. His entire body froze as he skimmed through the first dozen entries. Any hopes of making another splash in a few years were utterly dashed.

Rank 1: Nova Fortuna — 0 years — Initial-tier Archmage.
Rank 2: Orion Fortuna — 0 years — Initial-tier Archmage.

Fortuna…

Fortuna…

Fortuna…

Zeke’s mind reeled as he stared at the list. Of course, he had heard tales of the miraculous Fortuna bloodline—the most revered family of Time Mages on the continent. Rumors claimed that any child born of their bloodline would enter the world already an Archmage. Zeke had always dismissed such stories as fantastical nonsense. But now, faced with undeniable proof, he could no longer refute it.

His thoughts raced as he reevaluated all the information he’d once discarded. Honestly, who could blame him for not taking those rumors seriously? The Seers of Serevan, typically known for their impartiality and wisdom, seemed to lose all sense of reason when it came to the Fortuna family—spouting prophecies and praise like a band of crazed zealots.

Their claims bordered on lunacy—ranging from a divine mission to guard the continent to the audacious assertion that they were descendants of the God of Time himself.

But if the rumor about them being born as Archmages was true, perhaps Zeke shouldn’t dismiss their other claims so readily. After all, something like this was unheard of. No other power could boast anything remotely comparable. Even the Emperor of Arkanheim—an Exarch with the Mind affinity and widely regarded as the smartest man on the continent—had been unable to replicate the secret behind the Fortuna bloodline’s gift.

“Congratulations, sir,” the attendant said, pulling Zeke out of his thoughts. “This is a splendid achievement that will surely elevate your fame.”

Zeke nodded modestly. He had expected this result when he came here, so it wasn’t hard to keep his excitement under control. Even so, he couldn’t help but feel pleased with himself. His gaze drifted back to the board displaying the various records.

Now that his advancement was public knowledge, would it really hurt to show off a little more?

Of course, Zeke wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he could break just any record that had stood the test of time. Many of those had been set by Grand Mages who had spent decades—if not centuries—honing their strength. But earlier, he had noticed a list that seemed tailor-made for him.

For one, he wouldn’t have to reveal any of his secrets. And second, he could shatter the first-place record with ease while still holding back most of his capabilities.

It was perfect.

He extended his hand, pointing toward the list in question. “I’d like to undergo another test.”

The attendant blinked, visibly surprised. It was clear Zeke had only just advanced, so competing with other Grand Mages seemed almost impossible. Many had lingered at that stage for years, their power refined to its absolute peak.

Still, curiosity got the better of him, and he followed Zeke’s finger to see which list he intended to challenge. The title of the list read: Simultaneous Spellcasting.

The attendant’s mouth fell open as he saw the category. Zeke smirked at the reaction, though he understood perfectly why the man was so stunned. Simultaneous spellcasting was a discipline that demanded extraordinary focus and mental capacity. It was a skill that needed to be honed and developed over years of grueling practice.

It was simply that difficult.

Creating a Spellform could be likened to drawing a picture. Even if the picture was simple, most people would struggle to draw two at the same time. The human mind simply wasn’t built to focus on multiple tasks simultaneously. With training, it was possible to manage two, perhaps three, with some proficiency. But there was a hard limit. For most, even with extensive practice, trying to focus on more than 3-5 Spellforms at once would cause the quality of their work to plummet.

There was, however, one group capable of pushing past that barrier: Mind Mages. Zeke knew of spells that could segment consciousness, such as [Multiple Minds] and [Parallel Thinking]—both tools that allowed users to divide their attention effectively. Unsurprisingly, the entire list of top scorers was dominated by Mind Mages, with the name Geistreich filling most of the slots.

As Zeke scanned the rankings, he spotted a familiar name near the top:

Rank 6: Linus Geistreich — 29 spells.

It was an impressive record. Zeke, despite possessing a Mind affinity, could only manage a handful of spells simultaneously, no matter how intensely he focused. But it didn’t matter. With Akasha by his side, he could control as many spells as he needed. As a Mind-attuned Spirit, her consciousness wasn’t bound by the same restrictions as a human’s. Whether she split her focus once or a hundred times, it was all the same to her.

“Are you sure you want to compete in that category, sir?” the attendant asked cautiously. “A poor showing might tarnish your stellar performance today…”

“I’m well aware,” he replied kindly. He appreciated the man’s warning, even if the concern was misplaced. If he failed to even place on the list, people might see him as overconfident or arrogant. Attempting this without certainty of success would indeed be a foolish decision—but Zeke had no doubts.

The man studied his expression, nodded slowly, and, seeing the determination in Zeke’s eyes, led him toward an open area. “What spell will you be casting, sir?” he asked, his tone returning to its businesslike cadence.

“[Telekinesis],” Zeke answered without hesitation. Although Akasha could use his Core to cast spells of any affinity, she was most proficient with Mind spells. Of those he knew, [Telekinesis] was the only one with a visible effect, making it the perfect choice.

The attendant nodded knowingly. Zeke suspected that most Mind Mages would choose the same spell for this test.

The attendant stepped to the side and retrieved a large wooden chest. Without a word, he set it down in front of Zeke and pulled open the lid, revealing its contents—a collection of perfectly identical marbles, each no larger than a fingernail. Hundreds of them rested neatly inside.

“Will these do, sir?” the attendant asked.

Zeke nodded.

“Then please begin lifting them one by one.”

Before Zeke could respond, the first marble floated out of the chest, quickly followed by a second and a third. Akasha, as always, was already ahead of him, clearly having understood his intent. Still, Zeke sent her a quick message to confirm.

“We’re only here to beat the record, not to show off.”

A wave of affirmation rippled back to him—her mental equivalent of a nod. Satisfied, Zeke simply leaned back and let her work.

The crowd that had gathered to witness Zeke’s first record-breaking feat had followed him here with no small amount of curiosity. Yet when they realized he intended to challenge the Simultaneous Spellcasting category, their enthusiasm visibly dimmed.

Even as the first marbles rose, most of the spectators shook their heads. This was a field ruled by old masters—Mind Mages who had spent their entire lives honing this singular discipline. For a newly advanced Grand Mage, the idea of competing against them was laughable.

Still, as marble after marble floated gracefully into the air, a few people began to take notice. While no one believed he could truly challenge the top rankings, they had to admit his composure was impressive. Most Mages would have struggled to lift even a handful of marbles at once, yet Zeke looked as though he were doing nothing at all—his face calm, his body completely relaxed.

After a dozen marbles hovered steadily in the air, the mood in the crowd began to shift. Where there had been boredom and disappointment, now a faint spark of excitement flickered. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers as more marbles began to rise.

For the first time, doubt crept into their minds. Just how far was this boy planning to go?

Zeke watched impassively as Akasha worked, marbles rising effortlessly into the air. Technically, some might consider what he was doing cheating, but he dismissed the thought. Akasha was part of him—her strength was his strength, and he saw no reason to draw a line between them.

10… 20… 30…

The first-place record stood at 36 spells, and it didn’t take Akasha long to match it. Zeke’s gaze drifted to the crowd, amused as shock spread across their faces. A mischievous thought crept into his mind.

“A few more,” he sent telepathically.

