The air hummed as it lingered, carrying with it an ominous joy wrapped in the crisp Halloween breeze.

The Citadel itself, proud and towering, wore its decoration with such splendor that even familiar eyes wandered around as though beholding it for the very first time.

Yet, the work of embellishment was far from finished. Even then, more hands were busy at the Great Hall, precisely the place chosen for the initiation of the newly recruited Azrens into their S.O.S, and for the sacred changing of their ES chips in the Core Sigil.

This was the day Simma had long awaited, a day etched into his thoughts since the end of the tournament. Truth be told, he was not alone in his longing, every soul who had qualified to be an Azren had counted the days with the same hunger in their hearts.

The recruits' sleeping wing was alive with a clamor that seemed to rattle the walls themselves. From the male wing especially, the rowdy voices rose and carried like a storm, so loud one might think the whole city could hear it.

Simma, however, was preparing for Halloween night with a heart caught between emotions, a strange knot of feelings tucked within him. Perhaps it was because his life was a time-loop; a vicious cycle of death, reincarnation, and beginning anew.

Or perhaps it was because this time felt different, so different that the joy of becoming an Azren... a joy that had colored every one of his past lives, burned brighter than ever before.

Well, to be exact, it was Simma's mind that brimmed with such delight, not Zelihuth's. But since they were fused together within one body, joy magnified itself like an echo in a cavern, swelling until it almost consumed him.

…

By the time darkness fell, the newly recruited Azrens had gathered before the Great Hall. They stood there like sinners awaiting judgment. A low rumble of murmurs rolled through the them, restless and uncertain.

None of them had ever entered the Great Hall before, its doors were reserved solely for Azrens, except on great occasions such as this Halloween night.

Simma craned his neck above the sea of recruits, searching eagerly for Sarah. But the crowd was thick, a living wall of bodies, and her face was nowhere to be seen.

Just then, a voice behind him broke through his concentration.

"Want to change your beast to a giraffe?" the voice asked, dripping with mockery and amusement.

Simma turned, and his eyes met a boy with short, spiky blue hair and an oval-shaped face. The boy's attire was a sharp red tuxedo jacket which glimmered richly, as though it alone declared his wealth.

Simma said nothing at first. He wasn't fond of people prying about his beast. But the boy smirked and pressed further.

"If not, why stretch your neck that way?"

At that moment, Simma understood the jab. He had been tautly stretching his neck in search of Sarah.

"Well," Simma began at last, his voice firm yet edged with restraint, "I was looking for someone." He paused, turning his gaze forward again. "Not that it's any of your business."

The boy chuckled lightly, slipping through the press of bodies until he stood beside Simma. They were nearly the same height, though Simma held the advantage by a small margin.

"You know, for a famous one like you," the boy said casually, "you seem to be a pain in the ass."

The words ignited an urge in Simma, a hot, sharp desire to land a fist squarely on the boy's face. But he suppressed it, unwilling to cause chaos here. Instead, he replied coldly:

"Who are you exactly?" His tone carried the edge of a man searching memory, as though trying to recall if he had known this stranger before.

"Well," the boy answered with unnerving calm, "let's just say I'm someone who wants to be friends with you."

Simma chuckled, a short sound that betrayed his skepticism.

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm," the boy hummed, expression unshaken.

Simma tilted his head slowly, an action he always made when deep in thought, weighing his words.

"Well, you can start by saying your name."

The boy lowered his head as if to speak, but before he could, a sharp sound split the moment, the doors were being opened. They swung wide and wild, their hinges shrieking, as if the very wood exhaled in anticipation.

The sound swept Simma's attention entirely. He forgot the boy in an instant. His eyes fixed on the Great Hall, and the words slipped from his lips almost as a whisper to himself: "Pinch me."

Then he stepped forward with the rest of the recruits.

The Great Hall stretched before them in impossible majesty. Simma knew there was another floor above, yet there was no ceiling here. Instead, the night sky itself unfolded overhead; neat constellations of stars scattered like jewels across a black velvet canvas of the sky, with the moon enthroned at their center.

