The arena battles were still ongoing, and the final stages of the games were fast approaching.Simma had been up early—as early as the first light dared to touch the sky. Sleep had become more of a burden than a blessing lately.
Zolomon's words echoed in his head, and he had made up his mind to meet the man Zolomon had directed him to, for his training.
He quickly freshened up and threw on a clean set of clothes. The room—alive with quiet magic—was already arranging itself. After a final glance, he stepped out and locked the door behind him.
He moved through the long hallway, past other competitors preparing for the next battle, and into a quieter passage lined with tall stone pillars.
From there, he strode into a pathway that led outside the Citadel—a serene route with living walls of flowering vines.
The blooms swayed gently in the breeze, making the path feel like something out of a dream. The green, red and yellow colouration blossomed with ultimate beauty.
Soon he found himself beyond the Citadel gates, stepping into the pulse and rhythm of the city.As always, the moment he entered the heart of the city, it was as if his worries were brushed away by the cool breeze that lingered in the air.
He drew in a deep breath, and a small, unforced smile touched his lips.
Vendors lined the streets, calling out about their goods. Some rang bells, others held banners or waved hands—each one determined to catch a wandering eye.
Simma wandered deeper in, past a small crowd huddled around something unseen. He paused as a delicate melody drifted into his ears—a soft tune that seemed to cradle the soul. Curious, he rose to his toes, trying to glimpse the performers.Just teenagers. But even so, the music held a strange, simple beauty. He smiled and continued his walk.
Time passed, and the sun climbed higher. Only then did he realize how long he had been walking.
"Next time I'm doing this, I'm definitely borrowing a horse," he muttered, legs sore and body heavy with that strange, tingling ache that came from walking too far without realizing.
Soon he was in the sloped outskirts of the city—a quiet place near the river, where the land was wide and the homes sparse. The buildings here were worn and scattered, none of them particularly inviting.
"The one near the river," he recalled. "That's how Zolomon described it."
He spotted it immediately."Huh. Zolomon really knows how to describe a place," he muttered with a wry smile.
The riverbank nearby was soft and sandy, and so was the ground around the house.Simma stood before the small, almost box-like structure. It was so compact, it reminded him of a phone booth from one of his dreams.
"Why would anyone want to live in something this small?" he wondered aloud, amused.
He knocked and waited. A moment later, the door creaked open.
The man who appeared had to bend just to step out. He was dark-skinned, with a face full of scars that made him look like someone who had walked away from death itself. His head was shaved low, matching the short beard on his chin.
He wore a strange grin—one that said he wasn't exactly thrilled to see Simma, but was trying to play along anyway.
"Well, who is it if it ain't Zeli—"He caught himself, freezing mid-sentence, as if a voice in his head had yanked him back. "Well… if it's not…?"
"Uh… Simma. I'm Simma. Zolomon sent me," Simma said, watching him closely. "…And you are?"
The man hesitated, his expression unreadable.
"Well," he finally said. "Bathemius."
"Alright, lad, come on in," Bathemius said, ushering Simma inside.
Simma bent slightly and passed through the small door behind Bathemius—then froze, jaw slightly open. It wasn't at all what he had expected.
Though Druid had a bit of enchantment in his home, this was something else entirely. This was a different level of magic.
Inside looked like a castle—tall, grand, and almost sacred. At the very center was an enormous open space that towered up to what looked like a glass ceiling. The ceiling had a glowing star pattern etched into it, and when the sun streamed through it, the light scattered into shimmering, multicolored rays.
All around were tall pillars, and further ahead, stairs led up to another floor. But the center chamber rose straight to the ceiling without interruption.
The walls were decorated with strange drawings. They didn't look ancient, but they were like nothing Simma had ever seen before. One caught his eye: a colossal dragon standing in ruins, a massive serpent clutched between its canines, and a giant bear pinned beneath its clawed paw.
He followed Bathemius deeper into the house, eyes still tracing every detail. Even the floor was engraved with elegant patterns that gleamed faintly, as though enchanted.
Just as he was about to get lost in the beauty of it all, something—or rather, someone—pulled him out of his trance.
A woman. Or as many would call them, a whore.
She walked up to him with a deliberate sway, eyes glinting as she took in the young man before her. Simma's features were sharp—his hair neatly styled, jawline carved like stone, and his clothes, a brown jacket with wide-legged trousers and a scarf around his neck, fit him like they were tailored for royalty.
She ran her fingers along his chest, and Simma felt a rush of unfamiliar sensation ripple through him. His heart skipped.
His gaze slowly dropped to her body—
Her upper body was bare, and her breast was standing on her chest just as smooth and as seductive as her eyes.
