Zeke jolted awake, as if ripped from a nightmare. His body was drenched in sweat, and his heart thundered in his chest. Without hesitation, he channeled Mana into his Core, letting the Mind-attuned energy flood through him in a desperate surge.
Clarity returned in an instant, his earlier panic dissolving like mist in the morning sun. But no amount of Mana could soothe the searing ache in his chest. His friends—his family—were gone. He had been forced to watch, powerless, as they fell one by one.
The weight of their loss pressed down on him, a relentless pain that pierced deeper than any physical wound. There was no quick remedy for grief this profound.
No. That wasn't right.
The people who had died were strangers—nothing more than vivid fragments of a dream. Zeke reminded himself of this truth. He had never actually met any of them. Neither Durrek, Helena, Mara, Finn, nor Bram had ever crossed his path. They were figures from Cal's life, not his own.
And yet, even with this undeniable clarity, Zeke couldn't shake the profound sense of loss clawing at his chest. The grief felt real, impossibly so. He could feel it building inside him—a sting in his nose, the heat in his reddened eyes. The weight of the emotional blow delivered by the Dreamwalker brew threatened to overwhelm him, and he was on the verge of breaking into tears.
There was something even more worrying.
Zeke could sense it—around him, the other contestants were beginning to stir, their own experiences drawing to an end. He had to act quickly. If he didn't, his carefully constructed facade of immunity to the Dreamwaker brew would crumble. Worse still, if anyone saw him in such a raw, emotional state, they might brand him as weak—someone unworthy of respect or consideration.
That was a risk he couldn't afford to take.
With no better option, Zeke resorted to the only solution he could think of: he ejected his Soul.
The change was instantaneous. Though his essence remained burdened with grief over the loss of his imagined companions, his body in the real world showed no trace of emotion. Guided by his finely tuned puppeteering technique, his physical form had no impetus beyond the essentials for survival. He sat there, utterly calm, as if nothing at all were amiss.
Usually, Zeke would exercise caution when ejecting his Soul. He had learned firsthand that Mind Mages could target an exposed Soul. However, this situation was an exception. Dwarves lacked the ability to develop the Mind affinity. That only left the few visiting humans and elves, but Zeke had already ensured that none of them possessed significant power. He didn't particularly fear these opportunistic merchants.
As expected, the others began to wake not long after. To Zeke's surprise, many of the remaining contestants were clearly affected. Some openly wept, unable to hold back their anguish, while others struggled to maintain a strong front, though tears still streaked most faces. Anger, melancholy, dread—In fact, not a single dwarf appeared untouched by the dreams from the second round.
This was no coincidence. Something deeper was at work. Zeke suspected that the Dreamwalker brew's potency had been increased for the second round, causing its effects to grow progressively more devastating. If that trend was true, it was highly likely that the third round would be even worse.
What a dreadful thought.
Zeke carefully studied his two rivals. Drogar sat motionless, staring at the empty vial in front of him with a vacant expression. Faint traces of tears glimmered in his eyes, suggesting he had experienced something similar to Zeke's ordeal.
Eldrin, however, was a stark contrast. His wide, haunted eyes darted around, and he flinched at the slightest sound. Fear had gripped him—raw, paralyzing fear. The change was so abrupt and so unlike the proud dwarven scion that Zeke struggled to imagine what kind of nightmare could have shaken him to this extent.
Zeke couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy as he recalled his own experience. Even so, this was the moment to act. No matter how much empathy he felt for his rivals, it couldn't deter him from completing his mission as effectively as possible.
With a practiced flick of his mind, Zeke commanded his body to execute the plan he had carefully prepared, ensuring the action appeared entirely natural.
A loud, exaggerated yawn echoed through the amphitheater as Zeke's body stretched lazily, arms rising above his head like he'd just woken from a peaceful nap. "Not bad at all," his body remarked casually, the tone light and unconcerned. "I might use this stuff in the future if I ever have trouble sleeping."
Though his voice wasn't particularly loud, it carried in the somber stillness, cutting through the tension like a blade. Thousands of eyes snapped to Zeke, though he, in his detached state, remained oblivious. His body didn't even flinch under the weight of their collective gaze.
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For a moment, silence reigned. Then, a wave of murmurs rippled through the ranks of observers, spreading like wildfire.
Zeke listened intently to the murmurs around him, a satisfied smirk creeping across his face as he overheard the conversation. Most of the audience was speculating about his identity or wondering how he remained unaffected by the brew.
[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."