Akasha didn’t hesitate. The marbles continued to rise—37, 38, 39… until they settled at 41. Zeke nodded, satisfied. There was a reason for his instruction beyond sheer vanity. Beating the record by a single marble would make it obvious he’d been holding back, his true limit far beyond what he showed. By surpassing it comfortably, his attempt seemed far more genuine—an actual challenge, rather than a calculated display.

If anyone suspected he could do more, it would remain pure speculation.

Zeke turned to the attendant, who was staring at the floating cloud of marbles with an expression of utter disbelief.

“Is there anything else I need to do?” Zeke asked calmly.

The man blinked, snapping out of his stupor. He still looked at Zeke like he’d grown a second head but managed to find his voice.

“...Please keep your spells active for at least one minute, sir,” he said.

Zeke nodded, finally allowing a hint of strain to creep onto his face. He furrowed his brow slightly, shoulders tensing—just enough to make it believable. After all, if he appeared completely unfazed, no one would buy this as his actual limit.

But his efforts were wasted.

Akasha, clearly in a playful mood, decided to pull a little prank. The once-chaotic cloud of marbles shifted, rearranging themselves with startling precision. Within moments, the floating orbs began to spell out letters in the air.

Zeke caught the message and could only manage a wry smile as the words became clear:

Von Hohenheim > Geistreich

The crowd fell into stunned silence.

B6 - Chapter 7: Mage’s Association II

Zeke stepped into a large hall, immediately noticing how different it was from the previous floor. Instead of long corridors leading to separate offices, the space was open and dominated by a massive board covered in dense text.

His eyes were drawn to the board, a display of records and their holders. He instantly recognized some of the more renowned lists, like “Fastest Advancement” and “Power Ranking”, but there were dozens of others he had never even heard of.

Another striking difference was the sheer number of people bustling about the hall. Some were clearly association staff, while others were participants getting tested or friends offering support. A fair number, however, appeared to be mere spectators with no direct ties to the process.

Zeke’s gaze settled on one such man—his rigid posture and sharp, focused eyes were unmistakable. Zeke had seen men like him before; he was likely a retired military officer. It wasn’t hard to imagine that many of these so-called spectators were actually spies, keeping a close watch for any shifts in the rankings. After all, the powers to be would want to know of any changes the moment they occurred.

Before Zeke could take another step, a man in the familiar black-and-white uniform approached him with a genial smile. “Are you here to spectate, sir?”

Zeke shook his head. “I’m here to have myself registered.”

The man gave him a quick once-over, his brows twitching slightly before smoothing out. His genial demeanor never faltered. “What category would you like to compete in?”

“Advancement,” Zeke replied.

For a split second, the man’s expression seemed to freeze, but he quickly recovered, masking any sign of surprise. “Very well, sir,” he said smoothly, motioning for Zeke to follow. “Allow me to explain how the procedure works.”

Zeke fell in step behind him, listening intently.

“The test for advancement is one of the simplest,” the man began as they walked toward a quieter corner of the room. “It relies on two key metrics—your age and your magical level.”

They stopped in front of a small, unassuming box with a narrow opening at the top. “Here we are,” the man said, gesturing to the device. “This machine will determine your actual, physical age.”

Zeke eyed the contraption curiously. “How does it work?”

The man’s expression brightened, clearly energized by the question. “Ah, it’s a marvel of magical engineering! With just a single drop of blood, this device analyzes countless biological markers to determine precise metrics—your age included. The exact workings are a trade secret, of course,” he added with a hint of pride, “but I assure you, it has never been wrong. There is no known method to fool it.”

Zeke cast another seemingly casual glance at the machine, though his spatial perception had already pierced through its chassis, scanning the intricate mechanisms within. While it was impossible to fully comprehend the device’s workings in such a short time, he gained a rough understanding of its core functions.

With a nod, he stepped forward. He raised his hand, and a single drop of blood crystallized on the tip of his finger. Suspended for a moment, it detached and fell toward the opening, glimmering like a solitary raindrop.

Both Zeke and the staff member watched as the machine whirred to life. While the man waited patiently for the result, Zeke’s mind sharpened. Observing the device in motion was far more revealing than studying it in its inert state. Subtle movements, energy flows, and the interplay of its components began to reveal its secrets, piece by piece.

The moment the device activated, Zeke also felt a faint pull on his Core—proof that Akasha had increased her activity. She was likely dedicating the extra capacity to analyze the process. Zeke smirked slightly, pleased by her initiative. Her hunger for knowledge was admirable.

Moments later, the machine fell silent again, and a glowing number appeared on its front: 17. Zeke’s exact age.

The staff member nodded in satisfaction and noted it on his clipboard. Zeke, however, was unimpressed. That’s it? Just a number? He recalled the man’s earlier boast about the machine being impossible to cheat and couldn’t help but scoff inwardly. Several methods to falsify this result immediately came to mind. The procedure seemed far too superficial.

He had even been allowed to draw the blood himself. For all the staff members knew, it could have come from someone else entirely. Zeke could have easily kept another person’s blood isolated within his body. His opinion of the Mage’s Association ticked down a notch.

“Please follow me to the next test, sir,” the man said cheerfully, leading Zeke to another table. He gestured toward a crystal ball—perfectly clear and flawless. “The procedure is simple. All you need to do is channel your Mana into this crystal as quickly as possible.”

“How does that determine my level?” Zeke asked, his curiosity piqued once more.

The man pointed to a row of seven small lamps positioned in a straight line. “Each lamp is connected to a Mana-resistant alloy. The resistance increases progressively, so only a specific level of Mana can activate each lamp.”

Zeke nodded in understanding, though his brow furrowed. “But doesn’t that mean someone might fail to light the lamp corresponding to their actual level if they’re not strong enough?”

The man’s expression remained calm, though he gave a small nod. “That’s correct, sir. However, it doesn’t concern us. Anyone who can’t meet the minimum threshold for their level has no business registering in the first place.”

Zeke didn’t argue—he didn’t necessarily disagree. If someone couldn’t meet the basic standard, they had no place here. Still, what bothered him was the test’s inherent inaccuracy. It relied too heavily on raw Mana reserves rather than the true development of one’s Core. The method might work for 99% of participants, but it was still far too imprecise for his taste.

Zeke placed both hands on the crystal and began channeling Mana through his Core, eager to gauge the thresholds for each level. The first two lamps lit up immediately—likely representing the Apprentice and True Mage levels.

He increased his output gradually, pushing closer to his limit. Yet the third lamp, which marked the Grand Mage level, remained stubbornly dark. Zeke gritted his teeth, focusing harder, but the lamp refused to light.

Zeke frowned. At the moment, he was only using his Blood affinity—a third of his total Core capacity. Even so, it stung his pride to fall short of the Grand Mage threshold with just one affinity.

This was the exact reason many mages looked down on those with mixed affinities like his. While his versatility in combat was unmatched, the cost was clear: he couldn’t achieve the raw power output of a mage who specialized in a single affinity. His Core, spread across multiple affinities, limited the upper range of his spells.

In a contest of pure magical might, he would never be able to compete directly with other mages of his level.

Thankfully, such limitations mattered little in real combat. Even the weakest spell could be lethal if it struck a weak spot, while an earth-shattering, sky-rending spell was useless if it failed to hit its target. Theoretical limits meant nothing when so many factors were at play, and Zeke wouldn’t trade his Space or Mind affinities for anything.

