Simma blinked into darkness. His vision was a heavy curtain, refusing to lift. He blinked again, and this time faint blotches of green light wavered before him like fireflies drowning in fog.
Then nothing.
His head throbbed as though an anvil hammered within it, and his body lay drained of strength. He remained sprawled on the sand, chest rising and falling weakly, still fighting to pry his eyes open.
"Simma."
The voice, familiar, and commanding broke through the haze. At once, adrenaline surged through his veins, forcing him upright.
The strange man's face hovered beside him, faintly lit by a flicker of emerald flame cradled in his palm. Perhaps it was the shock of being woken, or perhaps the flood of memory from what had just transpired, but Simma's heart struck against his ribs with renewed vigor.
Night had fallen. The training ground lay in shadow, the forest nearby whispering with a chorus of nocturnal life.
"How long have I been out?" Simma asked, his voice hoarse, desperate to know if he had lost a mere moment or an entire lifetime.
The man chuckled, though his eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
"You have just returned from the Realm of the Transmigrated. A place that rests in the underworld. Time bends differently there. What feels like minutes in that abyss might cost you an entire day here."
Simma's stomach dropped as though the earth itself had betrayed him.
It was just two minutes? He would swear it had been no more. Yet here the man was, telling him he had been absent for the length of a day.
"Come," the man urged, breaking Simma's stunned silence. "You need rest. Tomorrow begins the Wood Hints."
Simma nodded, though his mind was far from still. How could he forget, it was what he had been training on since. Though his trainer, looked weary too. Even though he masked it with a cloak of calm grin. Yet Simma could feel it.
The man's aura, though strong, was thinned; the power he had summoned to keep the passage stable had nearly consumed him. Not many lotuses alive could accomplish such a feat.
…
That night as Simma walked through the citadel to his room, his thoughts did not spiral, they stormed. Unanswered questions stabbed at him like thorns. including his dreams twisted into nightmares and now, this man that claimed to be his ancestor added to the load.
He kept on pondering about what transpired in the realm of the transmigrated, especially those particular words: "You showing up here might not be a mere coincidence, since only those that are cursed can pass through the door of Nethris…"
Cursed? The word echoed like a gavel. No, he couldn't be cursed. It was not possible. Maybe it was just the fact that he had been having rageful outbursts, which Zolomon had told him that if it kept happening, the Umbrax would start to have an effect on him, leaving its black fingerprints on his soul.
Maybe that was it. Perhaps it was not curse, but consequence. Yes, all he had to do was make sure he tamed his anger and also tackled his within beast calmly and patiently, like the strange man had told him to.
He was now a few hallways away from reaching the recruits' sleeping wing, and now he was mastering the citadel, and him getting lost was rare. But whenever he did, he just knew that the citadel had changed its route, which it normally did almost every day.
He was about to pass through the training center when something glimpsed his eyes. A faint shimmer of blue light pulsing and he turned and stared through the glass door. He winced a bit.
"Tsk… is that..." he muttered, leaning on the glass door, his nose pressed against it.
"... Sarah?..."
Indeed, it was her. She stood inside the training chamber, bow in hand. Yiriana's Bow. Her figure was tense, shoulders drawn tight, brows furrowed in exhaustion. The shimmering blue arrow notched itself into being, its glow spilling across the white chamber like liquid moonlight.
She had learned how to get an arrow into the bow, well, almost every one of the recruits was already getting used to that, but what she was missing and now training on was the target she was shooting.
She fired. The arrow sliced the air and struck the board. Concentric circles rippled as crimson light spread like a wave over water. The AI's monotone female voice followed:
"Third circle. Seven o'clock. Three points."
The arrow hit the seventh wildest ring.
She groaned, tilting her head back, frustration written in every line of her body. Sweat marked her skin, her cropped black training singlet clinging to her form, accentuating her sculpted shape. Her leathery pants traced each line of her movement, granting her an aura of elegance even in fatigue.
The next day was the wood hint, and Simma could understand the frustration she was feeling now. It was almost midnight and here she was trying to master the only thing that seemed to pose a threat to her in the tournament.
Simma kept looking at her.
'Man, she is a work of art.'
"Hard day?" Simma asked as he slipped into the training hall. He hesitated, then added with a sheepish grin, "Uh.... sorry. Hard night, I mean."
