The Ill Immortals were in a stalemate.

If Virrion stopped using his magic, then Mahon would eat them both once he regained his freedom of movements. He had seen Mahon fight against Luvon, and at this stage of fatigue, he knew in a regular battle they stood no chance against this monster even at two versus one.

So he kept firing his magic, fireball after fireball. He could have continued for hours if not for Paegis’ previous attack, but now he could only feel helpless as his reserves dwindled too fast for his taste.

Varek was in an even worse position. Fatigue was piling on him like two mountains weighing on his shoulders, and if not for Virrion’s fire hindering Mahon’s movement, he would have succumbed long ago.

Actually, Mahon’s blade was growing increasingly closer to his vital areas. If at first he had been grazed only once or twice, it was now a recurrent occurrence in their exchanges, and the sorcerer feared the moment he would be too tired to defend against it.

Mahon kept standing and fighting by his sheer resolve. He had done so hundreds of times before in Nightmare, and it had become second nature to him. It was not a lucky coincidence he was a master in the art of fighting control. It was a skill that had been trained under such dire circumstances that he had had no other choices but to learn it to survive.

Ignoring his fatigue, Mahon got up, struggled to call his Flow back to him, and walked towards Varek. He wound between the flames around the arena until he finally staggered before the sorcerer. He raised his sword with difficulty as the man charged at him.

Everything happened at an unconscious stage. His body pivoted instinctively as he angled his sword to mitigate most of the blow and push the sorcerer in the direction he wanted.

Their exchanges weren't anything worthy to look at. Fresh four-stars would probably have been able to take them out easily, but the fact that the three broken men were still fighting in these conditions was a sight few had witnessed before.

Virrion had long since fallen on his knees, draining on his last reserves to pull out a weak fireball once every half-minute.

Varek looked so old and feeble, it seemed a single breeze could kill him. Deep wrinkles barred his face like an ancient battlefield, and his eyes were sinking so deep in their sockets that the sorcerer looked already dead.

From a distance, Mahon was the one that appeared to be the least affected, but from up close it wasn’t so blatant. His eyes were half-close, and he stood like a mindless person, zombified to a greater cause. His body swung from one side to the other as he struggled to keep his balance.

It wasn’t sure if he was still conscious or not, but relentlessly, he kept moving forward. His arm rose to deliver attacks as if he was just a puppet whose strings had been pulled by a negligent hand.

Mahon fought to link his thoughts in a coherent way. His mind was becoming hazy, and sometimes he could swear he heard Slander yelled at him to do one more lap. To stand one more time. To pass one more hurdle.

But the temptation to fall on the floor and not rise again was growing bigger and bigger.

Thankfully, fate pushed in the other direction.

Varek succumbed first. His flames turned to a dark blue, barely visible in the sunlight before going completely extinct. The sorcerer crumbled on himself like a sack of rusty bones with no muscles to hold them up. He was dead even before he reached the floor.

Virrion watched the scene with horror, but he couldn’t even find the force to stand up.

Mahon walked towards him with the same clumsiness he had shown when he came back to Ratho after decades in Nightmare. It wasn’t the only thing he brought back from that place, though, and the same unwavering determination that had carried him then, still pushed him further today. His steps brought him closer to the numb magician, his sword barely held in his fingers, the tip digging a furrow on the sand behind him.

Virrion refused to give up. He drew on the last bit of energy he didn’t know he even had and threw the weakest fireball people had ever seen. It was barely the size of an orange, and it started disappearing as soon as it moved forward. But Mahon wasn’t that far, and it was still half visible there when it reached him.

Mahon didn’t even see it coming. The flicker of fire hit him in the chest, and he was thrown two meters backward. He fell on his back with a loud thud.

A deafening silence followed this scene. All eyes were glued on the immobile silhouette of Mahon.

A second passed. And another.

After half a minute of complete stillness in the arena, a whisper started to spread in the crowd. Virrion was the only one still standing. Or kneeling, rather. A light of hope turned into relief when the referee finally started to move towards him. But a voice crushed it all.

“Wait.”

