Simma's arms no longer felt like his own. Every muscle in his body screamed mutiny, and his abdomen throbbed with a pain so sharp that each step was an act of defiance against collapse. He staggered forward in a languid shuffle toward the man, who sat aloft on a floating chair, swaying gently in the air as if suspended by invisible strings.
A steaming cup of coffee rested in his hand, and though Simma wondered how in the world such luxuries had found their way into this place, all he could think was how desperately he longed for a sip himself.
"Good work," the man said, his voice casual.
The compliment felt less like praise and more like cruelty, the kind one might offer to a man flattened by a train- same train which was sent by the exact person that commented "good work" to a body broken beyond repair.
Simma had already grown used to the torment of two hundred push-ups and two hundred and fifty sit-ups across the past week, but now the man had doubled the numbers.
Twice the pain, twice the weight, and no room for protest.
The chair descended, touching the earth as though obeying an unspoken command, and the man rose with the stateliness of a monarch preparing to issue war decrees. He set the cup upon the chair, then strode toward Simma with measured gravity.
"There is one final step," he said, "that I believe may aid you in the Wood Hints."
Simma's heart skipped.
"What do you mean? I thought it was time for my meditation, for mastering my Within Beast," he replied, his voice threaded with desperation.
Of course he was desperate. The tournament loomed ahead, and he possessed no weapon of his own. The Board had decreed it: no external arms permitted, only those forged by the warrior's inner beast. Without it, Simma would stand defenceless in the arena, Judging by the fact that he had not yet mastered his within beast- nor how to summon the weapon.
The man walked up to Simma and stared directly into his eyes. A gaze that seemed to run down into his soul.
"You truly think I don't want you to master your inner beast?" he asked, voice heavy with unspoken truths.
Simma faltered. His lips parted, but words tangled in hesitation. And yet, what did it matter? His doubts clawed to the surface, and silence would not bury them. He had to say whatever that bothered him.
"Maybe… because meditation lets me look into myself," he muttered, "and perhaps that would help me summon my beast sooner."
The man's lips curled, smacking together with irritation, his voice almost edging to anger.
"There's no mastering your within beast now. Trust me, that's what have always happened to you ... you never listen. First, you need to master yourself."
Simma's brow furrowed, confusion sculpted across his face like a masterpiece painted by the cruellest of artists. He repeated the words slowly, as though tasting them.
"Did you just say 'that's what have always happened to me?'" Those words sounded way more heavier now that he repeated them, and seemed to be cradling more meaning.
The man's gaze dropped to the earth, regret flickering across his face like a secret he had foolishly let slip. When he lifted his head again, his eyes were narrowed, his expression carved from stone.
"It doesn't matter what I say. What matters is that, for once, you listen."
He strode past Simma, boots sinking into the river's edge until the water lapped at his legs. Simma's stare clung to him.
For long he had suspected this man had not simply fallen from the skies to train him. There was more hidden motives lurking beneath every lesson. And the sooner he uncovered them, the better.
The man widened his stance slightly. His aura shifted, bending the very air around him, gathering weight and momentum.
Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand. And from the empty space before him, a green spark bled into existence, mirroring the eerie glow of his
The spark grew, swelling into an emerald blaze; shiny, glassy, and thick as if formed from constellations trapped in translucent flame.
It climbed the air, eight feet high, crackling as it spread, weaving into a thread of light that stretched and thickened until it became a door. A sharp vertical rectangle, its edges licked by green fire, its surface glowing like tempered glass.
Turning, the man fixed Simma with his blazing eyes, his aura ancient and deadly, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of an echo from another age.
Simma never knew he was this great, but he swallowed as he listened to his voice.
"You can never escape who you are," he intoned. "But what you can do… is embrace it... and forge something better."
The words vibrated through Simma's chest. The air had grown eerie, tinged green as though the world itself had been dyed in sacrifice.
The man left himself and gently his feet also left the floor. he soared toward the door, his black kimono hurled backwards by the impact of the smooth air that caressed him enviously. Moments later he was aloft, grasping the Door's handle.
Closing his eyes, he muttered low words, ancient and indecipherable, before twisting the knob. The door yawned open.
Blinding brilliance surged forth, a white light so pure it swallowed everything - yet, strangely, it did not blind the eyes that beheld it.
"Know this," the man said, voice deep as prophecy. "Every fragment of knowledge you gather beyond this door matters. Do not unsee what you have seen. Play shrewd, for deception prowls in many masks. And remember, this is merely another session."
Simma, drawn forward by instinct, began walking. He did not touch the water. Instead, each step found purchase upon the air itself, his footfalls igniting brief glimmers of emerald pulse, as if invisible threads held his weight. Energy flooded his veins, a flush of vigour not entirely his own.
He ascended, higher and higher, hair of obsidian whipping behind him like smoke caught in a storm. His black-and-red jacket fluttered, defiant against the charged wind. He felt, if only for a heartbeat, as though he carried the courage of ten thousand warriors.
At last, he reached the threshold. The brilliance before him stretched wide, infinite, a veil of mystery that beckoned. He breathed once, steady, and then stepped through.
The light consumed him. And Simma was gone.