"You knew… you've always known."

Zolomon turned to him.

"No, then I had my doubts. But now I am certain, and it was just today, when you showed up in my chambers, that I became sure."

Simma placed both hands on his head, almost as if trying to keep his thoughts from spilling out.

"No no no no no" He stuttered "you are not meant to know. No Azren was… and the worst thing is that you are a high-ranked Azren! How do I trust you won't go about telling everyone?"

Zolomon smirked, his lips curving with calm assurance.

"If I didn't tell anyone when I only had doubts... well, except for someone who already knew, which was Zaro... then why would I tell anyone now?"

Simma stared at him, but his heart thumped restlessly, like a drum refusing to be silenced. He never wanted anyone to know who he truly was, not just now but even in his past reincarnations.

Zolomon cleared his throat, his voice carrying weight but also warmth.

"I have been meaning to say this… but it is an honor to meet you, Zelihuth."

Simma frowned, a deep frown that almost folded his entire forehead.

"Now you stop that. I think you know it is not an honor. And somehow... I know you know everything about me."

Zolomon's smirk widened into a grin, one painted with pride and self-satisfaction, the sort of grin that said, yes, 'I know more than I should, and I enjoy it.'

"Of course I do. I know about the curse, your demon part, your Azren part. I know it all."

Simma looked at him with tired eyes. "Please, no one should know about this," he begged softly, then added with curiosity biting at his voice.

"But I'd like to know... how did you figure it out?"

Zolomon blinked, the edges of his eyes creasing with thoughtful wrinkles."First was during your arena battles, the chaos you made with dragon, then. Second was when I discovered you already had an ES, even though you hadn't been given one. And third… you survived a demon attack after your wood-hint tournament."

Simma lowered his gaze, staring at his own legs as though they had just told him a bad joke. True, Zolomon was really perceptive. 'Too perceptive for my peace of mind,' he thought.

He almost mentioned the strange book that had mysteriously appeared in his room, brought by Delilah, but he waved the thought away. He didn't want to fling more accusation more than he had already done at the old man.

"Brace yourself, Simma."

Zolomon's words cut his thoughts short, then suddenly the ground vanished beneath him.

This time, Simma managed to hold himself together. He shut his eyes tight, refusing to let the dizzy swirl of flashing memories reduce him to nausea again. The fall felt endless, like tumbling through a film reel of a thousand lives.

Duuum!

His legs struck solid ground again, jolting him upright.

When he opened his eyes, they were back at the Citadel, but not in Zolomon's chamber. This was somewhere entirely new, a place Simma had never seen.

It was a circular room, high and wide, its tall windows draped with thick curtains that swayed faintly like giants breathing in their sleep. The whole place was bathed in the warm glow of a chandelier, which hung proudly from the ceiling like a jeweled spider spinning light instead of webs.

Beneath the chandelier sat a great circular table, surrounded by eight chairs. The room was empty… except for a single man seated in one of them. He leaned forward, busy with glowing projections hovering over the table, four bright screens of energy that shifted at his touch as he swiped and commanded them with his hands.

Zolomon's voice explained from beside Simma, soft but firm."This is nineteen years ago. And this place… is the White Elders' Circle."

Simma nodded faintly, though his eyes were locked on the man at the table. His movements were practiced, precise, and carried the air of someone important enough to wrestle the attention of fate itself.

Then...

creak.

the entrance opened.

Nineteen-years-younger Zolomon strode in. He looked fresher, sharper, his face carved with youth though still bearing the calm of discipline. Instead of his white elder robe, he wore a thick black overcoat of leather, draping to his knees with a high collar that made him look like a shadow sculpted into form.

Simma glanced at the Zolomon beside him, already forming the question.

But Zolomon didn't wait... he answered, as though plucking the thought right from his head.

"I was still an Omega here."

"Radiant Zolomon," the man at the table called, his voice carrying authority.

The younger Zolomon straightened immediately. "Sir."

"Tell me you have good news."

Zolomon nodded. "I do, sir." But curiosity betrayed his composure as he asked, "Sir… what is this assignment you gave me? Please, tell me what is going on."

The man turned his head, eyes grave, and met Zolomon's younger gaze.

"Don't worry, Zol," he said, but his voice trembled slightly, tension hidden in its layers. Even back then, Zolomon could feel it, the weight of something wrong.

"Everything is fine." the man continued, "Just promise me… not to tell anyone the location. Keep this between us."

Zolomon nodded without hesitation.

"Good. Now you need to get out of here.... and hurry."