The king had its hand raised, and the referee stopped immediately. The eyes of the spectators came back to Mahon.

One of his feet twitched.

It was so minute, many thought they had dreamt it until it happened again. Then Mahon opened his eyes.

He faced the open sky, with dark fumes slowly heaving to the drifting clouds, way above him. A flicker of consciousness prevented him from going back to sleep. He didn’t know why, but he had to raise.

Mahon moved his hand at his sides and pushed himself in a sitting position with much difficulty. He then saw the devastated arena. The crowd. The king. Virrion.

And he remembered.

It took three tries before he could stand up, and he had to use his sword as a cane to walk to Virrion.

The magician was so drained he couldn’t move at all. But contrary to Varek, he wasn’t dead.

Yet.

Mahon used his last strength to lift his sword above his head, and it was more his body shutting down and falling onto the magician that dealt the fatal blow than Mahon’s own strike.

When Mahon opened his eyes again, he was in Nightmare. He appeared at the spawning point like any normal night. He had no idea how many times had passed, but he didn’t feel tired at all. He remembered his victory over Virrion even though he couldn’t remember anything after that. He didn’t feel worried, though. He had won.

Mahon threw a look around him and realized Jorik was also there, in a meditative posture not far away from him.

He approached the noble with a guilty look.

“Sorry for that.” He apologized.

Jorik didn’t even open his eyes, but a smile lingered on his lips.

“I didn’t think a time would come where you would get rid of me because I wasn’t strong enough.”

Mahon was taken aback and tried to justify his decision, but the noble’s smile grew wider, betraying his real thoughts.

“Don’t bother. I’m kidding. I would have done the same in your situation.”

The noble rose up and went to grab Mahon’s arm with his own.

“We did it.” He said while looking at Mahon straight in the eyes. “We won that tournament.”

Mahon flashed a taunting smile. “You said it like you didn’t believe we would.”

Jorik chuckled. “There were a lot of close calls.”

“True.” Mahon nodded pensively, but he couldn’t hide the happiness in his eyes.

It had been a long time since he had made so many breakthroughs and felt that pressured. That thrilling sensation of going into the unknown, with no idea if you would be the one getting out alive or not, was both something he feared and looked towards with longing. Was he mad for thinking that way?

“That victory felt good,” Jorik said, “but in the end, it was kind of useless. Paegis revealed it all.”

Mahon started remembering their heated discussion with the previous master of the Ill Immortals. He was glad the magician had trusted them and helped beat Virrion instead of the opposite.

Paegis wasn’t someone to be provoked carelessly. On second thought, Mahon felt even more relieved that the old fox didn’t participate in the tournament. He could have probably gone alone against the six thousand contestants and won.

Mahon couldn’t prevent a smile from creeping up on his face. There are still monsters way ahead of me. It’s still a long road before I can even stand against him and grasp the true pinnacle of power.

“Wait. I’m starting to know that smile.” Jorik shook his head. “You’re thinking about fighting against Paegis, aren’t you?”

Mahon laughed out loud. “Not in the next hundred years at least! But it’s good to have a target.”

Jorik’s smile disappeared. “He’s a human, you know. He’ll be long dead before a hundred years pass.”

“Oh.” Mahon’s mood instantly turned off. “Right…”

Jorik sighed. “Anyway. We should talk about our next step. I believe everything comes down to one single question. Should we go to Gedrain and meet that Immortal King?”

Mahon took some time before answering.

“Honestly? I say it’s worth a shot. According to Paegis, he’s the last Immortal King ever. We can’t let that opportunity pass.”

“Even though he has completely lost his memories?”

“About that…” Mahon started as he looked around him.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Jorik nodded. “But it defies everything we know about Nightmare.”

“But what do we know exactly?” Mahon countered. “It’s a spell from the Amentiae that targeted Ratho? What if it was a curse to all Immortal Kings instead?”

“Too many things don’t add up.” Jorik shook his head. “Paegis said it happened multiple times before while we were taught the queen gave her life to counter the spell thirty-five years ago.”

