Belemir lingered for a moment longer, his expression clouded with something too heavy to be concern and too quiet to be grief, something softer, sadder, and more personal. Then, with a final bow that felt more like a silent apology than any formal gesture, he stepped back into the shadows, his presence dissolving into the folds of dim light as naturally as if he had never been there at all.

Jacob exhaled slowly, more out of habit than relief, and turned toward the tall window that overlooked the inner grounds of the academy.

The view was, as always, a mixture of beauty both natural and man-made. Stretching out beneath him was a vast spread of land, lush, vibrant, impossibly green, dotted with thick-barked trees whose leaves shimmered faintly under the afternoon sun.

The winding paths curved around carefully tended gardens that burst with color, broken occasionally by marble fountains and open-air training fields where the sharp sound of wooden weapons clashing echoed faintly through the air.

But it was not just the nature that caught his eye, it was what stood beyond it.

Rising in the distance like a crown set into the landscape were the towers, tall, winding spires of polished stone and glowing crystal, the domains of mages who buried themselves in study and invention, minds that chased truth through madness and magic alike. Beside them stood the grand arenas, their towering arches casting long shadows over the earth below, where knights tested themselves not for duty, but for glory, for reputation, for that unspoken desire to be remembered.

Further out still were the noble estates, grand halls and stately mansions nestled into elevated ridges, adorned with crest-bearing banners that swayed lazily in the wind, each one home to generations of pride, ambition, and unspoken rivalries.

And finally, above it all, sat the castle.

It was not a gaudy thing, no gold or gemstone marred its surface but rather it was austere, carved entirely from bone that gleamed under sunlight and pulsed faintly beneath moonlight, a place of power and stillness that felt almost too calm to be natural.

Jacob studied it all in silence, one hand pressed lightly against the cool glass, his mind unusually still.

And there was more, much more that lay beyond what his eyes could currently reach, hidden just past the curve of the horizon or obscured by the towering structures of the capital's heart. Beyond the central districts of Eterna, beyond the manicured gardens and prestigious training halls, sprawled the outer edges of the city, where the slums crept outward like cracks in an old mirror, a tangled mass of narrow streets and crumbling rooftops, alive with the quiet resilience of those who had been forgotten by the world yet continued to live stubbornly within it.

Further still, to the south, rested the city of engineering, a marvel in its own right where steam-powered contraptions and clockwork inventions clattered and hissed through every alleyway, where great forges burned night and day, and where minds sharper than steel dreamed of futures not yet born. It was a place that seemed almost foreign to the rest of the kingdom, overflowing with restless energy and driven by an obsession with function, precision, and progress.

Somewhere even deeper, unreachable by foot or map, stood the mage tower, not a literal tower perhaps, but a space suspended in folds of spatial magic, veiled from ordinary perception, where the most accomplished magi gathered in hushed circles to discuss theories that bent the boundaries of reality itself.

It was a place Jacob had only heard spoken of in quiet admiration or trembling awe, a nexus of knowledge and power where the rules of the world were studied in earnest.

And beyond Eterna, past the high white walls, the proud towers, and the restless murmurs of the capital, there stretched the sea, a vast, endless expanse of shimmering blue that caught the light of the sun like molten glass and shifted with a quiet, unbending rhythm older than any kingdom.

Beneath its surface moved creatures spoken of more in folklore than fact, serpents with eyes like lanterns and limbs like drifting kelp, leviathans that stirred in the deep trenches, slow and ancient, moving to patterns no scholar had yet managed to understand.

Upon its surface sailed the ships, some simple and sturdy, built for trade and passage, while others, sleek and iron-clad, bore the banners of the royal navy, ever locked in their silent, ceaseless war against the pirates who roamed like wolves without chains.

Far to the south, beyond where the sea met the sun, stretched the deserts: a landscape of shifting dunes and buried ruins, scorched earth and scattered oases, ruled not by kings but by the sun and sand itself.

To the north rose the snow-capped mountains, their jagged peaks etched permanently into the horizon like a row of teeth, forbidding and majestic, their valleys inhabited by clans that lived in the silence of frost and wind, untouched by the world's noise.

To the west lay the Holy Kingdom, a land of cathedrals carved from stone and laws written in scripture, where faith governed the people more surely than gold or sword.

And to the east, vast and unbending, loomed the Empire, a machine of order and ambition, built on the bones of fallen nations, where discipline was a virtue and strength an unspoken law.

The towering World Tree at the centre of the world rose like a monument to ages long past, its branches stretching beyond sight, casting a silent, patient shadow over the land; around it, cities of impossible scale thrived, their skies alive with dragons weaving between towers of glass and stone, while far beyond, towns carved into cliffs and mountains still bore the markings of forgotten civilizations, their walls etched with histories no longer spoken aloud. Scattered across the wilderness were the old ruins, their darkened halls and sunken chambers luring swathes of adventurers who chased gold, glory, or something quieter and deeper, perhaps the hope of meaning in the remnants of what came before.