Compared to the power of Akasha and his Spatial Awareness, the ridicule of the magical community was irrelevant.

Reaffirming his resolve, Zeke stopped holding back. He engaged his entire Core, letting Mana surge freely through him. Immediately, the third lamp—previously flickering weakly—burst to life with a brilliant glow. Though he didn’t manage to trigger the fourth lamp, his output made it clear that he was solidly positioned at the level of a Grand Mage.

The staff member, who had begun to frown moments earlier, now beamed with excitement. “Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!” he exclaimed. “Middle-tier Grand Mage at just 17!” His enthusiastic outburst instantly drew the attention of the people nearby, their curious gazes turning toward them.

Zeke felt several gazes land on him, some laced with Magic. While he couldn’t identify their exact nature, they were undoubtedly attempts to glean more information about him. In response, Zeke flared his Core, flooding his body with Mana. The dense field served as a simple yet effective defense, muddling any probing spells. Even his own Spatial Perception would struggle to pierce such a shield—unless, of course, the caster was far more powerful than him.

He doubted any Archmages were lurking in the crowd though; they had far more pressing matters than loitering here.

After a few moments, the attention began to wane, and Zeke ceased channeling Mana into the crystal, though he maintained the shroud around himself. Now that he’d drawn so many eyes, he intended to keep a degree of mystery.

Glancing to the side, he noticed the attendant staring at him with an almost fervent intensity. The change from his earlier professionalism was striking. “What is your name, sir?” the man asked, his voice eager.

Zeke could feel the crowd’s focus sharpen. The surrounding spectators leaned in, hanging on his answer. A smirk tugged at his lips. He couldn’t deny it—this was exhilarating. The attendant’s slip of excitement had turned this moment into the perfect opportunity to propagate his fame.

“Ezekiel of Tradespire,” he answered casually.

The room fell silent. Even the more distant groups paused, their attention snapping to him. But the hush didn’t last long—within moments, the air buzzed with excited whispers and startled exclamations.

Zeke’s name had once been well-known in Tradespire after his meteoric rise. However, after his departure for Korrovan, news about him had dried up. The fact that no one had immediately recognized him spoke volumes about how much his fame had faded. Still, it seemed his name hadn’t slipped entirely into obscurity.

The staff member’s expression shifted as he studied Zeke more closely—his face, his eyes, and his crimson hair. A moment later, the man gave a small nod, likely piecing together Zeke’s identity and realizing how his Core’s structure explained the impressive burst of Mana he had demonstrated earlier.

“Would you like your name recorded publicly, sir?”

Zeke nodded. That was, after all, the reason he had come. Well, that and to see for himself what the other Mages were capable of.

The attendant smiled at Zeke’s affirmation and quickly called someone over. He handed her the clipboard and then took his position beside Zeke. The two stood shoulder to shoulder, their gazes focused on the large board displaying the current records.

“The tablet is actually a man-made artifact,” the attendant explained without looking away from the board. “It’s linked to identical devices scattered across the continent. Any information entered into the system is automatically shared with all of them.”

“I heard the tests can only be taken here?” Zeke asked casually.

The man nodded. “That’s correct, sir. It ensures that local powers can’t pressure the Association into falsifying results. After all, securing a spot on the list is a mark of prestige for any power, and many unscrupulous factions would use their influence to claim such honors.”

Zeke glanced to the side, impressed by the man’s candidness. Not many had the courage to speak so openly about their betters.

The man, noticing his gaze, smiled slightly. “It’s not bravery,” he said, almost as if he’d read Zeke’s thoughts. “I simply trust in the Association’s ability to keep me safe.”

Zeke nodded slowly, now curious about the upper echelons of this organization. But before he could ask anything further, the man spoke again.

“Look,” he said, pointing toward one of the lists at the top of the board. Zeke followed his gaze and immediately saw what the man was indicating. Letters shifted on the screen, and the previous number one, "Linus Geistreich," was moved to the second spot. In its place, a new entry appeared:

Ezekiel of Tradespire (Von Hohenheim) — 17 years — Middle-tier Grand Mage.

B6 - Chapter 6: Mage’s Association I

The cheerful chime of bells greeted Zeke as he pushed open the door, the sound echoing softly once more as it closed behind him.

He took a deep breath, his chest tight with a mix of emotions. Though he had known of this place for years, this was the first time he had ever stepped inside.

“Welcome to the Mage’s Association,” a dignified voice called. “How may I assist you, sir?”

Zeke turned his attention to the speaker: an older woman with her hair pulled back into a firm, no-nonsense bun. A pair of half-moon glasses perched perfectly on the bridge of her nose, and she wore a black and white uniform. The fabric was pristine, as though it had just come from the wash—without so much as a single crease.

The moment their eyes met, Zeke felt an odd impulse to straighten his posture. Despite all his experiences, there was no escaping the instinctive reaction of feeling like a misbehaving schoolboy under the gaze of a strict professor.

He suppressed a chuckle at the thought and offered her his best smile. “I’m here to register for the portal network.”

Without missing a beat, the woman’s deft hands retrieved the appropriate form. Moments later, her sharp gaze was back on him, all business. “Is this a registration for a member of your organization, sir?”

“I’m registering myself,” Zeke replied.

One of her perfectly manicured eyebrows arched—only a fraction, but for a woman of her composure, it might as well have been a gasp. Zeke smirked inwardly. It made sense, though. After all, registering for the Portal Network required a mage to reach the level of Grand Mage. Achieving that before the age of 25 was the mark of a true genius. Zeke, on the other hand, was still in his teens, and despite his growing maturity, his youthful features made it clear he had yet to reach adulthood.

“Name of the applicant,” the woman said, her tone cool and professional once again.

“Ezekiel,” he replied.

The moment the name left his lips, the woman froze, her sharp gaze locking onto his face with newfound scrutiny. After taking in his crimson hair and golden eyes, she finally spoke. “Ezekiel von Hohenheim? Disciple of Maximilian Bombastus von Hohenheim?”

“Not anymore,” Zeke said with a grimace, “on both accounts.”

The woman inclined her head slowly. “A true shame. His death was a blow to the magical community as a whole.”

Zeke nodded but remained silent. A part of him blamed the Mage’s Association for Maximilian’s fate. His mentor had been exposed, in part, because his messages to Tradespire had been intercepted. Even so, Zeke wouldn’t stoop so low as to direct his frustrations at this woman—she wasn’t responsible for what had happened.

After his name was revealed, the questions ceased entirely. Zeke watched in silent astonishment as the entire questionnaire seemed to fill itself out. The woman’s pen moved with practiced efficiency, recording every detail about him without his input—his magical affinities, political affiliations, parentage, even his hometown.

Zeke’s brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t expected this level of thoroughness. Sure, he’d gained some renown recently, but for them to know this much about him from a single name? The staff here were clearly chosen for good reason. It was, Zeke had to admit, an impressive display of competence.

In less than a minute, the form was complete. The woman reviewed it one final time before sliding it across the desk toward him. “Portal registration is on the third floor.”

