The day of Zazu's final training session arrived. Our sleepy elf champion had learned to control his own mind and to face his opponents with a gentle touch, but FaeLina's final concern was the most challenging of all: the crowd.
"It's one thing to nap in a quiet room with a few friends watching," she fretted, flying in tight, anxious circles. "It's another thing entirely to do it in a stadium filled with fifty thousand screaming people, with giant magic screens broadcasting your every sleepy sigh to the world. The pressure will be immense!"
'You are right,' I projected. The memory of the loud trumpet fanfare from the Duke's herald was enough to make my core shudder. An entire stadium would be a nightmare. 'We cannot replicate that kind of pressure here. So, we will not bring Zazu to the stadium. We will bring the stadium to Zazu.'
FaeLina looked at me, confused. "You're going to... build a stadium? In his mind?"
'Precisely.'
Zazu, looking nervous but determined, agreed to the final, advanced lesson. He made his way down to the Chamber of Slumber on the third floor and settled into the perfect bed.
In the main chamber, the rest of the team was left to wait. Gilda stood guard, her expression stern and watchful. And Pip and Kaelen found their own ways to handle the tension.
Pip, deciding the team needed a proper mascot, was trying to prepare Clank for his future role as a cheerleader. He had a small, hand-painted banner that read "GO TEAM NAP!" and was trying to get the little clockwork robot to hold it.
"Okay, Clank, when I say 'Go Team Nap!', you raise the banner." Pip instructed.
Clank's blue crystal eyes glowed. He raised the banner with perfect, robotic precision.
Unfortunately, his internal clock chose that moment to chime the hour, and the loud BONG made Pip jump a foot in the air. Stealth and cheerleading, it turned out, were both difficult for a walking clock.
Across the room, Kaelen was having a much quieter moment. She sat on the floor, leaning against a cushion, while Cinder the Cobblestone Drake rested its heavy stone head in her lap. She was methodically stroking the little dragon's head, her movements slow and calm. The cinnamon-scented smoke that puffed from Cinder's nostrils with every happy rumble seemed to create a small, peaceful bubble around them both, a tiny island of tranquility in the anxious room.
While his friends waited in the real world, Zazu found himself standing on a small, brightly lit circular platform. Surrounding him on all sides was a colossal, shadowy stadium that stretched up into an infinite, dark sky. Tens of thousands of featureless, murmuring shadow-people filled the stands, their collective gaze a heavy, physical weight. High above, several enormous, magical Scry-Screens floated, each one showing a giant, high-definition image of his own nervous face.
My voice echoed through the vast, overwhelming space, a calm counterpoint to the oppressive atmosphere. 'This is a simulation of the tournament arena. The crowd is not real. The pressure is only what you allow it to be. Find your center, Zazu.'
The elf looked around at the shadowy crowd, his dream-self pale with fright.
'Alright, he's in,' I thought. I could feel FaeLina's consciousness watching the dream alongside mine, a spark of nervous, excited energy.
'Ready to begin the pressure test?' I asked her.
'Let's see what our little elf is made of,' she replied, her thought a giddy, mischievous buzz.
'Phase one, then,' I declared, focusing my will on the tens of thousands of shadow-figures in the stands. 'Hecklers.'
Suddenly, a section of the shadow-crowd began to chant, their voices a dull, monotonous drone that was impossible to ignore.
"YOUR PILLOW'S A DISGRACE! YOU NAP AT A SNAIL'S PACE!"
Zazu winced as if the words were tiny, physical blows. The simple, idiotic chant was surprisingly effective, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at the bubble of calm he was trying to create. His meditative breathing faltered.
'He is struggling,' I observed.
'Hit him with the commentary!' FaeLina urged in my mind.
I reached into the archive of information FaeLina had pulled for me from the ScryNet—the broadcast of last year's tournament. I found the voice of the lead commentator, a man famous throughout the kingdom for his booming, dramatic delivery, and I replicated it perfectly.
A new, booming voice filled the stadium.
'Ooh, nice touch!' FaeLina's thought was full of impressed admiration. 'You even got his ridiculously over-the-top tone perfect!'
The commentator's voice began its assault.
"Welcome back, folks! We're watching Zazu the elf, and I have to say, what a disappointing start! He's showing a lot of tension in the shoulders... and just look at that pillow technique! He's not cradling it; he's crushing it! That's a rookie mistake, and it's going to cost him precious seconds on his overall 'Time-to-Slumber' score!"
The pressure was working. Zazu's focus began to crumble. The roar of the crowd and the weight of their judgment was a storm he couldn't hold back. His mind flashed back to his training, to the feelings of his failures.
A honking goose, impossibly large. The feeling of pure, absurd panic.
A soft, invincible pillow. The feeling of utter frustration as his strongest spells vanished into fluff.
What was the lesson? Why had he failed? A memory of my calm voice echoed in the chaos of his mind: 'Find your anchor.'
And suddenly, in that moment of desperation, he understood. He wasn't supposed to fight the goose or the pillow. The tests were never about the enemy in front of him. They were about the panic inside of him.
He stopped trying to fight the feeling of being judged. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the shadow-crowd and the giant screens. He let the noise wash over him and turned his entire consciousness inward. He focused on a single sensation: the feeling of the dream essence mattress beneath him. It felt solid. Real. A perfect island of comfort in a raging sea of noise.
That was his first anchor.
Then, he focused on a taste—the memory of his own 'Nightcap' tea, a ghost of warmth and gentle magic.
That was his second anchor.
He began to hum his quiet little lullaby, a sound only he could hear. With the feeling of the bed and the taste of the tea, he built his own tiny sanctuary, a bubble of cozy right in the heart of the roaring chaos. Slowly, deliberately, the monotonous chant began to sound distant and silly, replaced by his own humming. The commentator's voice grew tinny and faint. The harsh glare of the Scry-Screens softened into a gentle glow.
His breathing deepened. His tense shoulders relaxed.
He had found his center. He wasn't in a legendary state of sleep, but he was resting, peacefully, in the middle of a psychic hurricane. He had passed the final test.
[NAP QUALITY: 75/100 (Proficient Under Pressure)]
The nightmare stadium melted away into nothingness.
Zazu woke up in the quiet Chamber of Slumber. He sat up, and though he looked mentally exhausted, there was a new, calm confidence in his eyes.
"I can do it," he said, his voice quiet but absolutely firm.
Our champion was ready.
Just then, the Guild Bulletin Board chimed, not with a small message, but with a grand, golden, system-wide announcement.
[THE 114th ROYAL DUNGEON LEAGUE TOURNAMENT BEGINS TOMORROW AT SUNRISE.]
[ALL COMPETITORS ARE TO BE ON STANDBY.]
[The Comfy Corner is scheduled to compete in the opening ceremony. Be prepared for portal activation.]
The time for preparation was over. The big day had arrived.