Trinity of Magic

The aloof scholars had suddenly transformed, their demeanor shifting into something primal. The way they stared at Zeke, eyes gleaming with a hunger that was both unsettling and unnatural, made them appear more like ravenous beasts than the learned men they had been moments ago.

The change was so abrupt that Zeke’s mind struggled to catch up. He had expected his treasure to be valuable, but he hadn’t anticipated such an extreme reaction from these clearly arrogant individuals.

What had they learned that could compel them to abandon their usual air and act with such desperation?

Zeke glanced down at the cube in the scholar’s hand, his fingers tightening for a moment as he pondered his next move. He didn’t owe them any answers, yet he realized that if he wanted their help, he would need to offer them something in return.

“I found it in a ruin,” he began, keeping his tone casual. “It’s a relic left behind by an ancient civilization that once lived underground.”

“Dwarfs?” Balin asked, his voice laced with an eager, almost hopeful note.

Zeke shook his head. “Unlikely. They went by a different name, and they were also masters of Mind Magic.”

The implication hung heavily in the air, unspoken but undeniable. Dwarfs, as far as anyone knew, couldn’t wield Mind Magic.

“Where’s this ruin at, then?” Thoren asked, his voice sharp with sudden interest.

“Arkanheim,” Zeke replied.

There was no need to elaborate further; the mere mention of its location within the Empire made it clear that it was beyond the dwarfs’ reach. Even if they somehow secured the Emperor’s permission, they all knew that nothing of value would ever be allowed to leave his grasp.

The ruin, like everything else within Arkanheim, was the Emperor’s to command.

“Spill it, lad. How’d ye come by this thing?” Balin demanded after a moment of silence.

Zeke shook his head. “I’ve answered enough of your questions. Now, tell me—what is written on the cube?”

For a brief moment, Balin looked as though he was about to explode in frustration, but he caught himself just in time. His expression tightened as he exchanged a quick glance with Thoren—a glance that was clearly meant to go unnoticed. But Zeke saw it.

“We’ll need some time t’ figure this out properly.” Balin finally said, stroking his beard.

“…Few days should do the trick,” Thoren added smoothly, as if they had already reached an unspoken agreement.

Zeke’s brow furrowed. Even if he hadn’t caught the glance they exchanged moments ago, their behavior alone would have been enough to raise suspicion. Balin’s grip on the cube was just a little too tight, his fingers clinging to it as though he feared it might vanish. Thoren, meanwhile, watched Zeke intently, his gaze sharp and assessing, like a predator sizing up its prey.

Zeke had no doubts anymore—they had already deciphered something. Something significant enough to make these two rivals set aside their differences and present a unified front. In other words, they understood the true value of the cube.

His first instinct was to put his foot down. It was obvious—they were trying to get him to leave the artifact in their care, just as he had feared. What had started as a mere suspicion was now a certainty: if he handed it over, he would never see it again.

But he forced himself to stay calm, suppressing the urge to shut them down immediately. If he confronted them outright, they would simply refuse to share any of their findings. And he needed answers.

No, this called for a more delicate approach.

Zeke began stroking his chin, his expression carefully measured. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured, as if weighing his options. “I was planning to leave the city today… Extending my stay on such short notice might be troublesome. Especially if it’s just to indulge my curiosity over what could be a meaningless trinket.”

The dwarves visibly bristled at his words. Their agitation was plain to see—tensed shoulders, clenched jaws, eyes burning with barely concealed greed. Had they been thinking clearly, they might have seen through his act. But they weren’t. Their obsession had made them careless, and to Zeke, they were easy marks.

“It ain’t just some trinket!” Thoren blurted, unable to contain himself.

Zeke simply shook his head, as if unconvinced. “You can’t know that, honored scholar. You said it yourself—it would take days to decipher. And what if, after all that, it turns out to be nothing more than an elaborate paperweight? I’m afraid my time is far too valuable to take such a gamble.”

Once again, the scholars exchanged a single glance—silent yet filled with meaning. Despite their usual rivalry, it was clear they understood each other on an almost instinctual level. The kind of unspoken communication they shared was something even longtime lovers might envy.

Balin cleared his throat, loosening his grip on the cube ever so slightly as he lifted it up. “Can’t be sayin’ fer certain, but we know fer damn sure this ain’t no regular artifact!”

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Zeke crossed his arms, his gaze sharp. “And what makes you so sure?” he asked bluntly. “Or are you just telling me what I want to hear?”

Thoren shook his head so vigorously that his beard swayed like a pendulum. “Nah, nah, nah! Ain’t no way. This here artifact, it’s somethin’ mighty special.”

“Special how?” Zeke pressed, his tone sharp.

Balin gritted his teeth before reluctantly admitting, “It’s tied to them deeper secrets o’ Spatial Magic, it is.”

Zeke snorted, flexing his Core and flooding the chamber with raw Spatial Mana. The air shimmered under the pressure of his power. “You think I can’t tell that much?” he scoffed. “Even the storage bags I can buy for a handful of coins are tied to the so-called ‘mysteries of Spatial Magic.’ You’ll have to do better than that.”

“How in th’ hells can ye compare a World Anchor to some simple spatial compressin’ enchantment, eh? Yer out o’ yer mind, lad!” Thoren burst out before he could stop himself.

Zeke’s grin spread as he finally dropped his act, uncrossing his arms and letting them fall to his sides. “World Anchor?” he repeated, his voice laced with curiosity. “Care to enlighten me on what that is?”

