Trinity of Magic

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.

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“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 stimulant, 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.