Sarah's head turned sharply. Her bow hung loosely at her side, her face lined with frustration and fatigue. Right now, she needed something to pour her anger into, and Simma had chosen the worst possible moment to appear.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. Her voice, usually smooth and melodic, now struck like flint, hard and sharp, as though it had been sculpted by the god of anger himself.
Simma only shrugged. "I sensed your frustration all the way from my room. Thought I should check in, make sure you weren't planning to shoot yourself." His smirk softened the words into a tease.
Sarah let out a short, dry-fake laugh. "Funny. Too bad you haven't been in your room all day."
His smile faltered. Of course she knew.... she always knew. If this conversation wandered too far, she might start asking questions he couldn't answer. So he quickly changed course.
"So…" He nodded at the bow in her hand. "How's the training going?"
Sarah didn't even look at him. She lifted the bow again, the string humming as she pulled it taut. "Too bad I'm not with a rope," she muttered.
"Would've hanged myself already." The arrow shimmered into being, she released it, and slammed into the board.
"Fifth circle. Five points," the AI's calm voice declared.
Sarah exhaled, her shoulders slumping. "That's probably the best shot I've managed all day." Her frustration still clung to her like a second skin.
Simma's lips curved. "Seems like I'm your good-luck charm, then."
That earned him a sidelong look, one brow arched, followed by a reluctant laugh. And for a moment, the pressure in the air cracked. She hadn't realized how much she needed that, something to lift the weight sitting on her chest.
Her eyes lingered on him longer than intended, and suddenly the heaviness inside her felt lighter, almost dissolved. When his gaze caught hers, she flinched and looked away, heat rushing into her cheeks. She raised the bow again, as if only to give her hands something to do.
Simma stepped closer, his tone softer now. "Most of your trouble comes from your stance."
She glanced at him as he moved behind her.
At a glance, he had already seen the flaw.
He raised his hands over her shoulders, carefully adjusting her grip on the bow. Their fingers brushed, and Sarah's breath caught. His presence was warm, steadying, carrying the faintest trace of some gentle scent she couldn't place.
Then his other hand settled against her stomach. She gasped, barely audible, as his palm guided her weight into balance. Her bare skin prickled under his touch, cool and electric all at once.
"Your weight belongs in your waist," Simma murmured, his voice calm and low, guiding her like water guiding stone.
She shifted under his instruction, but her back now rested fully against his chest, his body a firm presence against hers. The nearness sent a shiver through her, her head tilting slightly until her eyes locked with his. For a moment the world shrank to the narrow space between them, charged with a pressure neither dared to name.
"Focus," he said gently, turning her gaze back to the target.
Sarah obeyed, though her pulse thundered in her ears. She didn't want this moment to end, though it was so intoxicating.
"Alright. Let's stretch the string," Simma instructed, guiding her arms. Since he was a head-taller than her; he bent slightly, until his cheek brushed hers, his head resting by her shoulder.
His breath fanned across her ear as he whispered, "Feel the moment."
Her stomach swirled with butterflies, her skin alight.
"All your attention belongs on the board. Aim as though this is the last arrow you'll ever release." His hand adjusted hers delicately.
"Ready?"
She could only nod. Words felt impossible.
Together, they loosed the arrow. It shimmered like starlight, slicing the air before slamming into the very center of the board.
A green ripple spread across the target. The AI's voice chimed:
"Bull's-eye."
Sarah's eyes widened.
"We did it!" The joy burst out of her like fire, and before she could stop herself, she flung her arms around him. "We did it!" she cried again, clinging tightly.
Simma froze, startled, then slowly wrapped his arms around her in return. But the elation faded quickly, leaving behind an awkward, thick silence. She released him, her face burning crimson, unable to meet his eyes.
Simma rubbed the back of his neck, stumbling over words. "N–nice… uh… nice shooting. You… really did well."
"Y-yeah," she stammered, her voice louder than she intended. Almost too abruptly barely letting Simma finish his statement. "And you too. Nice… hold. I mean... uh, tutoring." She turned away, forcing a smile, and hiding her face.
"Right," Simma muttered, edging toward the door. "I should… head to bed. See you in the morning."
"Simma," she called just as he reached the exit.
And before his name would land he had answered
"Yes?!" It was too loud, his nerves betraying him.
She pointed. "The door's that way."
He glanced around, realizing he had been walking straight into the wall. His blush deepened. "Sorry," he mumbled, sneering at himself as he quickly changed direction and disappeared into the hall.
Sarah stood alone in the training room, her heart still racing, and her bow forgotten at her side.
"..."