Thoren’s face darkened as he realized his mistake, his head dipping in frustration. He clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to dig the hole any deeper. Balin shot him a withering glare but quickly turned his focus back to Zeke. Now was not the time for them to turn on each other.

“Aye, ye’re right, lad,” Balin said, his previous civility vanishing like a wisp of smoke. “We know what this is. But if ye think ye’ll pry any more out o’ us, ye’re sorely mistaken!”

Zeke’s grin widened. Now that he had a name to work with, he was confident he could unravel the rest on his own. Already, he could feel Akasha drawing more heavily on his Core, likely scouring her archives for any mention of a World Anchor.

“…But now that the cards are on the table, let me speak me mind as well,” Balin continued.

Zeke remained silent, curious to see what the old man would try.

“I’d be willin’ to buy this here artifact.”

Zeke didn’t hesitate. “Not interested.”

Balin showed no sign of frustration at the quick refusal. If anything, he seemed to have expected it. “Listen up, will ye?” he said smoothly. “I ain’t speakin’ as some scholar, lad—I’m speakin’ as part o’ the royal clan...”

Zeke’s brows furrowed in confusion. Was the mention of the royal family meant as a threat, or was it an enticement? Given the cunning nature of this old bastard, it was likely intended to serve both purposes. Or perhaps he had something else in mind entirely.

“Don’t be thinkin’ I’m a fool,” Balin grumbled, a smug grin pulling at his lips. “Despite me post here, I’ve got me ear pressed to the stone. I know what’s brewin’ in the world.”

Zeke kept his face neutral, though inside, curiosity churned. Where was this man’s confidence coming from? What did he know that Zeke didn’t?

“…If ye be wantin’ to rise up as a Merchant Lord, ye’ll need a king’s mark o’ approval, aye?” Balin asked, a wide grin spreading across his face. His earlier words hadn’t been mere bluster; he was clearly well-informed.

Zeke didn’t respond, but the dwarf hadn’t expected him to. He carried on without missing a beat.

“What ye don’t know, lad, is that not a single king ‘round here’s gonna give that idea a second thought.”

Zeke frowned, his composure slipping. “What makes you say that?”

Balin’s grin only widened. “Ah, it’s simple really. All o’ em been told to turn ye down flat.” he said, dropping a bombshell that sent a chill through Zeke’s core. Asked to deny him? By who? The list of people who held that kind of influence was likely very short, and only a single name came to his mind.

“…Since when do the dwarfs bow to the Emperor?” Zeke asked, disgust rising on his face.

Balin merely chuckled. “Think again, brat. We don’t quake in our boots like ye soft-skins do. Even if Augustus himself marched in here, he couldn’t order me cousin to wipe his arse, let alone tell him who to back.”

Zeke’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Had he really been so wrong? But if it wasn’t the Emperor behind this, then who? Was there some other hidden enemy, one with even more sway than the Emperor himself?

A single name surfaced in his mind, but he pushed it down. He hoped, with every fiber of his being, that he was wrong.

Balin’s voice cut through his thoughts like a snake’s hiss. “What d’ye say? Ye wanna be backed by me Stoneheart kin, or would ye rather make an enemy of us?”

Zeke frowned, his focus snapping back to the present. He shook off his musings, anger bubbling under the surface. If Balin thought that name alone would intimidate him, he was gravely mistaken. Zeke had stood against the might of the Empire itself—he wasn’t going to cower before some old man hiding behind his bloodline. If they wanted to make an enemy of him, so be it. He’d dealt with worse.

“Not interested,” he repeated, his voice firm.

For the first time, Balin’s composure cracked. His face twisted, turning red with barely contained fury. “Ye think ye’ve got a choice, eh, lad?!” he growled. “The moment ye brought that Anchor here, it was decided—it stays! Ye can name a price, or ye can walk away with naught!”

In an instant, the atmosphere shifted. Balin flooded the hall with his Mana, a clear declaration. Thoren stepped up beside him, his own energy flaring dangerously.

Zeke quickly assessed the situation. Both dwarves were Grandmages, likely at the peak of their tier. Balin wielded Earth affinity, while Thoren commanded Metal. Individually, either one possessed more raw Mana than Zeke—but together, they completely overshadowed his newly advanced Core.

Yet, not a flicker of fear crossed his face. Mana alone didn’t determine victory. The fact that these two had remained at the Grandmage level despite their privileged backgrounds and long lifespans spoke volumes. They lacked the talent or the experience to ascend to Archmages. More than likely, neither had seen a real fight in decades—perhaps longer than Zeke had been alive.

Meanwhile, he had waded through battle after battle, leaving only drained husks in his wake. His draconic heart pounded with excitement, sending a euphoric rush through his veins. If these old fools thought they could intimidate him, they were in for a rude awakening.

Without hesitation, Zeke slipped into a state of [Bloodbound Clarity], a skill that had become part of his routine. This current version doubled his perception speed without straining his Core, making it feel almost like cheating.

His eyes quickly darted to the door. The guard, who had served as his guide, hadn’t entered the chamber when Zeke had shown off his Space affinity, and he hadn’t come in now either. It was likely the man couldn’t sense the energy fluctuations from outside the chamber.

Better to keep it that way.

While he was confident in his abilities, the presence of guards would turn the tide against him quickly. If reinforcements joined the fray, even escape would be impossible.

Zeke licked his lips, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Only now, with the blood surging through his veins, did he fully comprehend the extent of the changes brought about by his draconic awakening. He was practically aching for a fight.

The violence, the danger, the rush of it all—it was as if every fiber of his being thirsted for the conflict.