And all of it, the towers, the dragons, the ruins and the people moving among them existed just beyond the limits of his vision, just outside the narrow window through which he had spent most of his life watching, reading, imagining.

He had no grand desire to roam the continents or chart forgotten lands; he had never burned with the same longing other boys had to hold swords or sail oceans. And yet, there was something inside him, quiet, uncertain, but persistent, a part of him that stirred at the thought of stepping beyond the quiet world of candles and pages, a part that wondered what it might feel like to walk through that wider world, not merely as a reader, but as someone who could leave his own trace behind.

"Who am I kidding," Jacob muttered under his breath, the words carrying neither bitterness nor longing, only a tired acceptance, "as if I'd ever leave Eterna." There was no reason to, not really, and without necessity there would likely never be the will.

He exhaled slowly, turned his gaze to the bed across the room, and wondered distantly, vaguely, when last he had truly slept. It had been several days, perhaps more; the hours had blurred together in a haze of thought, study, and restraint. He wanted to sleep, yet at the same time, a deeper part of him recoiled from the very idea.

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Sleep had become a kind of quiet curse, one he could never fully evade nor comfortably embrace. It was necessary, of course, for no body could function forever without rest, but he had long since stopped viewing it as a reprieve. Still, there was no point putting it off tonight. If he was fortunate, he could carve out at least two hours before the familiar horrors of his mind surfaced to drag him awake again.

He walked slowly toward the bed, his footsteps light and deliberate, not from caution but from weariness. He lowered himself onto the mattress, let his head fall against the pillow, and closed his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately, not as a creeping tide, but as a silent plunge into still water, exhaustion finally seizing control without struggle.

The first hour passed without incident, followed by the second, then the third, and on until five full hours had slipped by in seamless succession. Yet for Jacob, those five hours were not what sleep should have been. His consciousness did not fade or drift. Instead, it remained sharply present, watching, thinking, feeling just as it would in waking life.

He found himself seated at a familiar desk within the bounds of a dream that bore none of the erratic distortions typical of sleep. The light, the air, the weight of his own thoughts, everything was precise, structured, grounded in a false clarity that mimicked wakefulness too perfectly.

It was never like this, tonight was different. He hadn't yet seen the nightmares, the ones that normally tore through the illusion by now. He had been here five hours by his own count, and in that time, not a single terror had stirred.

Instead, he remained in full control, every detail of the dream responding to his will, every shift in space or logic conforming to his desire. This wasn't sleep, it couldn't be, not in any normal sense.

'It's been five hours now,' he thought, brow furrowed, 'and the nightmares haven't come. I still have complete awareness, complete control. So why am I still asleep?'

His thoughts turned, inevitably, to Yggdrasil. 'Could it have been him? Was this a side effect of our meeting, or something he did without telling me?' He couldn't think of many forces capable of affecting the mind in such a subtle yet absolute manner, and Yggdrasil, for all his mystery, certainly had the reach.

Still, Jacob wasn't sure if this was a gift or a problem yet. 'It's convenient,' he admitted to himself, 'but will I even feel rested when I wake? And more importantly, can I wake?'

He had tried, of course. Several times now he had attempted to force his eyes open, to jolt his body out of stillness, but it had all been for nothing. He didn't even know where to begin. How did one wake from a dream, after all? Was it something the body simply did on its own, some internal mechanism that triggered only when it had rested enough?

He had always taken waking for granted. But now, locked in this lucid stasis, even that small certainty had slipped from his grasp.

"If you're here," Jacob said quietly, not looking up from his desk, "then now would be a good time to let me out." His tone was calm, neither impatient nor hopeful. If this dreamscape was Yggdrasil's doing, and Jacob had every reason to believe it was, then the man himself might very well be nearby, watching, waiting, listening.

And, as if summoned by the suggestion, Yggdrasil appeared.

He didn't arrive with a burst of light or the rustling of leaves; instead, the air simply adjusted, making room for him, and a high-backed chair manifested opposite Jacob's own as if it had always belonged there. The man sat down with easy familiarity, his eyes resting on Jacob with mild amusement.

"Isn't this the first proper sleep you've had in days?" he asked with a smile that was too smooth to be entirely sincere. "You should learn to enjoy it more. Dream up a palace. Summon a concubine or two. Make yourself an omnipotent mage with arcane power bleeding from your fingertips."

Jacob glanced at him briefly, then without a word, allowed two teacups to appear on the desk between them. Steam rose slowly from each cup, curling into the air with an odd kind of elegance.

Yggdrasil raised one eyebrow. "Is this it?" he asked, lifting his cup with faint disappointment.

