Trinity of Magic

Book 6: 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]

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.

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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."