Gwen was now falling faster, wind gathering around her body as she fell. Once she had fallen below the ring, Barka would win.
"Gwen, wake up!" Lucy yelled from the crowd.
She was still falling, but the gush of wind became stronger and jolted her back to consciousness.
She was already just a few inches from falling below the ring when her eyes jerked open and glowed purple at once.
She took out the bracelet on her hand, and with a shimmering purple light, it elongated and turned into a rope. She flung it at the serpent, and it tied around one of its arms.
With a yank, she pulled herself back into the ring, crashing to the floor roughly.
Barka sighed angrily—he should be winning. His serpent immediately turned around, forcefully flinging its tail at Gwen with tremendous force.
But—boom! There was a dusty wave, and when it cleared—
Gwen was holding the tail of the serpent—but not alone.
Her Azrax, Lucent, fierce and angry, stood with her. (When your Azrax is Lucent, it does whatever you do as long as you can control it.)
Gwen and the beast whipped the serpent around and sent it flying, crashing into the forcefield that protected the audience, and it fell off the ring.
Barka yelled and rained fire at Gwen, but the Lucent lion had already shifted into its real beast form and covered Gwen as the fire poured over him instead.
Gwen immediately transformed the rope into a long staff and she plunged it on Barka's belly. A thrill of purple power surged through it as the end turned into a clamp, locking his hands to his body.
The staff elongated further with Barka still clamped to it, lifting him until his feet were no longer on the ring. Then the clamp opened, and Barka fell off, yelling.
"We have a winner!" Vocal yelled as everyone in the crowd jumped up in amazement.
"Yeah!" Simma shouted happily.
Gwen slumped to the floor.
She lay flat in the arena, grinning happily.
Still feeling weak, she passed out.
Gwen woke up in the infirmary to see Nurse Stacy's face beaming at her.
She sat up, and just then—as if they had timed it—Simma, Lucy, and Gwen's other friends came in.
"You look like shit," Lucy teased, and they all laughed.
"You did good out there," Simma said, his voice calm and soothing, though it was clear he was worried—his game was only one match away now.
"Thanks," Gwen replied, smiling. She couldn't believe she had actually won the match.
Just then, Gwen's mother walked into the infirmary. She was plump and had a face that almost looked like Gwen's, though their eyes were not the same.
"I'll see you later then—my game is coming up. Hope you'll be there," Simma said, before leaving. He was shortly followed by Lucy and the others, leaving Gwen alone with her mother.
Simma stood alone in the locker room, the sharp scent of metal and sweat clinging to the still air. His eyes were glued to the Arena Rules etched in silver on the stone wall, but only one line truly burned into his mind:
"All participants must summon their Azrax during battle."
That single rule haunted him.
He turned away from it, clenching his fists. To his left, propped neatly in its rack, was the weapon he trusted most—a silvery blade etched with ancient runes and ridges that could extend the blade at will. It was a thing of elegance and death, a gift from someone at the Citadel he still hadn't identified. Beside it lay his armor, forged in a sleek black steel with velvet trims that shimmered like shadowed moonlight.
"Summon the Azrax through anger," he muttered bitterly. "And then what? Control the dragon?" He scoffed. "Why couldn't mine be a lion? Or a frog like that ridiculous dream…"
He began pacing the locker room, boots clinking against the stone floor. The space was quiet, too quiet, save for the heavy breath of his opponent seated silently across the room. The man hadn't moved once, his head bowed, arms resting calmly on his knees. Yet Simma couldn't help but glance at him repeatedly.
He was the kind of person posters were made of. Tall, toned, perfectly shaped. His black hair was neatly tied in a high fade, side lines carved like art. His armor gleamed under the rays of sun filtering through the slit windows, and in his grip was no sword—just a strange hilt, ordinary and unassuming.
Then the silence shattered.
"Now, for the final fight of the day!" Vocal's voice blared through the speakers. "We have two Creche Emergence Candidates… and first up—Simma!"
The words struck Simma's chest like a drumbeat. His breath caught. Adrenaline surged.
He strapped on his armor quickly, the plates clicking into place like puzzle pieces made for war. As he stepped into the light, the crowd roared—louder than he expected. It took him a moment to realize they recognized him. Maybe from the hockey tournaments. Maybe from the wild rumors already surrounding him.
"…This young lad earned his team major points in the last hockey match," Vocal's voice carried, "though I've never seen his face around the Citadel. I have a feeling we're about to witness something unique."
"And his opponent… the man who needs no introduction. The calm tempest. The blazing rope. Craven!"
Craven stepped forward with the smoothness of liquid shadow, his smirk carved with confidence that unsettled Simma. He winked—a playful jab or a threat, Simma couldn't tell—but it sent a flutter through his chest.
"Remember the rules!" Madame Hooch's voice boomed above the crowd, followed by the sharp whistle that signaled the match.
Simma unsheathed his sword. It expanded with a satisfying clank, its length gleaming under the sun. Across from him, Craven took hold of the hilt in his hand. A whip-like rope shimmered to life from it, the end tipped with a brutal metal hook. It glowed faintly with enchantment.
No warning. Craven dashed forward like lightning—too fast for any normal eye. His rope lashed forward, slicing the air like a blade. Simma rolled, narrowly avoiding it, and clenched his fist. A surge of velvet energy wrapped around his hand. He hurled a punch infused with it.
