All of them began filing out of the hall in pairs, some neatly paired, others wandering off alone like forgotten socks after laundry day.

Simma's eyes, however, caught sight of Draco again. Something in his chest tugged; like an itch in the soul, whispering for him to confront Draco, to demand why he seemed so intent on wanting him dead, or at the very least, stopping him from passing the tournament.

But Simma had already decided he would see Zolomon first. The itch would have to wait. So, with teeth gritted and resolve sharp, he let Draco slip from his grasp like sand sliding through clenched fingers. For now.

Simma didn't dawdle or wait for company. He neither paired with someone nor lingered for a friendly word. As a matter of fact, he preferred to meet Zolomon alone. His stride was brisk, his posture taut, as he slipped out of the hall unnoticed.

He took two sharp turns to his left, finding himself in a passage lined with high glass walls, smooth and crystalline, like mirrors made for giants. Ahead loomed a polished brown door, the entrance to Zelihuth's chambers.

The sight triggered a memory. He and Sarah had once stood in that very spot, the day they'd come to ask Zelihuth to replace Neville, who had dropped out of the arena battles, with Simma's name. Simma could still hear Sarah's voice explaining why the room behind the glass wall was empty back then.

Now, the glass no longer revealed anything. The walls stood opaque, veiling secrets behind their shimmer. Sarah had once explained that this was the room used for mind-synching cultivation. Whenever someone prepared to rank up, they entered that chamber for three days, and the glass would darken as though even light itself wasn't permitted to peek.

Simma passed the hall and stopped before Zolomon's door. Fearlessly, he knocked. The sound was sharp, heavy, almost rude, as if his knuckles carried a grudge. He knocked again, this time harder, arrogance laced in every thud.

The door swung open with such force that it slammed against the wall. Simma stumbled inside, but not yet satisfied with the disrespect he had already shown, his gaze burned with deliberate defiance.

He didn't need to search the room. Zolomon was there, sitting cross-legged, palms pressed together in a meditative poise like some ancient statue of wisdom.

His weight balanced perfectly upon the tip of a long staff, no more than four feet, which seemed impossibly steady beneath him. His broad window spilled light across the chamber, his back turned toward the door.

"Simma," Zolomon called, his eyes still closed, his tone calm, smooth, maddeningly respectful. "To what do I owe this rude entrance?"

Simma stopped, glaring at him. Something deep within whispered that Zolomon's hand might have been in the tragedy of his parents.

"It is owed for the lie you spat straight into my face."

At that, Zolomon's eyes snapped open. In a graceful motion, he floated from the staff, weightless, almost angelic, carried as if by unseen hands. His legs stretched, and he touched the floor so gently not even a grain of dust stirred.

"You say I lie," Zolomon replied, his voice now firm, "but you are the one who has been lying all this while…"

Disbelief lit Simma's face. He exhaled heavily, steadying himself, unwilling to tumble into rage again.

"Don't twist this," Simma said sharply. "This is about you, not me."

Zolomon walked forward, slow and composed, his presence carrying the authority of an ocean tide. His steps echoed softly as though the room itself bowed to him. He was surprised, amused even.... that young Simma had the audacity to trade words with him.

"Do you know," Zolomon's grin curled, "that the way you barged into my chambers alone is enough to have you expelled as an Azren? And now, calling me a liar? That alone is enough to have you thrown out of this city."

Simma grinned back, his smile sharp and dangerous, his eyes glinting like someone who had seen too much to ever fear such threats. Even before Zolomon, his aura screamed—I am older than you know. Perhaps I have lived a thousand lives before this one.

"Throw me out of the city, huh?" Simma's grin widened. He took two deliberate, short steps closer until only three feet separated them. "Should I be afraid? Tsk. Is that something you people haven't done before, Zolomon?"

The words pierced. Zolomon froze, not in shock, but in sudden realization. His perceptiveness had missed this, and his eyes widened slightly.

"What do you mean?" he asked, though Simma could taste the pretense.

Simma arched a brow, voice low and cutting. "You knew it was me the moment I returned. You knew they had cast me away. You can't deny it. If there's one person who always knows everything that happens in this citadel.... it's you."

"When you accepted me into the tournament," Simma continued, his voice trembling, "I thought it was because I had earned it. But no. It was because you knew who I was. You wanted me to be an Azren. Ha! Guilty conscience, right?"

He shook his head, disbelief painted across his face.

"Neville never quit the tournament. You removed him, just so you could put me in. Because you knew I had been thrown away as a baby, and you wanted to make up for that."

His voice cracked, breaking under years of bottled pain. "Then all those visits you paid me after the arena battles… I wasn't a fool. I noticed."

"j-just say it" Simma wept more, his breath thick, his heart sad, his head throbbing "SAY THE TRUTH TO ME FOR ONCE... was it you... DID YOU DO THIS TO ME" He yelled.

Zolomon squinted, his old face etched in the light, wrinkles crowning his eyes like weary laurels.

"Simma," he said, softer now, his voice trembling like someone caught red-handed.

"Simma, all I have ever done was try to protect you. I wasn't the one who cast you out of the citadel. I was the one who fought with all my strength for you… and failed. And I have lived ever since regretting my failure"

"LIAR!"

Simma's voice erupted, thundering through the chamber. His eyes brimmed with tears, his tone carrying the grief of years no one else could fathom.

"You lied about my ES too! You looked me in the eyes and told me I was given it in the infirmary... when the ES is only granted in the Echelon Chamber! YOU LIED TO ME AGAIN!"

His voice cracked under the weight of memory..... years of agony, years of slavery, years of fighting on empty stomachs, being trained like an animal, being used as a daylight warrior for the Singriths. Years of watching people die. Years of being an outcast, while he could have lived in peace. He had even lost Sonja, another wound salted into the tally of his suffering.

"Liar…" His shoulders shook, tears spilling freely. "You... you did this to me. You all did!" His cry rose so high it seemed to scrape the ceiling.

Zolomon stepped forward, his face heavy with sorrow. He laid a hand on Simma's trembling shoulder, tears brimming in his own eyes. He could imagine the torment Simma had endured; though imagination could never equal reality.

"Simma," he said softly. "Simma, look at me."

For a moment, Simma hesitated. Then slowly, he lifted his gaze.

"I am not what you think," Zolomon said. "I am no monster. But I know you won't believe me, no matter how I say it. So here... take my hand. See for yourself."

Simma studied him. Once, he might have scoffed at such a request. But now, fully awakened, fully himself, he knew what was about to happen.

"The Neurobond." He whispered. He looked up at Zolomon. He was serious, meaning that he wanted to let him into his head, to see his memory. He said nothing, but his eyes agreed.

Zolomon nodded. "I owe you the truth, the real truth. And the only way I can give it without lies is by letting you see it yourself."

They positioned themselves for the ritual. One hand behind their backs, the other extended forward. Like men bracing to push a mountain, they clasped hands.

The silence deepened. Eyes closed, they looked into the darkness behind their lids, into the marrow of their souls. They caressed the cores of their existence gently, sparking a bond, tapping into each other calmly, without harm.

Their joined hands glowed, Simma's blue, Zolomon's pristine white, his beard swaying lightly in the wind of gathering power.

At Simma's feet, a blue circle rimmed the ground, while a white one framed Zolomon's. The lights rose, swirling around them, blue and white spiraling like wild rivers intertwining.

Their kimonos whipped violently, hair scattering in the storm. Loose papers, parchments, and cloths tore free, dancing through the air like panicked birds.

Until, finally, both of them were engulfed in a glowing sphere of blue and white.

KPUUUUUUUM!

Zolomon let him in.

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