“Exactly at the same time the Immortal King lost his memory.” Mahon intervened.

“That’s a huge coincidence, I’m giving you that. But then, why haven’t we already met that Immortal King?” He gestured around them. “It has been months since anyone ever came up to Nightmare. We would have seen him by then.”

“I’ve no explanation either.” Mahon sighed. “I’d like to say they invented a no-dream pill too, but if they did, and Nightmare wasn’t a once upon a time phenomenon, they would probably have used it way sooner.”

A short silence followed Mahon’s sentence. The two men were lost in their own thoughts and conjectures.

“Anyway.” Jorik spoke after some time. “I’ve no better alternative. I mostly argued for the sake of arguing. But let’s not jump to hasty conclusions. We don’t know if the Immortal King goes to Nightmare too. Yet. But if we meet him, we can probably figure a lot of things out. And as you said, it’s the last Immortal King, we better try our luck now than wait here and get nothing.”

“You argued for the sake of arguing?” Mahon grinned. “Just admit you’re slow on the uptake.”

Jorik chucked. “Shut up, idiot. Killing three Ill Immortals by yourself in the grand final doesn’t give you the right to belittle your teammates.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure Varek killed himself. So that makes only two.”

Jorik laughed out loud and Mahon joined him an instant later. The pressure from having almost lost Myrthil, their discussion with Paegis who revealed his true colors, his own divulging about Immortal Kings, and then their fight to the death against the Ill Immortals was starting to dissipate as they chitchatted and joked together in Nightmare.

The dream-like world had long been a place of terrifying horrors, but since they had arrived in Finem, their nightly meetings had started to become a ritual they didn’t want to miss. Nightmare felt like a second home. A place no one but them could reach. Safe from the problems of the real world.

“Can I ask you something?” Jorik spoke before they would start their usual meditation and meet up back in Finem.

The noble’s voice wasn’t the confident one Mahon was used to, and he threw a weird look at the otherwise fearless warrior.

“Shoot.”

“Would you mind teaching me how to invoke a weapon in Nightmare?”

“What?” The request took Mahon by surprise. “But... why? Transfer learning from Nightmare to the real world isn’t that useful at your level, honestly.”

“Are you sure? I’ve more endurance than you, but you still beat me in efficiency by at least two or three stages. And the control you have over your Flow is much higher than mine. Do you dare say Nightmare has nothing to do with it?”

“No. It definitely did. But that was because Amentiae pushed us hard every single moment. It’s a skill I learned because I would have died otherwise not because I wanted to. And I’m probably the only one left that didn’t die, actually…” Mahon’s voice almost broke at the end.

Jorik’s tone turned gentler. “You’re the only one today. But who said it has to stay that way? Don’t get me wrong, I probably wouldn’t go through what you did even if I could. But you’re an amazing professor. This place is your own turf. I’m sure you can teach me a few things that I could put to use. What’s wrong with trying? I heard you rest as well whatever you do in Nightmare, and I’m past needing to meditate here now.”

Mahon looked at the noble as if he could pierce his soul. Sometimes, he felt strongly connected to that warrior who had the same mindset as him. Other times, he felt worlds apart from that noble who had lived a completely different life than he did.

He was also well aware of what Jorik was trying to do. He too knew they had to stick together tightly to survive and advance in this foreign world. But Myrthil’s near death experience had been a wild reminder about what people did when they weren’t thinking straight. When they build something ahead of logic.

At the same time, he had learnt so much in the past few days by trying things he hadn’t even dared before. By jumping into the unknown. Would he turn back now?

If Jorik isn’t a person capable of thinking straight and removing any emotions in his thinking process, then who is?

Without realizing it, Mahon had already come to a decision. He wasn’t sure about it, but it wasn’t irrevocable either, so why not try it?

It’s just Nightmare training.

Seeing the flash of hope in the noble’s eyes finally pushed him towards a definite answer.

“I guess I can teach you a few things.” Mahon said slowly before moving on with his instructor's voice. “First, extend your hands, palms facing upwards. We’ll start with the dice exercise. You need to…”