Zeke accepted the document, giving it a quick glance. Everything was in order. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome, sir.” The woman paused, then spoke again, her tone cautious. “If I may be so bold, you might consider visiting the seventh floor once your business is concluded.”

Zeke raised an eyebrow. “What’s on the seventh floor?”

“The Department of Records and Rankings,” she explained. “You should consider registering your achievement.”

Zeke frowned in thought. Initially, he had planned to keep his advancement under wraps for as long as possible. But now that he was registering for the Portal Network, secrecy seemed pointless. The registration would distribute his information to every nation with an active portal system, making it easy for anyone with influence to uncover his progress.

At this stage, continuing to hide his advancement would likely do more harm than good. If anonymity was no longer an option, leveraging recognition was the next best choice. Fame, after all, could be a weapon in its own right.

Zeke gave her a grateful nod. “I’ll consider it,” he said, turning to leave. However, after searching for a while, he couldn’t find a stairway leading to the higher floors.

A soft clearing of a throat caught his attention. He glanced back at the woman who had helped him earlier. When their eyes met, she subtly motioned to the left, toward a spot he had just passed.

Without reacting outwardly, Zeke returned to the indicated area. He quickly noticed that the small alcove was etched with intricate inscriptions embedded in the floor. Upon closer inspection, he saw faint carvings on the wall: numbers ranging from 0 to 12, representing the building’s floors.

His gaze landed on the number three, the floor he needed to visit first. Raising his hand, he tentatively touched the inscription. At once, he felt a faint pull from the enchantment. Loosening his tight control over his Core, he allowed a trickle of Mana to flow into the glyphs.

A bright white flash briefly blinded him, and he felt space warp around him—a sensation he recognized instantly. When the light faded, Zeke found himself on a similar platform in a different location, his hand still outstretched toward the wall.

Turning around, he saw an entirely new scene. The corridor behind him confirmed he had reached the third floor. He began walking, curiously taking in his surroundings. The floor hosted more than just the Department for Portal Network registration.

As he strolled past various offices, his eyes skimmed the signs: Magical Beasts, Magical Contracts, Marriage Registration, and finally, Portal Network.

Zeke entered the department and was greeted by an elaborate setup. Instead of the expected simple desk, the room resembled the lair of a mad scientist, filled with a diverse array of magical apparatuses—each more intricate than the last.

“What do you want?” a gruff voice barked.

Zeke continued scanning the room, his curiosity piqued. He could discern the purpose of about half the devices, and given more time, he was confident he could decode the rest. Then again, there was no need to rush. Akasha had likely cataloged them all already.

Turning to the man who had spoken, Zeke handed over his document with a polite smile. “I’m here to register.”

“You?” The man’s disbelief was clear, but as his eyes flicked over the neatly filled-out form, his expression quickly shifted. “Apologies, sir,” he said after a brief pause, placing the document carefully on his desk.

“The cost of registration is 100 gold,” he announced, his tone turning brisk and professional. “We can begin as soon as the payment is made.”

Zeke nodded, retrieving a golden bar stamped with the number 100 and placing it on the table. The man barely spared it a glance before sliding it aside.

“Very well. If you’d please follow me,” he instructed, gesturing toward one of the devices Zeke didn’t know the purpose of. “Please channel your Mana into this device,” the man instructed.

The registration process continued in much the same way, with Zeke following the man from one apparatus to the next. Each device was designed to assess a different aspect of his Space affinity. At one point, he was even instructed to perform a short-range teleportation inside a small, isolated chamber. Throughout the process, he could feel the constant hum of magical instruments measuring and analyzing his every move.

The procedure was far more thorough than he had expected. After this, there would be no mistaking his magical signature—no matter where he teleported. The sheer amount of data collected made it impossible to confuse him with anyone else.

The tests took nearly an hour, during which the gruff man guided Zeke through every step. Once the process was complete, the man disappeared into an adjoining room, leaving Zeke alone. Zeke used the opportunity to study the magical devices again. Now that he had interacted with most of them, their purposes were far clearer.

Before long, the man returned, holding a thin black rectangle. The object was inscribed with strange letters and resembled the business cards used by wealthy merchants—except it appeared to be made of metal, and the text was written in a language Zeke didn’t recognize.

The man handed the card to Zeke. “This is your identification card. Ususally, the system will automatically recognize your magical signature. However, if you’re asked to verify yourself, present this card to the Portal guards. It contains an encrypted summary of all your information and measurements.”

Zeke nodded, placing the card in his pocket. “Anything else I need to know?”

The man pondered for an instant. “I recommend that you wait a few days before independently using the Portal Network. Otherwise, it is possible that you will not be recognized yet. Arriving at one of these Portal could turn out to be quite dangerous or even deadly.”

Zeke nodded, having already expected something like this. This restriction wouldn’t influence him. After all, he would use the official portal between cities instead of opening a passage on his own. After all, he had never been to the dwarfen capital and therefore couldn’t even perceive the beacon’s frequency.

The man gave Zeke a few more words of caution before sending him on his way. Soon, he found himself back on the platform that traversed the floors, his gaze flickering between the numbers.

Should he leave now, or visit the Department of Records and Rankings?

Zeke had grown accustomed to the spotlight over the past few years. A part of him even relished the attention and admiration. However, this decision would draw more focus on him than ever before.

So far, his accomplishments, though impressive, could still be attributed to the achievements of a remarkably talented youngster. But advancing to Grand Mage at his age and officially registering the record would place him at the top of leaderboards, possibly even overshadowing legendary geniuses of past eras. It was a step that needed careful consideration.

Was he truly ready to put himself in the spotlight of the entire continent?

Zeke’s hand hovered over the etchings for a moment, caught in thought. Then, with a firm decision, his finger pressed against the number 7. In an instant, a flash of light enveloped him, and he found himself in a new location.

It was time to make history.

B6 - Chapter 5: Yggdrasil

The sky stretched endlessly above her, a flawless expanse of blue without a single cloud in sight. There never were any clouds, nor could there be—not at this elevation. It was an odd thought, realizing that if she wanted to see the soft white of the clouds, she would have to look down.

Margret walked onto the balcony of her small residence where two chairs and a small table had been placed. They were all carved from wood, just like everything in this strange place. Well, carved might not have been the right word, exactly. It looked more like they had just happened to grow into the desired shape, without any crafting involved.

It was the way of the elven people.

Rather than harnessing the gifts of nature and mold them to their desired shape, they preferred to whisper to it, hoping that it would comply with their demands. It was gentle, in a sense, even though their society was anything but.

The moment Margret stepped into the open, a gust of wind tousled her long hair. She welcomed it. The wind had been her constant companion these past few months—one of the few companions she’d had.

A few steps later, she reached the low railing of her balcony. Balcony wasn’t quite the right word, she thought bitterly. After all, this place had been designed for a very different purpose.

Her gaze fell downward, only to meet an endless expanse of sky, broken only by the thick white carpet of clouds far below. To her left, right, above, and below, similar cabins dotted the vast branches—hundreds of them—each identical to her own. These were the homes of the so-called flyers, as the elves called them.

These balconies were no mere decoration. They served as both a landing pad and the only entrance to her isolated dwelling. After all, this place was perched upon one of the highest and most remote branches of Yggdrasil, a place unreachable by any who lacked the ability to fly.

