All eyes were still riveted upon Simma, darting from his blood-streaked form to the hulking carcass of the demon he had slain. Those who had not witnessed his impossible descent whispered hastily to their neighbours, and soon the horror spread like a wildfire of rumour, until the entire coliseum sat gripped in a single breathless silence.

Simma shifted uneasily beneath their gaze. Perhaps it was the suffocating stillness, the weight of thousands of eyes fastening upon him like chains, or perhaps it was the crystalline voice of his ES, echoing sharply in his skull as glowing runes danced across his mind's eye.

-----------------------

[You have slain a Rank B Warrior Demon]

[Demon's Core Trait Acquired]

[Soul Cores: 3]

[Kernels Leashed: {34} : Total Kernel: 12]

[Total Kernel Evolved: 24]

--------------------------

Simma's heart hammered. One demon... just one... had gifted him twenty-four kernels. The realization struck like lightning.

Well. He knew why: the beast had carried three soul cores, and each orbited four kernels, totalling twelve. But because it was no ordinary creature, rather, a B Sub-ranked Warrior Demon; so therefore the kernels doubled, evolving into twenty-four.

Had it been of a lesser ilk... say, a D Sub-rank.... no such bounty would exist. Well, A C Sub-rank would have offered only half, an extra six. But this one, this monstrous prize, had rewarded him with double.

And if... just if fate had cast him against the terrifying A Sub-rank Warrior Demon, the pinnacle of its class, it would have been thrice the harvest: thirty-six kernels, an evolutionary feast.

Such sub-ranks were not mere numbers. They were ladders of damnation, each rung a step closer to evolution: from Warrior Demon to Arch Demon, to Demon Lord, and, in nightmares best left unspoken, to Primordial Devil.

Like the Azren themselves, demons bore core traits; and the higher their rank, the more human their visage became, the more cunning their disguise.

But unlike Azrens their core trait rage as thus: Spawn→ shackled→ cursed→ fallen ecclipsed→ damned→ and unmade.

While the demon ranks were seven in all: The imp→ Tempter→ Corrupters→ Warriors→ Arch demons→ Demon lords→ Primordial devils.

Now if he was to refer to what he had killed, he would call it: A fallen-warrior-B-Sub-ranked-demon.

But Simma's awe was soon cleaved apart by another line of runes, brighter and louder... almost jubilant in its proclamation:

--------------------

[Simma]

[You have passed the W.O.O.D. Hints Tournament]

[Prepare for Appraisal]

--------------------

His breath caught. At last, his truth would be unveiled; his traits, his rank, his evolved kernels. Soon all will be revealed. Yet before he could savor the revelation, a sound tore him back into the world of flesh.

"Simma!"

It was Sarah. She strode toward him, her face radiant with triumph, eyes brimming with tears, lips stretched in a smile so wide it seemed to swallow the shadows around her. She flung her arms around him before he could protest.

Simma faltered, his voice a hoarse whisper from exhaustion.

"E-eh...I'm stinking, Sarah…"

He said it not out of shame but of truth; his body was drenched in the acrid, green blood of the demon that had been flung with him into the arena.

But Sarah did not care. Her embrace tightened, a warm anchor in the storm of gazes and murmurs. Her joy overflowed in trembling sobs; even Lucy, watching from nearby, wiped away her own tears as if she, too, could feel the emotional weight lifted from this reunion of success.

Then, suddenly...

KPA… KPA… KPA… KPA…

A slow, deliberate clap cut through the silence.

Zolomon Theus, tall and unreadable, stood among the White elders. His palms pressed together rhythmically, a sound steady as a war drum.

Sarah pulled away just enough to turn. At first, he alone clapped. Then another hand joined. And another. Soon, like sparks feeding flame, the entire coliseum erupted into thunderous applause.

The dead silence shattered into roaring celebration. Hats flung skyward, scarves swirled like banners, and voices bellowed until the very stones seemed to tremble.

Sarah threw herself against Simma again, hugging tighter, her body trembling with joy. This time, Simma's arms found their way around her as well, and for a moment... just a fleeting moment... her warmth, and always very soft body, eclipsed the cold rejection of the world.

Then Vocal's voice boomed across the arena, magnified like the voice of destiny itself, by the microphone he was holding:

"WE HAVE OUR NEW AZRENS!"

The cheer redoubled, swelling until fireworks burst above in brilliant cascades of crimson and gold, painting the night as if the heavens themselves celebrated. Simma's lips curved at last into a rare smile; faint, weary, but alive. He was home. He was welcomed. He was, undeniably, an Azren.

Yet even as joy reverberated, Dermot Reginald, Sentinel Head, raised a commanding hand. He placed his index finger on his neck as his voice bloomed more than that of Vocal's who was talking with a microphone. It was as sharp as iron and resonant as a blade unsheathed, slicing through the revelry.

"We are welcoming our new defenders. Our new Azrens!" he intoned, and the crowd, though reluctant, stilled to listen.

"As it has always been, since the Azrax gifted us with these extraordinary powers, the initiation into the Azren line shall take place on All Hallows' Eve.... two nights hence!"

Cheers thundered anew, recruits pumping fists into the air, some collapsing to their knees in gratitude. Dermot's voice only grew stronger, his tone rising above their exultation.

"THE INITIATION INTO THEIR S…O…S!"

The letters cracked through the air like sparks. The coliseum erupted again, the chants and cheers more like soldiers celebrating victory than civilians honouring recruits.

But Simma's mind snagged on the phrase. S.O.S. He had heard it before... yes... from Zolomon, while he was still recovering from his wound after the arena battles. He had asked, but Zolomon had only said: "You'll know when you pass the W.O.O.D. Hints."

Well, he had passed. And now the hunger to know gnawed deeper than ever.

Meanwhile Sarah's joy was uncontainable. She had made it. Against every obstacle, even against her mother's doubts, who never supported the idea of her becoming an Azren, also against her own three failed attempts, she had risen. Tears welled as she threw her head back and shouted with the crowd:

"WUUUU-HUUUU!"

She had not just survived. She had proven herself. She was worth it.

Dermot once more steadied the storm of cheers.

"As tradition commands, special awards shall be granted to the first three who returned. They are the swiftest, the strongest, the most unyielding among you!"

Sarah's heart nearly burst. She was second. Second only to "Mrs. Pink," the odd lady Simma had named so mockingly. (Well even now her attire reeked of pink). To her, the ranking didn't matter, she was among the strongest. She was finally more than a failure.

"…And so," Dermot continued,

"on the day of All Hallows', they shall receive their rewards."

Simma, though standing tall among the jubilant, felt a shadow tug at his spirit. Ms. Shady was gone, forever lost. He had been the very last to return tonight, and yet… if not for the cruel detour into the demon's lair, perhaps he would have been the first.

His thoughts drifted to suspicion. Draco. The masked figure who had once loosed an arrow at him, intent on murder. Could it have been him who tampered with the path, who cast Simma into the underworld instead of the Soulnexer's lair like the others?

His fists clenched, the green stains of demon blood cracking at his knuckles. His teeth ground as he whispered inwardly, a vow carved into stone:

"Whoever you are… know this."

His breath hissed like a blade sliding free.

"I… will… find… you."

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