Simma couldn't take his eyes away from her chest, as the woman was making a sexy and an appealing movement on him that kept him rooted to the spot. His heart racing and thrills of pleasure running through him.
Simma couldn't look away. She moved closer, sultry and confident, and he stood frozen, lips parted, pulse rising.
"Anna," Bathemius called dryly, not even glancing back. "Leave our guest alone. I don't think that's what he's here for."
The woman—Anna—pouted theatrically, then slowly stepped back, winking at Simma before gliding into a haze of mist, where other women in similar attire lounged.
Simma turned his head to watch her disappear, still stunned.
"Come on, boy," Bathemius said, shooting him a half-amused look. "Didn't your mama ever teach you that first impressions matter?"
They continued walking through a narrow corridor, tight enough to squeeze only one person at a time, until they reached a door at the very end. Sunlight leaked in through its cracks.
Simma found himself wondering—why bring him through the entire house just to get to the backyard? Why not just lead him around from outside? Was this all just to show off his home, his magic, his power?
Bathemius placed a hand on the doorknob, but before he opened it, he turned to Simma.
"You sure you're ready to train with me?" he asked, the question heavy, almost as if he wanted Simma to back out.
"Yes, I am," Simma replied with quiet confidence. No matter what, he told himself, I'm going to learn how to control my Azrax.
Bathemius pulled the door open—and Simma froze again.
It wasn't a backyard. Not at all.
They were standing at the edge of a cliff, high above the clouds. The very sky seemed to bow beneath them. The tips of trees and mountains stretched below, mostly swallowed by rolling fog.
"What… is this place?" Simma asked, eyes wide.
Bathemius smirked. "Your training ground."
Then—without warning—he shoved Simma.
"Noooooo—!" Simma yelled as he plummeted, his scream trailing into the void.
He crashed through branches, leaves slicing his skin as he hurtled toward the ground. He screamed again, covering his face with his arm. The ground was rising fast—too fast—
And then…
Nothing.
He blinked one eye open. He was floating—just two feet above the earth.
He laughed—"Ha… ha…"—and then thud!He hit the ground, groaning.
Bathemius floated down like a ghost, landing softly beside him.
"What was that for?! You could've killed me!" Simma shouted as he got to his feet, brushing off the dirt. "I would've splattered on the ground falling from that height!"
"But you didn't," Bathemius said with a shrug. "This was your first training—and you failed."
Simma frowned.
"You were supposed to summon your Azrax mid-fall," Bathemius continued. "Find out if it could fly, if it could catch you. But you didn't even try."
"Well, my Azrax is a mighty dragon—it has wings! It can—"
"Lesson two: failed," Bathemius cut in, raising a brow. "You're bragging about a power you haven't mastered. Not wise."
He paused, then added with a grunt, "And yeah—I know it's a dragon. So hush."
He's so unfriendly, Simma thought, scowling. Maybe that's just how teachers are.
"Get going. We don't have all day," Bathemius said as they began moving through the forest.
Simma didn't know exactly where they were headed, but he had a strange feeling that Bathemius might actually make a great teacher—at least judging by the way he carried himself.
"Bathemius…" Simma started, but was quickly cut off.
"Call me sir," Bathemius snapped, his voice harsh as he continued striding forward, Simma keeping pace beside him.
"Sir…" Simma echoed gently, not wanting to upset him. Zolomon had warned him—Bathemius was not someone you wanted to anger.
"What's my first training?" he asked.
"What do you mean, your first training?" Bathemius said, stopping briefly to shoot him a look. "Didn't you hear anything I said? You've already failed your first and second trainings. Which means this next one is going to be harder than it should've been."
"But… you didn't even tell me it had started. I didn't know you were going to push me."
"If I were your enemy," Bathemius said, tone cold, "I wouldn't tell you I was going to kill you. I'd just do it. And that, boy, brings us to this."
He stopped and turned fully now, giving Simma a sharp glance.
Simma looked around. The place was quiet, empty—except for a single bowl of water resting on the sand.
"This is it?" Simma asked, confused. It wasn't what he had expected at all.
"We're here?" Simma asked, a note of disappointment in his voice, though it wasn't what he had expected.He had pictured a well-defined training ground—perhaps a place lined with swords, targets, and various weapons for combat drills. But this... this was just a bowl of water resting on the sand.
"This is just a bowl... and water in it. How is this training?" he asked, puzzled.
"Sit," Bathemius said simply.
Simma hesitated for a moment, then obeyed. He sat cross-legged behind the bowl, eyes still fixed on Bathemius, waiting for the next instruction.
"Now open your hands," Bathemius said.Simma did as he was told.
"...And start hitting the water."