Of course, she couldn’t entirely blame the elves for their choices. Space was the most precious commodity on the world tree, and there were logical reasons to send Wind Mages—or flyers—to the most remote branches. But did their homes have to look exactly like birdhouses? Right down to the way they seemed nailed onto the giant tree? It was utterly degrading.

More frustrating was how the location of one's home reflected their status in the city. For Wind Mages, this meant being perpetually relegated to the outskirts—symbolic of their place in elven society. While not outright shunned, Wind Magic was certainly not a celebrated affinity. Flyers were tolerated, at best.

Margret closed her eyes, letting the wind brush across her skin. Was this how Zeke had felt during his time in the Empire?

Only now, standing in his shoes, did she truly grasp the weight of it all. Zeke had rarely complained about his treatment, but it must have been exhausting to endure such casual disregard, especially as a child. Even now, Margret struggled with the condescension of the elves, and she had lived for decades.

At least she had learned to temper her reactions. In those first few weeks, her temper had gotten the better of her, and she’d found herself in more fights than she cared to admit. It hadn’t taken long, however, to realize that the elves had no patience for troublemakers. She’d narrowly avoided expulsion by officially joining the flyers, gaining just enough standing to secure her place.

That decision had changed everything.

The treatment she received improved immediately. She was no longer just an outsider; she was now a person with a title, however lowly. The uniform she wore demanded at least some degree of respect—or, at the very least, kept most insults at bay.

Margret began buttoning up her tight-fitting shirt, fastening it all the way to the stiff collar that felt almost like a noose around her neck. She had mixed feelings about the uniform. On one hand, it was far too snug, clinging to her form like a second skin. Despite covering her from head to toe, it felt oddly revealing. On the other hand, she couldn’t deny its practicality. It was the best outfit for flying she had ever worn—streamlined, offering almost no air resistance. She felt faster, nimbler, as though the wind itself approved of her attire.

Satisfied that everything was in place, Margret stepped onto the balcony and dove. She surrendered herself to the wind, her body slicing effortlessly through the air. Her dive smoothed into a glide as she curved around the massive branch to which her colony of homes was attached. Calling on the wind to lift her higher, she took a slight detour, preferring to avoid the risk of bumping into anyone. Trouble had a way of finding her without any help.

For nearly an hour, she followed the colossal wooden branch, its immense length stretching toward the heart of Ygdrassil. As she flew, the houses she passed grew steadily larger and more elaborate, a silent reminder of the blatant favoritism within elven society.

When the main city came into view, the estates had swelled to staggering proportions. Her eyes lingered on a particularly grand mansion sprawling across the branch, complete with an artificial garden—an absurd display of wealth. The estate alone could have housed dozens of her tiny cabins.

Ridiculous, she thought bitterly.

She had no doubt that anyone living this close to the trunk could trace their lineage back to the first elves. They likely had ancestors—at least a dozen of them—seated on the council, securing their family’s status for generations. It was a picture of opulence, and it left little doubt about where the city’s priorities lay.

Not that she was in any position to judge. Human societies were no better, after all. Tradespire mirrored the same power structure as the world tree, tiered and rigid. Yet, in her opinion, there was still a notable difference.

Excellence could take you far as a human.

She didn’t have to look far for an example. Her lord, Ezekiel, had risen from a commoner’s beginnings to stand among the most powerful—a position comparable to the sprawling mansion she had just passed. And he had done it all in a single generation, before even turning twenty. That kind of meteoric rise was simply unthinkable for the elves.

Among them, status was inherited, not earned. Without centuries of effort and the work of countless generations, recognition was impossible. In Margret’s eyes, those stiff-necked long-ears wouldn’t bow their heads before an Exarch even while they were still wet behind the ears.

It was this inflexibility, this refusal to budge when it came to rank and privilege, that had likely kept the elves so isolated. Margret couldn’t imagine such attitudes being well-received by any of the other races. They certainly didn’t make for good diplomats.

Margret chuckled at the thought before gradually lowering her altitude. She had arrived.

In front of her stood the Flyers Hall. According to her contract, she was required to spend at least a few hours here each week, taking on whatever assignments came her way. Fortunately for her, most elves were reluctant to entrust their cargo to a non-elf, leaving her with ample free time.

She landed smoothly on the eastern balcony and merged into the stream of people heading inside. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with rows of doors. Each one emitted a faint red glow, signaling it was occupied. Margret walked past them until she finally found a door pulsing green. With a resigned sigh, she stepped inside.

The room was as sparse as always: a single meditation mat and a small table with accompanying chairs. It was clear that comfort had never been a consideration in its design.

She moved to the slot beside the door and placed her numbered token—652—inside, signaling her readiness to receive work. Still, she inwardly prayed that no assignments would come her way.

To her dismay, footsteps echoed down the hall almost immediately after she clocked in. That was truly unlucky. Maybe someone had requested her specifically? It seemed unlikely, but she couldn’t think of a better reason for someone to show up so quickly.

Her curiosity was short-lived as the door opposite hers swung open. Margret remained seated as an elven woman strode in, a smug smirk spreading across her face the moment her eyes landed on Margret. Her gaze lingered—far too long—on certain areas.

Lecherous bitch, Margret cursed silently, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d been subjected to such a look from this woman. To be fair, Myrella wasn’t the worst offender. In Margret’s experience, elves were all perverts to some degree, but at least this one kept her attention to staring and didn’t cross further lines.

“Seen enough?” Margret interrupted, her tone dry as the silence dragged on.

“Don’t be like that, 652,” the elven woman replied in a sultry voice, her smirk widening. “It’s not like me looking is costing you anything.”

“It costs me time,” Margret shot back, her patience thinning.

Myrella sighed dramatically. “I really don’t envy you short-lived species. Always so obsessed with saving time, always in such a rush. Do you ever stop to enjoy the finer things in life?”

Margret scoffed, crossing her arms. “Stop wasting my time, Myrella. Do you have a mission for me, or are you just here to stare?”

Myrella shook her head, feigning innocence. “Truth be told, I don’t actually have a mission for you…”

Margret’s eyes narrowed sharply. Did that mean this woman had really come just to stare at her? That would be a new low, even for this insufferable pervert.

“…This time, I’ve come to deliver something to you,” Myrella added with a teasing lilt, clearly amused as anger began to build on Margret’s face. “Here it is.”

She waved a letter in the air, holding it between her fingers as though it were a treat she expected a pet to beg for. Margret’s sharp gaze locked onto the wax seal on the back. Her heart skipped a beat. It was unmistakable—the personal seal of the von Hohenheim household.

A letter from Ezekiel.

Margret shot to her feet in an instant, surging forward to snatch the letter. But Myrella, anticipating the move, danced gracefully out of reach. For all her insufferable antics, the elf was a formidable Wind Mage in her own right, hovering dangerously close to the level of an Archmage. Catching her was a pipe dream, and Margret knew it.

With a frustrated sigh, Margret straightened, her irritation simmering just beneath the surface. She should’ve expected something like this. Myrella’s games were always tiresome, but it didn’t make them any less aggravating in the moment.

“What do you want?” Margret asked, her voice tight with barely concealed restraint.

Myrella’s grin widened, smug and triumphant. “How about saying please?”

“Please,” Margret said immediately, swallowing her pride.

