Trinity of Magic

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]

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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!”