Zolomon narrowed his eyes at him, his gaze sharp enough to slice through silence, as though he could read the very pages of Simma's mind.

""Ashenvolt," he said, his voice low and steady, "is a power that grants its wielder raw knowledge and a natural adaptability to any weapon they touch; how to hold it, how to strike with it, and how to master it."

Simma might have chuckled at the dramatic delivery, but sorrow weighed down on him like a stone on a drowning man. His face remained stiff, rigid, as humorless as a pig in the rain.

Still, a flicker of pride tried to surface. Maybe, just maybe, he had inherited something from his mother after all.

Any weapon that found its way into his hands would bend to him faster than it would to anyone else, the knowledge embedding itself in him with uncanny speed.

If only he'd had this gift earlier; say, when Yiriana was trying (and failing) to teach him how to shoot her sacred bow while he was still Gregor Swamwood, he would have learnt it easily.

He might not have embarrassed himself so spectacularly then.

But now, with this power woven into his very blood, he realized he wasn't just gifted. He was stronger... dangerously stronger.

Simma finally turned to Zolomon, his voice firm.

"Come on. Let's go. I'm done." He said to him, truly he was tired, he didn't want to see another memory of Zolomon's that will cast more sorrows into him.

Zolomon gave a simple nod, but before they could leave, the younger version of Zolomon that is; the memory version of Zolomon, coughed.

He raised his head slowly, the pain in him was so much that he could barely move or focus. But he mustered his very last courage.

With a snap of his fingers, he summoned a crowl, the sleek little creature fluttering like a shadow with wings. Leaning close, he whispered into its ear,

"Go Beaks, and alert the Sentinels that Dimitrius has been taken."

Those words struck Simma like a blade to the chest. Dimitrius… his father. Taken. Probably Killed By now. The truth wasn't gentle, it never was, but at least now he knew.

His gaze slid back to Zolomon.

"So you have a Maltheron?" He asked, trying to cast away the huge sorrow vested on him.

Zolomon nodded.

…

A Maltheron is like an Azren's second animal companion. Like a second beast. Not all had them, but those who did were considered blessed… or cursed, depending on the beast. Simma's own had once been Ms. Shady, loyal and fierce, until her untimely death. Now, Mr. Paw had inherited the mantle, bound to him in her place.

…

Simma and Zolomon, walked up to each other now, they focused, as they took there stance.

Their hands clasped again, and their eyes closed. In a blink, they were standing inside the swirling cocoon of blue and white energy, the sphere humming with a soft thunder before dwindling into nothing, leaving them back in the stone calm of Zolomon's chamber.

Without a word, Simma turned away, grief tugging at his shoulders until he looked like a man carrying the weight of mountains. His silence said everything.

As he neared the door, Zolomon's voice stopped him.

"Simma… just so you know the rest." He hesitated, his voice edged with a sorrow of its own.

"I visited your mother some months after your father was killed. I was the only one who knew the place. But when I arrived… she was gone. Not gone...well I noticed she might have been attacked. And she fled."

Simma froze, his hand still hovering near the door. He was already shaking his head, tears forming in his eyes. He didn't need Zolomon to finish, for he knows what the end point was.

He didn't reply, though he tried to, but his tone faltered, his voice catching in his breath, completely weighed down by all he had just learnt. Slowly...

He turned again for the door.

But Zolomon's voice followed him once more.

"I sent many after her and you. Even though most didn't return, no one found you. No one found your mother." His head dipped, grief carved into the lines of his face.

"I did my best, Simma."

But Simma wasn't weighing whether Zolomon had done his best. No, his mind was elsewhere, piecing clues together like a puzzle only he could see.

"You said you sent people in search of me," he murmured, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"Was one of them named… Sonja?"

The image of her flooded back; the day she was brought into the Haydes, dressed like an Azren warrior. Back then, he hadn't understood where her strange clothes came from. Now he did.

Zolomon's eyes sharpened, suddenly alive with interest.

"Yes. Sonja was part of the second group I sent. She was the youngest of them all, barely a Xenon in rank, but brave enough to try. She was the only one who never returned."

The words burned like acid. Memories of Sonja's last breath surged up—her eyes soft, her lips forming those final words: I love...