“Not like that.” Myrella shook her head in mock disappointment. “I expect you to at least lower your head a little.”

“Please give me the letter,” Margret repeated, dipping her head just a fraction.

Myrella hummed thoughtfully, tapping a finger to her chin. “Hmm. Still not quite right. Maybe it would help if you got on your knees?”

Margret had heard enough. She should have known better than to give in to this sadistic bitch’s games. Giving an inch only encouraged Myrella to push further, and Margret knew it wouldn’t stop there.

Her patience snapped. With a sharp focus of will, several [Wind Blades] shot out, slicing through the air straight toward the elf’s vitals. Margret didn’t dare hold back—not with someone like Myrella.

The elf merely grinned wider, sending out an equal number of [Wind Blades] in the blink of an eye. The spells collided midair, veering off course and striking the walls and ceiling. The ancient wood groaned as deep furrows were carved into it, but just as quickly, the damage began to heal itself, the wood knitting back together.

"So, you do have teeth..." Myrella said, her voice laced with amusement.

“The letter,” Margret demanded, glaring at her. “Give it here.”

Myrella nodded, almost too casually, before tossing the letter toward Margret. “Sure. All you had to do was ask.”

Margret snatched it from the air, still shooting Myrella a venomous look. She couldn’t begin to understand what went on inside the elf’s head, and frankly, she didn’t care to. Her direct superior was more of a nuisance than anything else, and Margret had learned to avoid contact with her whenever possible.

Thankfully, Myrella seemed to lose interest, leaving the room as quickly as she had entered, likely on her way to torment someone else.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Margret tore open the letter. Her eyes scanned the contents, moving faster than should have been possible.

Would he ask her to return?

It was the thing she both longed for and feared. On one hand, it would be a relief to leave this suffocating place, a wish she often entertained. But on the other hand, she hadn’t achieved anything yet. She had made no real connections, hadn’t infiltrated the elven hierarchy—nothing.

It could be said that this entire trip had been a colossal waste of time so far.

The more Margret read, the more her expression darkened.

Ezekiel had laid out his situation in full, explaining what he needed from the elves. Yet, he didn’t make demands. Instead, he left all the choices up to her, even offering her the option to return if she didn’t believe staying would benefit them.

It was a gesture of faith.

But rather than feeling relieved, those words only deepened the weight on her chest. Zeke needed her, yet she felt powerless to help. It was a far worse feeling than the tight collar of her uniform pressing against her neck.

Her eyes flicked to the deadline at the bottom of the letter. Four weeks. It hardly felt like enough time, not even close. But Margret knew that if she didn’t give it her all, she would never forgive herself.

Her gaze steadied, and her resolve grew stronger. It didn’t matter whether she believed she could succeed—what mattered was that she gave it everything she had. That way, at least, she would have no regrets.

With her decision made, Margret sat down on the meditation mat, her mind clearer and more focused than it had been in weeks.

B6 - Chapter 4: Taming the Sands

With a slow, drawn-out exhale, another gentle plume of smoke drifted toward the crystalline ceiling of the enormous cavern.

David leaned back further, settling into his perch. The metal dome of the black tower wasn’t exactly built for comfort—its architecture was as cold and unwelcoming as it looked—but it was still his favorite spot in the city. From here, the entirety of Undercity stretched out beneath him, a view unmatched anywhere else. More importantly, it was one of the few places where he could remain undisturbed for any meaningful length of time.

Though there were few who could track him down if he truly wished to disappear, hiding wasn’t his goal. Coming here was a refuge.

He let out a weary sigh before taking another long draw from his cigar. It was the last of his cherished collection, and he already dreaded the weeks ahead. Leading an entire city was stressful enough, but doing so without the calming influence of the elves’ divine herbs? That would be a challenge all its own.

A low chuckle escaped his lips, surprising even himself.

It really was funny, though—him, a man who had lived his life with such rigid discipline, now finding himself so fond of complaining. Maybe his age was finally catching up with him.

An amusing thought, though he knew it wasn’t true. David hadn’t even reached half his lifespan, and if anything, he felt younger than he had in decades.

Life was strange sometimes.

He hadn’t put much faith in his young lord’s theory about the Soul, yet he had gone along with it anyway. Accepting his new position among the dwarfs had seemed the proper course—just another duty for the obedient soldier he had always been. But the experience had been eye-opening.

Stripped of his role as a butler, with no estate to manage or servants to oversee, David found himself adrift for the first time in years. Each day felt aimless, without a clear goal or purpose to anchor him. It was a sobering period that forced him to confront an uncomfortable truth.

He had grown complacant.

Not physically—his body remained in its prime. But his mind, dulled by years of routine, struggled to adapt to the sudden changes.

How long had it been since he’d been forced to decide how to spend his time? How long since he’d had the freedom to explore his interests?

David took another slow drag of his cigar, the embers creeping closer to his fingers. The warm smoke caressed his throat, leaving a faint tingle that spread through his body like a comforting wave.

Now, there was no more doubt—none at all. In fact, he knew with absolute certainty that his young lord’s insight had been spot on. Though his magic hadn’t grown drastically stronger, something deeper had changed. His essence felt sharper, more refined, as if a missing piece had finally clicked into place.

The level of Archmage, once an unattainable dream, no longer seemed so distant.

Soon, he would join the ranks of the continent’s elites, his name spoken alongside the legends he had admired for so long.

Legends like Maximilian.

The memories of his long-time lord and mentor brought a crooked smile to David's lips. What would the old man think if he could see him now? Would he blame Ezekiel for corrupting the once straight-laced him? It was entirely possible.

The thought made him chuckle.

Then again, it was Maximilian who had chosen Ezekiel as his heir, placing his trust in the boy for reasons only he knew. Perhaps, instead of disappointment, he’d be delighted by the change.

Truth be told, it was hard to say. Despite spending much of his life by the old man’s side, David had never fully understood him.

Maximilian had been a man of unwavering beliefs, steadfast and resolute. He never hesitated to fight for what he thought was right—a man of virtue and unshakable character. He abhored schemes and plots, doing everything out in the open. A trait that had eventually cost him everything.

Ezekiel, on the other hand, was entirely different. Some might call him still immature, but David knew better. The boy was simply a different breed.

It wasn’t that Ezekiel was evil—far from it. Yet David couldn’t deny the darkness that lurked within his righteous heart. He firmly believed that if Ezekiel deemed it necessary, he would commit the vilest atrocities without hesitation.

It was a sobering thought, one that had robbed him of more than a few sleepless nights. Combined with the boy’s razor-sharp intellect and uncanny ability to absorb knowledge, it painted a possibility far more frightening than he cared to admit.

In the past, he might have considered turning his back on the family he had sworn to serve because of it. But now…

Before he could finish the thought, a presence to his left broke the quiet of his contemplation. David turned his head slowly, already guessing who it would be. In this city of shadows, few could match his mastery over the dark.

A sinuous figure clad in black leather stepped into view, violet eyes gleaming in the dark. Two long, upward-facing ears twitched slightly—confirmation of his guess.

“What brings you here, Elder Rabbit?” David asked, his voice calm.

The woman smiled, amused. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

David sighed and took another drag of his cigar. Now that he’d been discovered, he would need to find a new hiding spot.

