He's fighting wholeheartedly, matching blows with fists. He was grinning, his heart was racing, and he let out a roar of glee.
He wonders if he'll ever meet his emperor again, but for some reason, Alit feels like he's already seen him already.
The crowd calls for the next match, and he's ready.
Gilag dreams.
Here it's peaceful. Here there's no need for rage. Here he can fill his lungs with the scent of sharp wood.
There's a call of pon, pon, and Ponta floats up to his side, a bottle of sake as big as his body clutched between his tiny paws. They share a cup and turn on the TV to the Sanagi concert special.
They'd always listened to the court musicians, but cute pop was bright, cheerful, and just as good.
Mizael dreams.
He's soaring across the universe divide, whirling past nebulous clouds and singing stars. He knows every star in the sky, but calling to them from the crystals of the Barian World is so different from being wholly embraced by them.
There's a golden flash, a streak that cuts itself through the blackness of space, and if he squints, he can make out the figure of Dragluon flying by his side.
Welcome back, Jinlong says, and Mizael is the one to reach out this time.
Durbe dreams.
He's never felt so light before. He's always looked down to Earth through red crystal telescopes, but here he can't see the ground and the people below.
It's tempting to look back and worry where his comrades are, but there's nobody else here. No responsibility, no eternal promises. The wind is strong enough to move the clouds, but it hits him gently and tousles his hair.
He breathes in the air and decides to walk atop the clouds.
Vector dreams.
Hungry ghosts. Paintings on the wall.
He's on trial, chains are biting into his neck, and he's never trembled so much in his life. Human forms without substance sit in the stands, and call unanimously for death.
It's not my fault, he cries, as they force him onto the chopping block, it's not my fault! He screams to their featureless faces, but even he knows his words are just lies.
Merag dreams.
She's standing in front of the mirror, picking the clothes off a standby rack. She's trying on armor, and pink skirts and sky blue sweaters lay folded up in the discard pile.
A slip framed with gold curves finds it way into her hand, and she tosses it aside. She wore too much white recently, and swaps it for an azure summer dress. It's strong on her body and bends well at the joints, but there's still something missing. Even though she's tired of gold, she reaches for a necklace and lets it fall around her neck.
She smiles. Perfect.
Nasch dreams.
He's sitting at that table again, at the voting board with four figures. The teenage duelist, the long dead king, and the barian emperor all sit in their chairs, looking expectantly at him again. Waiting. They're not pointing swords at each other this time.
Are we fighting again today? he asks.
No, not today, they reply.
He blinks once and they're all gone, leaving nothing but a confidently smiling Yuma. Yuma holds out his hand, like he's always done, and Ryoga takes it and never lets go.