Pumpkin heads carved with eerie grins hovered in the air, each one aglow with neon light, floating like playful spirits.

As they walked the central aisle, claps and cheers rose around them. The sound, warm yet thunderous, mingled with ancient music that blossomed through the chamber, as if the very walls sang.

Simma's sharp eyes scanned the layout: three long tables to the left, three to the right, divided by the path they now trod.

He needed no guide to tell him their purpose. The six long silver tables, lined with hundreds of seats on both sides, were arranged according to rank. There were seven ranks in total, but only six tables here. Well.. He knew why. Which was that the seventh place belonged to the Sentinels.

Their table stood apart, raised at the far end of the hall, almost like an altar. The six Sentinels sat there, with the head Sentinel in the middle, and the others flanking him in solemn symmetry.

From left to right, Simma noticed the subtle dwindling in number along the tables: Flux, Burn, Xenon, and Accrehx occupied the left; Alphas, Omegas, and finally the White Elders sat to the right. The last were fewest, only seven in number, Zolomon among them, his presence heavy as a mountain.

At last, the recruits halted before the raised panel where the Sentinels sat. A space had been cleared for them, wide and deliberate, like the stage of fate.

Then, a woman rose. Her robe was the same ceremonial white worn by all Sentinels, but the way it draped her body betrayed the form beneath. Her breast pressed firmly against the fabric, her curves refusing to be ignored even by the robe's flowing austerity.

She was radiant. Her eyes, green and glistening like dew on fresh leaves, carried an unnatural wetness. Her silver hair fell to her neck in elegant strands that glimmered under the neon light.

When she spoke, her voice was liquid-silk smooth and alluring, the kind of sound that could disarm even the sharpest warrior. Many of the recruits could not help but imagine her as a lover rather than a leader.

"Most of you know who I am already," she began.

"But for those who do not.. I am Divined Naya Stangard, fourth in rank among the Sentinels."

A ripple of murmurs ran through the recruits. Clearly, many hadn't known her name. But Simma did. His stare lingered on her, heavy with an unspoken weight. Guilt, recognition, and shame were all tangled on his face.

For once, memory betrayed him. In his previous reincarnation, within the body of Morock Skull, he had known Naya far too well. Not merely as a comrade, but as a lover. They had shared countless nights together, nights of heat, of tangled limbs and whispered sins.

He knew her body too well, the softness of those big tits when he fumbles them, her succulent lips, her perfect and well poised big lofty ass and her angelic moans whenever he was inside her.

She had been thirty then, the youngest of the White Elders, her beauty both fierce and untouchable. Morock who was just a Xenon had been twenty-one, reckless yet irresistible to her. Their romance had been somehow complicated, yet it burned bright... too bright.

Back then, Naya had been a strong, determined, and beautiful Azren, already spoken of as a rising star. He remembered her soft laughter, the way she craved his presence, how her strength crumbled only when his hands explored her.

Although, the real Morock; before he died never loved her, not until Zelihuth took over his dead body. And still, not so long after, he died, leaving Naya stranded and all alone. Now, as Simma, he still felt the sting of shame, and perhaps, deep down, the dangerous temptation to have her once more.

But time had changed her. Naya, now older, perhaps forty-eight, no longer a White Elder but a Sentinel of the fourth rank, her very core trait branded with Divinity, might have moved on.

Meanwhile, Naya continued her speech, her voice laced with quiet sorrow.

"Being an Azren comes with a heavy price. Trust me, I know. Many have perished before their time, giving their lives to protect this city from Singriths, Soulnexers, and demons."

Her gaze lowered, shadowed with grief, as though she too had lost someone. And somehow, Simma knew it was him. (Morock). The boy she once loved. The one who died, leaving her all alone.

"This is your final chance to turn back," she declared, her voice firm now. "If you doubt yourself, if you question whether you can be a warrior, you may leave."

Silence followed. The words sank like stones into the recruits' hearts, but not a single one stepped away. None would let their hard-won efforts crumble into nothingness.

"Good," Naya said at last, her face glowing in the neon light. She raised her hand, elegant and commanding. And.

Ding.

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