“As you can see,” he said, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

The woman still spoke nothing of her purpose. Instead, she stepped closer to the edge of the roof, her violet eyes scanning the city below. A low whistle escaped her lips. “Quite the view you’ve got here.”

David followed her gaze, his eyes settling on the bustling streets below, brimming with life and energy. It was an impressive sight.

The city—once a cesspool of crime and poverty—had transformed beyond recognition in recent months. The fall of the syndicate, the immunity to enslavement, and an endless supply of food and water had reshaped this place into something no one could have imagined.

David’s lips curled faintly as he took in the scene. It was marvelous, really—a testament to how little people truly needed to thrive and live in comfort.

Yet, his gaze soon returned to the woman who had disturbed his peace. “Did you need something?”

She finally tore her eyes from the view and turned to face him. “As much as I’d like to say I came just to see you, there’s another matter.” Without waiting for him to ask, she reached into her cleavage and pulled out a pristine envelope. How it had stayed so perfectly uncreased in there was something David didn’t even want to contemplate.

“What is it?” he asked, choosing not to comment.

“Orders,” she replied, a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“Orders?” he echoed, brow rising. “And who could possibly dare order us around at this point? Don’t tell me the Lord of Lightning has suddenly decided to get involved.”

Elder Rabbit shook her head. “It’s from him.”

David’s gaze sharpened as he extended his hand. The envelope, which had been firmly held by Elder Rabbit, shot through the air as if drawn by an invisible force. The woman glanced at her empty hand, then back at David, a low whistle escaping her lips. “You’ll have to teach me how you did that one of these days.”

David ignored her, his full attention on the envelope. It had already been opened, likely by Soria. She was the only one who would dare. Whether her relationship with his young lord was as deep as she claimed, David couldn’t say—but her loyalty was beyond question.

After all, she had undergone the Ritual. Betrayal was simply not an option.

David carefully removed the letter and began to read, his expression shifting subtly. A long-term trade agreement? At least one million gold? His brows furrowed as he reached the worst part: four weeks. That was barely enough time to begin negotiations, let alone finalize a deal.

He read on, piecing together the situation. The merchant council. Of course. How did Ezekiel always manage to entangle himself in such impossible predicaments?

Finally, his eyes settled on the last lines of the letter, lingering there for a long moment.

“…If you deem it impossible to comply with my demands, then you are free to ignore this order. I trust your judgment.”

These lines, seemingly ordinary, held a weight that struck David deeply. Spoken by anyone else, they might have seemed unremarkable. But David knew better.

Trust.

It was the one thing Ezekiel didn’t give lightly. In fact, since their departure from the Empire, David couldn’t recall hearing him use the word even once. The betrayals he had endured seemed to have stripped him of the capacity to truly place his faith in others. The thousands of slaves walking the streets of Undercity were a stark testament to that painful truth.

David inhaled deeply, steadying his thoughts. He had not sworn an oath, undergone any Ritual, or even formally pledged his allegiance. Yet, his young lord had somehow found it within himself to trust again—to trust him.

His gaze hardened.

A million gold?

A ten-year contract?

Four weeks to make it happen?

It didn’t matter. Even if it had been ten times the amount in half the time, David would see it through. There was no room for hesitation. If Ezekiel believed in his ability to accomplish this, then he would do whatever it took to fulfill that trust.

Without realizing it, David’s hands had balled into fists, crumpling the letter. It didn’t matter—every word was already etched into his mind. His gaze met Elder Rabbit’s, and for the first time since her arrival, the teasing grin disappeared from her face. She stood straight, her expression serious.

“Call a meeting,” David ordered, his voice firm. “I want the entire council gathered within the hour. Not a single member missing. I don’t care what they’re doing—get them all.”

Elder Rabbit blinked, momentarily stunned, before giving a small nod. She stepped back, and in an instant, the darkness swallowed her whole.

David no longer paid her any mind. His thoughts were already spinning, piecing together a plan. To fulfill such an extraordinary order, there was no time for lengthy negotiations or formalities. He would need results—fast.

There was only one way to ensure that. He had to present an offer so irresistible that every merchant would jump to seize it. An opportunity so large, so undeniably lucrative, that proper procedure and hesitation would be the last things on their minds.

It was time to unleash the full might of the forces he had assembled—to reveal the economic powerhouse that a united Undercity had become. A force capable of standing toe-to-toe with the high and mighty lords of Korrovan.

A grin spread across his face—an expression that would have seemed impossible for the rigid butler of the past, yet oddly fitting for the man he had become. David tilted his head to either side, accompanied by the creaking and cracking of his stiff neck.

It was time to get to work.

B6 - Chapter 3: Requirements

Zeke paced in slow, deliberate circles around Akasha’s materialized form, which stood motionless in the center of the room. Hovering above her were numerous floating displays, their glowing contents constantly shifting as they adjusted to face Zeke no matter where he moved.

These phenomena, including Akasha herself, were visible only to him.

Occasionally, he would pause to glance at the information on the screens, his gaze lingering as his thoughts turned inward. Then, with a faint sigh or a furrow of his brow, he would resume his contemplative pacing. This quiet routine had persisted for hours, with neither he nor Akasha breaking the silence.

The reason for their silence was simple: neither Zeke nor Akasha could devise a clear plan to tackle their current predicament.

Each floating display outlined one of the requirements to join the Merchant Union as a council member. Many of them were already crossed out or had a detailed plan added underneath. However, the three points that remained had them utterly stumped.

In hindsight, the proposal seemed almost absurd. Joining the ranks of the world's most affluent and influential merchants was a feat rarely accomplished in a single lifetime. More often than not, it required generations of effort. Even becoming a regular member of the Merchant Union was a monumental task, yet Zeke was being asked to bypass all of that and ascend directly to their highest echelon.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Zeke silently cursed the unseen forces that had placed him in this situation. What had initially seemed like a welcome challenge now appeared nearly insurmountable.

His gaze drifted to the floating display positioned highest above the rest, the one causing him the most frustration. The text read: "Any prospective member must secure signed trade contracts with no fewer than three nations, with terms stipulating a minimum duration of ten years and a trade volume of at least one million gold or equivalent."

This was the most pressing issue.

As things stood, Zeke didn’t have a single contract to his name. While he earned significant profits trading in Tradespire, his connections outside the city were woefully underdeveloped. Even in Korrovan, where he held the most sway, he had no dealings with the influential houses. His entire support base was rooted in Undercity, a place populated almost exclusively by outcasts.

And even if he managed to secure a deal there, he would still need two more contracts to meet the requirement.

His gaze shifted downward to the second unmet condition displayed before him.

"Any prospective member must have at least one Archmage in their employ. The individual must be stationed in Tradespire for most of the year."

Zeke sighed. This condition was almost as bad as the first. The only Archmages that could even remotely be considered to be in his employ were the two refugees he had picked up in Undercity, but he doubted they would be willing to leave. After all, there had to be a reason they had chosen to live in exile in one of the most desolate places on the continent.

Most likely, they were on the run from something or someone.

Then there was the third condition he had yet to fulfill, and it was the one Zeke didn’t even know how to approach.

"Any prospective member must have the endorsement of the royal family of one of the continent’s recognized nations."