Craven tilted his head smoothly. The strike flew past. They both moved again—instinctual, feral. The distance closed. And as if bound by the same rhythm, they leapt into the air simultaneously.
Simma's fist shimmered with translucent scales. Craven's armor slid up his arm and hardened into a steel gauntlet. The moment collided—literally.
Their fists met with a seismic BOOM that sent a shockwave cascading across the arena. Both were hurled backward, crashing hard into the floor.
The force field rippled crimson, absorbing the blast.
Simma staggered to his feet, heart pounding, temples burning. Anger began to coil inside him like a living flame.
Then Craven's eyes snapped open. They glowed—gold and unearthly.
From the light, a shape began to take form. A Lucent Azrax emerged—massive, sleek, terrifying.
A Chitta.
It growled, its yellow eyes glowing like twin moons. Muscles flexed beneath its fur. Its paws could tear through steel, and its fanged face twisted in rage.
Simma froze.
No dragon.
No whisper.
No fire.
"Come on, dragon," he murmured. "Now would be a good time…"
Nothing.
"I guess I'll do it myself."
He raised his sword again.
"Oh? What bravery!" Vocal declared. "He's going to take on Craven without his Azrax!"
The crowd murmured, eyes wide with expectation.
Craven took a runner's stance—then vanished. A sonic boom erupted as he reappeared in front of Simma, delivering an invisible blow that launched him into the air. Simma spun, disoriented. Before he could react, Craven was behind him again—striking mid-air—sending him slamming back into the ground.
Simma groaned, barely able to rise. The Chitta began circling him, fast. Dust stormed up. Fists flashed in and out of the ring like ghosts. Blow after blow crashed into Simma from every direction.
Blood flew from his mouth.
Then—nothing.
He stopped reacting.
Lightning began to crawl across his arms.
His eyes sparked.
The punches kept coming… but Simma stood still, unfazed.
A deafening silence fell.
Then—BOOM.
An explosion of velvet lightning erupted around him, hurling Craven and the Chitta backward.
Craven recovered and summoned his beast into full reality—no longer Lucent, but corporeal.
But it was too late.
The arena trembled.
The crowd rose in awe.
Lightning cracked the sky.
And then it came.
A dragon.
Not just any Azrax. A full-bodied, spiked, velvet-eyed dragon descended from the ether, massive wings flaring, a rough hide studded with thorn-like ridges. Its presence sent a shiver through the ground.
Its roar silenced the stadium.
Its eyes were molten. Its mouth poured flame.
Vocal was out of words.
Craven's Chitta leapt to attack, but the dragon unleashed a torrent of flame that engulfed it in one blast. The Chita cried out in pain and vanished.
Craven got angry and charged at Simma, he was bout to fling his rope at him when the dragon's huge feet made for him.
He rolled away, the huge feet missing him narrowly, thinking he had a clear shot at Simma made to fling his rope, but the dragon's tail whipped across the arena, sending him flying. Then it picked him up in both claws.
And began pulling him apart.
"HA-HA-HA" Simma laughed his voice echoing but it didn't sound like an echo it sounded like many voices laughing at a time
Zolomon eyes widened "could it be true?" he pondered
Lucy was bothered "NO!" She screamed from the stands. "He's not in control!"
The dragon started pulling him apart slowly, in an agonizing way.Zolomon noticed and muttered something under his breath.
"HA-HA-HA," Simma laughed again coldly. Everyone in the crowd was quiet as the event unfolded.
Simma was enjoying himself as Craven was yelling.
"Come on, Simma… happy moment," Lucy whispered where she was.
And as if struck, memories came drifting into Simma's head.
He saw himself in an empty space—dark and void. Just then, on blinking, he was in a house, in a room that looked very familiar.
The room, on one edge, had beds aligned in a bunk pattern, and then to the left was what looked like a table, but wide and short.On the wall were scribblings that looked like they were drawn by little children.
Just then, there was a voice.
"I'm now your sister… don't be afraid. I love you."The voice was a girl's voice—but not just any girl—a little girl. The little Sonja.
"Sonja…" he muttered, walking closer to touch her.
As he scooped up a handful of sand, he raised his head and saw himself—but no longer small, and no longer with Sonja—but with Gwen.
"You can't even catch a lady," Gwen had said.
They were gliding.
He was now in the memory when he and Gwen were on the arena ground.He and Gwen had tripped and fallen, and Gwen had landed on top of him. He remembered how good he felt at that moment.
Many more good memories came flashing by.
And then, when he finally opened his eyes, the dragon was gone—and Craven was not killed, though he had tapped out.
He had won the arena battles—but it didn't feel like it.
The crowd was dead in silence. But then, from one end, came a clap. Then two claps.And then many claps. And then everyone started cheering.
The cheering grew faint and the stands became blur, his head spinning and throbbing loudly, other memories came rushing through and.
Black out.
Zolomon was rubbing at his beard.The voices, it can't be mere echoes- no it can't be. yes they are voices of his past selves-his past incarnates.The dragon- the killer instinct.The laughter.
He had only been forty percent sure, but with this, he was fully sure.
Simma… not just Simma.He is Zelihuth.And he had REINCARNATED AGAIN.