Pain lanced through him. If he hadn't come here, if he'd stayed away, maybe those memories would have remained buried where they belonged. Instead, they rose like ghosts, haunting him with the faces of his mother, his father… and Sonja.

One thought anchored itself in him: no matter what it takes, he will find those who destroyed his family.

Simma reached for the door handle, when suddenly, a faint blue light flickered from Zolomon's desk. Unlike the golden glow of the chamber, this light pulsed like a heartbeat. Staining the golden aura of the room.

Zolomon's brows furrowed. "Lexy, bring up the caller."

At once, a hologram slithered into view, forming into the image of a plump man draped in a pristine white Sentinel robe.

Simma muttered under his breath, recognition cutting through him.

"Leonard Gripp…"

The man's smooth, round, beard-less face gleamed beneath his bald head, so polished that in real life, it could probably double as a mirror. Simma almost smirked. Almost.

Leonard was a Sentinel of high standing, his core trait was divinity just like Zolomon. But unlike Zolomon who was still a white elder, he was a Second-ranked Sentinel. And clearly stressed.

"Sir," Zolomon greeted with formality.

The man's tone was clipped, strained, so much so that he didn't even notice Simma lurking behind Zolomon.

"We need you at the VOR. It's chaos."

Zolomon's face twitched with confusion. "The Alphas were already dispatched to handle the situation. Surely..."

But Leonard shook his gleaming head.

"We're losing Alphas up there. They're not enough. Gather Omegas... your best. I need you to lead them, give them order, strategy, something to hold back these demons."

Zolomon nodded immediately, but Leonard wasn't finished.

"There's more." His voice cracked with fatigue, disbelief dripping off each word.

"Singriths have infiltrated the lower bank of the city. Get a Xenon or Accrehx rank Azrens ready. I… I don't even understand the madness of today."

His words fell heavy, worn out, as though the weight of the day had chewed him hollow.

"I'll tell Zach to gather the Accrehx for the Singriths," Zolomon said firmly.

"As for me... I'll head to the VOR at once."

Leonard gave a stiff nod before the hologram fizzled into nothing.

Simma, who had been halfway to the door, stiffened at the name Singrith. The word alone pulled the breath from his chest, dragging him back to chains, whips, and endless suffering. The kind no child should ever endure.

He turned sharply. "Sir. Put me in. I want to fight at the lower bank. The Singriths need to feel my wrath."

Zolomon's answer was quick, firm.

"No, Simma. You are not going. Go back to the other newly recruited."

The words stung like a slap. Newly recruited? Simma almost laughed. Was that all he was now? Starting life all over again, a beginner in their eyes? He swallowed down his rage.

"I'm not as new as you think," he muttered.

Zolomon arched an eyebrow. "You may be ancient... once the greatest Omega. But your strength is bound to your host body now. Nothing more."

There was finality in his tone, the kind that left no room for argument.

"Fine," Simma said flatly. "You win."

He shoved the door open and left.

But he didn't head for the sleeping wing, nor to see anyone else. His feet carried him to the roof, silent and sure. He stepped into the elevator.

Ding.

The doors slid open, revealing the rooftop. Flat. Square. Quiet, except for the low hum of the city below. From this height, the world seemed smaller. The flying cars zipped by, some even darting beneath the rooftop, their lights blinking like fireflies.

Simma scanned the horizon, searching for the telltale smoke of battle, but nothing.

He closed his eyes, focusing.

And then...

A gust of wind whipped by as Goody appeared at his side, wings unfolding with a thunderous flap, scales glinting like wet stone. His serpentine body curled as he settled onto his short, clawed limbs.

"Master," Goody rumbled.

Simma turned, determination etched into his face.

"Goody. We've got Singriths to fight."

Of course he was not backing down because Zolomon said he should. NO. He wasn't about to sit back and let some Accrehx ranks deal with the monsters who had shackled him for most of his life. This was his moment to strike back.

"Goody is ready, Master," the beast answered, wings stretching wide.

A smirk tugged at Simma's lips, his eyes glowing blue with power.

"Oh, yeah," he whispered. "It's time."

He stepped to the edge of the tower and spread his arms, then closing his eyes, he muttered.

"Here goes nothing".

he left himself as he fell of the tower.

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