"It's tea from across the sea," Jacob replied simply, taking a sip from his own. "Or, at least, how I imagine it would taste."

The implication was clear. Dreaming of harems or godhood held no appeal for him. Such fantasies were too distant to mean anything, too improbable to be worth imagining. They didn't feel like dreams they felt like lies. So he didn't bother.

"You're painfully dull, you know that?" Yggdrasil muttered, though there was no venom in it. "Fine. If you won't dream, I will."

And with that, the space around them fractured and reassembled. Jacob's modest room was replaced by a vast open sky, the desk and chairs now suspended in midair high above a sprawling palace of impossible scale, its towers gleaming with silver and obsidian, its grounds teeming with life and color. Massive beasts circled in the air beneath them, gliding past with the grace of birds and the presence of gods.

Jacob didn't spare the scenery so much as a glance. His eyes remained on Yggdrasil.

"How did you do this to me?" he asked, his voice low but steady, ignoring the winged creatures that roared softly below them and the palace that shimmered like something out of legend.

Yggdrasil looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged in an aggravatingly casual way. "I put a seed in you," he said, as though the act were equivalent to offering someone a handkerchief. "I figured I could use it to help a little. You seemed to have a… persistent nightmare problem."

Jacob stared at him in silence.

'A seed?' he thought. 'Did he say a seed of the World Tree?'

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. It wasn't loud or mocking, just a quiet ripple of disbelief that echoed through the suspended air. "Don't tell me a tree's going to start growing out of my arm."

Yggdrasil took another sip of the dream-tea, smirking faintly. "What do you take me for?" he said with mock offense. "It'll grow inside you, not outwards."

Jacob wasn't sure whether to believe him or whether to ask any further. The thought alone was disturbing enough.

"Anyway," Yggdrasil said suddenly, setting down his teacup with a soft clink that echoed oddly in the dreamscape air, "I just realized you haven't trained your mana at all, not even a little. Surely you have access to a few methods by now, don't you?"

Jacob leaned back slightly, the chair creaking beneath him in the silence that followed, his gaze distant. "I'm waiting," he murmured, "for something better."

"A wise decision," Yggdrasil replied with a nod, "but even this 'better' you're waiting for, it's a human method, isn't it? And that means it's limited. Built to fit within human boundaries."

Jacob didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his hands resting on the desk, ordinary hands, pale and lean, stained by ink. "Even if you're right," he said finally, "even if I had other blood in me, that doesn't matter anymore. The blood is diluted, I'm human. And so I'm bound by a human's limits."

Yggdrasil smiled, not mockingly, but with a sort of quiet intrigue, like a teacher pleased that a student had come to the wrong conclusion. "What if I changed that?" he asked, as though the idea were a casual suggestion rather than something capable of upending a man's reality.

Jacob looked at him sharply, a flicker of alarm breaking through his fatigue. "What?"

"It's simple," Yggdrasil said with a shrug that somehow conveyed both great power and complete indifference. "The tree growing inside you, if I guide it properly, nurture it the right way I can use it to gradually purify your lineage, piece by piece, until the chains that bind you to your current limits begin to loosen."

Jacob narrowed his eyes. "And you'd just… do that for free?"

Yggdrasil tilted his head, pretending to ponder the question. "For free…" he echoed lazily, then smiled. "I suppose I can, sure. Why not? It'll amuse me, and besides, I've already planted the seed. But," he added, raising a finger, "for it to grow, you'll need to train your mana properly. At the very least, get to the ninth rank. Without that, the process will be too slow to matter."

Jacob exhaled slowly, digesting the offer, weighing it silently in his mind. "Alright," he said at last, "but how do I wake up?"

Yggdrasil gave a long, theatrical sigh, as though offended by the lack of appreciation for his dream-world palace. "You really don't want to enjoy this, do you?" he muttered. "Fine. Focus your mana into your palm. That'll tear the dream. You'll wake up immediately."

Jacob didn't hesitate. He brought his hand to his side, focusing inward, gathering the quiet, stubborn thread of mana within his chest and pulling it down his arm, letting it pool into his palm.

At once, the sky cracked. A sharp tremor passed through the air around them like a shiver, and the edges of the world began to fracture, slivers of the dream collapsing in on themselves and falling away like glass from a broken window.

He looked at Yggdrasil one last time, but the man merely raised his cup again, a faint smile on his lips.

Then everything collapsed and Jacob opened his eyes.

The familiar ceiling greeted him, unmoving and bland, a patch of shadow stretching across one corner where the morning light couldn't quite reach. He closed his eyes again for a moment, letting the realness of it settle into him like dust after a storm, then sat up slowly with a groan.

"Alright," he murmured to the empty room, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Time to train... and get ready to beat Arthur."

He didn't know what the next three months would look like exactly, but he already understood two things: they would be long, and they would hurt, no matter how much of the pain he could suppress.

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