Zolomon didn't understand, but instinct pressed against his chest, something wasn't right. He turned and strode toward the door. His hand had barely brushed the handle when....

BOOM!

A bomb dropped at his feet, exploding before he could react.

The blast hurled him backward like a rag doll, slamming his body into the opposite wall so hard that the stone cracked beneath him.

He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, ears ringing like a thousand bells screaming at once. Dust and smoke clung to his skin, blood spilling from his mouth. His vision blurred, the world becoming a smear of shapes and fire.

Masked men filed into the room.

Simma's eyes widened, he recognized those masks. They were the same design Draco had worn when he attacked him during the wood hint tournament. 'But Draco shouldn't even exist yet…' His thoughts clawed at themselves, but he shoved them aside.

Zolomon lay on the ground, groaning, barely able to lift his head. Every inch of him ached, his energy drained to nothing. He rolled over slightly, forcing his eyes to focus. Through the blur, he saw the masked men moving toward the other figure, the man at the table, who had now risen to his feet.

"Dimitrius…" Zolomon muttered weakly, blood wetting his lips.

"Stay calm, Zolomon. Don't move," the man (Dimitrius) ordered. He took a fighting stance, his voice steady despite the danger.

The masked men lunged at him.

And then; everything froze.

The scene paused mid-motion.

Simma stared, wide-eyed. His heart slammed in his chest as his gaze darted from the attackers to Zolomon. He had gone unconscious then and didn't know what happened next. That was why the memory paused there.

"No…" he murmured, trembling.

Beside him, Zolomon lowered his head, his voice carrying the heaviness of a burden too old to lift.

"I'm so sorry, Simma." He had gone unconscious then and didn't know what happened next. That was why the memory paused there.

His voice was drenched in guilt, as if the memory had scarred him deeper than any blade. He had taken the full blast of the bomb and survived, yes... but survival wasn't victory. It was punishment.

Zolomon bowed his head further."That man… Dimitrius Kingstone… he is your father."

The words shattered the air.

Simma stood frozen. His lips parted, but no sound came. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until his eyes finally overflowed. Tears rolled down his face, dripping like broken pearls.

Hatred surged inside him, a storm twisting in his chest. His eyes burned red, anger thrumming in his veins like a second heartbeat. But then, he drew in a deep, steadying breath. He swallowed the rage, though it clawed bitterly against his throat.

He stepped closer to the frozen memory, his trembling hand reaching out for his father. But his fingers passed through the image; very much empty, and ghostly.

Zolomon watched him, his own eyes wet but restrained. He whispered, his voice cracking like old glass:

"If only I had been stronger…"

"No." Simma cut him short, his voice sharp but trembling. He tapped Zolomon's chest, forcing his words through the knot in his throat.

"It's not your fault. You did all you could." He paused, repeated it again inwardly, slower, as if the words were medicine for both of them. "You… did... all... you.... could."

Then he looked up, his eyes swollen but fierce.

"What did he tell you to do for him?"

Zolomon's reply came calm, but heavy with memory.

"He told me to take his wife to safety. Clearly… he knew this was coming. But what I didn't know was who he had provoked... who wanted him dead. Not just him… but all of you."

Simma's gaze snapped toward him, sharp as a blade.

"What do you mean... all of us?"

Zolomon began to walk toward him, his steps slow, deliberate.

"Your mother; his wife, was a Lotus. And she was pregnant with you."

The words struck Simma harder than the bomb had struck Zolomon. His heart clenched, sorrow doubling in his chest. He staggered toward the frozen scene, inspecting every detail of the attackers, desperate for a clue. But there was nothing. Nineteen years ago was too far, too distant, that he can't link any event then to now.

With tears still streaming down his face, he asked softly, brokenly:

"What was she like?"

Zolomon's voice softened too, uncharacteristically gentle.

"She was good. Kind. Beautiful. Strong. And funny. She was a Red Lotus. Even though Azrens and Lotuses were not supposed to join, not supposed to love... because of the difference in lifespans... your parents did... they did. They loved each other deeply, no matter the odds.

His words became more heavy to Simma, but he smiled in sorrow, trying to picture her face through Zolomon's descriptions.

"She was strong and powerful. Her power… was Ashenvolt essence."

"Hang on." Simma cut him off, his breath catching. "Did you just say Ashenvolt?"

Memories flickered in his head. He remembered his Core Sigil's glowing words, he could never forget what it said about his powers. It had said:

=======

[Qi aspect: Thermal Qi Absorption | Ashenvolt Essence]

=======

"What does it mean?" he demanded, staring at Zolomon.

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