This requirement seemed nearly impossible to achieve within the given timeframe. Zeke lacked diplomatic ties to any royal families, and considering his strained relationship with the empire, securing their public endorsement was a monumental task. Such a move would likely paint a massive target on their backs.

Still, it wasn’t as though he had no leads. His relationship with Tristan Bloodsword might grant him an audience with Valor’s royal family. Similarly, Aurelia Thorsten, a living ancestor, had strong ties to her respective royal line. Lara Sonnenstrahl, too, was a member of Equinox’s royal family.

The real obstacle was time. Not only did he lack a clear method of contacting any of them, but all three were currently stationed on the frontlines, making them even harder to reach.

With a defeated sigh, Zeke ruffled his already disheveled hair, making it even messier. He turned to the silver-haired Spirit standing nearby, her impassive expression betraying nothing.

“Tell me you have an idea,” he said, almost pleading.

Akasha hesitated before slowly shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Host, but there doesn’t seem to be a clear way to meet all these requirements. Even achieving just one would be challenging given the timeframe.”

Zeke’s shoulders slumped at the response. It was exactly what he’d expected. Archmages weren’t exactly plentiful, trade agreements required time and delicate negotiations, and royal endorsements were far from casually given. He simply didn’t have the foundation to secure any of these within a few weeks.

Should he just give up on this opportunity?

Truthfully, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He hadn’t expected the offer in the first place, and a rejection wouldn’t significantly hinder his progress. Yet, the idea of quitting left a bitter taste in his mouth.

…that was not his way!

A spark reignited in his gaze. No clear path? So what? Since when had that ever stopped him?

“All right…” Zeke began, firming up his thoughts. “We’ll do the best we can with what we’ve got. Let’s start with the trade agreements. What are our most promising leads?”

“Korrovan,” Akasha answered immediately. “You could broker an agreement with one of the ruling families and Undercity. Our control over the manufacturing capabilities should provide enough leverage for a deal.”

Zeke nodded thoughtfully. That seemed feasible. “What else?”

Akasha hesitated for a moment. “The dwarves might be our next best option.”

“Why them?” Zeke asked.

“David has some connections in their capital,” she explained. “Also, they’re among the least rigid of the major powers. If the offer piques their interest, we could strike a deal with minimal preparation. The chances of success are relatively high.”

Zeke nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “What about the third option?”

Akasha hesitated for a moment before answering. “There are two possibilities that might work,” she said, though her tone lacked confidence. “The first would be the elves. Margrett has been in contact with them for nearly a year now. From her reports, their lands contain materials that could significantly benefit our manufacturing. Even a deal focused on resource procurement on a large scale would meet the requirements for a trade agreement.”

Zeke considered her suggestion, though he was skeptical. Unlike the dwarves, the elves were notoriously inflexible. Their long lifespans made them deeply entrenched in tradition, and they were famously slow to make decisions. Striking a deal with them in just a few weeks would be a monumental challenge.

“And the other option?” Zeke asked, hoping for something more viable.

“Winter,” Akasha replied.

Zeke froze. “Would that even count?”

Akasha’s expression remained impassive. “Based on the council's exact wording, yes. Winter is technically a ruler of a nation. His sphere of influence and personal power qualify him under their definition.”

Zeke’s mind raced. If Winter qualified, he was an option worth serious consideration. The untapped metal deposits within the mountain alone were worth several million gold. Persuading the Progenitor to agree to a trade deal would likely be straightforward as well. After all, there was much Zeke could offer in exchange for establishing a trade route.

Such a deal could also provide Gravitas and her legion of Blood Guards with a purpose for the coming years.

The real obstacle, however, was the Deadlands. Sheol’s domain was the primary reason trade between the continent and the Wilderness was nearly nonexistent. The King of the Dead was notoriously unpredictable when it came to allowing passage through his territory. While Zeke had parted with Sheol on relatively good terms, he had no idea how the enigmatic ruler would react to the idea of a permanent trade route being established across his lands.

The proposition carried a lot of risks in practice.

It might even be easier to bypass the Deadlands entirely using Spatial Magic. However, that came with its own set of challenges, mainly the high costs. It would significantly reduce the trade routes profitability. But for Zeke, that wasn’t much of a concern. He only needed the contract to be valid on paper. Even if he decided not to go through with the trade in the end, by the time he joined the council, it would be too late to stop him.

A smile slowly formed on Zeke’s face. This could actually work. At the very least, it was a solid starting point to build upon.

No matter how he thought it over, Zeke realized it would be impossible to accomplish all of this on his own. There was only one sensible option: he would need to delegate.

First, the deal with Korrovan. It was the simplest and most straightforward of the three. His forces there were the most capable. He would entrust David with the task of brokering the deal. With the support of three Archmages and the full might of Undercity behind him, Zeke was confident in David’s chances of success.

Next were the elves. While he didn’t hold much hope for that route, it wasn’t something he could rule out entirely. He would contact Margrett and instruct her to do everything she could to secure a deal within the given time. If she succeeded, it would only benefit him. There was no harm in trying.

That left Winter and the dwarfs. These were the two tasks he couldn’t delegate. For one, he didn’t have anyone stationed with the dwarfs anymore. He also felt the dwarfs would respond better to a personal visit from the head of the house. Though they were easygoing by nature, pride still meant a great deal to the stout artisans. A personal appearance would certainly help his cause.

Winter, however, was even more of a personal matter. The Progenitor wasn’t someone who could be convinced any other way. It was highly likely that an envoy wouldn’t even get an audience. Winter was a prideful being, and any sign of disrespect would sour negotiations. Zeke knew he would need to handle this personally.

The real question was, did he have enough time to do both of these things and still make it back to Tradespire in time for his hearing? Would he be able to meet the other requirements along the way?

Honestly, Zeke had little hope of succeeding, but he knew that waiting around would get him nowhere. Inaction had never led to success, and if he didn’t try, his chances were as good as zero. He would have to give it his all and hope fortune smiled on him just a little.

Time, however, was the most pressing concern. Every second wasted brought him closer to failure, and he had already squandered too much of it.

His resolve hardened as he faced Akasha. “Send out the orders. Also, try to contact Tristan, Lara, and Aurelia about the endorsement.”

Akasha nodded wordlessly, already taking charge of the details. Zeke trusted her to handle the tasks without needing further instruction.

“What will you do, Host?” she asked.

Zeke paused for a moment, deciding his next move. It didn’t take long for him to come to a conclusion. “I’ll visit the dwarfs. They’re the biggest variable right now. If I can’t convince them quickly, there’s no chance of success.”

Akasha nodded again, clearly agreeing with his plan.

Fortunately, the dwarfs had their own teleportation gate, making the journey straightforward. Zeke’s heart raced with excitement at the thought of finally visiting the dwarven capital, a city renowned for its artisans. Their mechanical craftsmanship was legendary across the continent, and he could only imagine the marvels waiting to be seen.

But there was another reason for his visit. In Korrovan, he had discovered that the cube-shaped Giger relic he’d found years ago contained an engraving in an ancient dwarven dialect. He suspected that the capital would be the best place to learn more about this long-forgotten treasure, once believed to be a holy relic.

After years of stagnation, it was finally time to uncover the purpose of this artifact.