Right before Simma stretched a winding corridor, hemmed in by towering walls of vines, their sinews knotted so thickly together it seemed as though nature herself had braided them with purpose. The walls wept with green leaves, and the air between them felt steeped in damp shadow.
Wooden sticks jutted outward from the upper reaches of the living barricade, each bearing a flame that licked and danced like captive spirits, casting a wavering golden glow upon the narrow path, lighting it dimly.
Simma felt his heart slump. He prayed it wasn't what he thought, yet the mocking evidence hung before him.
A tattered ribbon of cloth floated in mid-air, suspended between two mocking pumpkin heads whose carved mouths grinned in eternal, hollow delight. And scrawled upon the cloth, were letters so clumsy they looked like the work of a child's unsteady hand;
WELCOME TO ZOLOMON MAZE
"No, no, no, no… nooooo!" he yelled.
The shout burst from him, doused with frustration. Of all things it had to be this. He loathed puzzles. Not because he lacked the wit, in fact an Azren was required to master cunning as much as combat, but because mazes gnawed at him.
Twisting corridors, dead ends, the cruel game of being led astray, it was the kind of torment that slithered under his skin. And now, standing before one for the very first time, his mind shrieked a single question:
Would he make it in time?
He wouldn't want all his training and efforts to be in vain because of some maze.
"Some maze?" He corrected himself. God, that came out wrong. This wasn't some maze. He was sure it was one that could cause brain tumours, since it was set by a man whose aura was too bloody, and who seemed to know more than his old head could carry;
Zolomon Theus himself.
The man's simplicity was deceptive. This place looked almost harmless compared to the treacherous trail he had just ridden through with his horse. One moon hung above, drifting through a patchwork of cloud, innocent against the starless heavens. Yet Simma knew this stillness was only the calm face of a serpent waiting to strike.
He stepped forward. The maze's entrance arched before him, its gate nothing but a cruel bow of thorned vines, curved like the jaws of some patient predator.
As soon as his foot crossed the threshold, a sudden puff of air stirred the wall. From the vines slipped a folded parchment, tumbling to the ground at his feet.
Simma froze, eyeing it as though it might explode. Then, crouching carefully, he retrieved it and tore it open. The parchment was ragged, its edges crumbling like old bone. The words inside were scrawled in an ominous rhyme:
Before one could walk the path,
he needs to understand the fact.
If not, he would face what will be seen as his own wrath,
And then will know this is not a mere act.
Simma blinked at the lines, his face clouded with the bewilderment of a man suddenly robbed of memory. The words coiled inside his mind, refusing to make sense. He cursed under his breath. Of course, Zolomon would never make it simple. That false serenity outside was only bait.
"Well, I didn't expect less. Maybe… I actually did expect this." He sighed. He had thought it would be simple, judging from the environment.
"Curse you, Zolomon," he muttered, scanning further.
Two pairs of eyes must be unleashed…
One above, and one below.
Both linked and serving as one,
So the path ahead may show.
Two minds must be synced, not must, but should
Though from one being they both arise,
To fight the horrors that lie ahead,
And leave alive to tell the tale.
Five trials await… five, the very spelling of death,
For only through them does an Azren's heart believe.
The parchment quivered in his hand as if mocking his confusion. Simma exhaled sharply, casting his gaze back at the suffocating walls of vines. His thoughts churned.
"Oh, brilliant. I'll probably end up among the first hundred disqualified," he muttered bitterly, throwing his head back toward the lone moon.
But then, his eyes caught on something, the flat, almost walkable top edge of the vine wall. His mind sparked.
"Two eyes… one above, one below."
A grin tugged his lips. He wasn't sure, but it was worth a try.
Since he could not summon his dragon, he called upon his other ally: the shadow-bound leopard, Ms. Shady. Closing his eyes, he reached into the darkness, coaxing the bond awake. When he opened them again, Ms. Shady crouched atop the vine wall, her sleek form merging with the night.
"You," he whispered, pointing upward, "are going to be my eyes above."
His grin widened. "Screw you, Zolomon. But I'll admit it, this... is brilliant. For a moment, I nearly lost hope."
He steadied himself. Now he only needed to do what that strange old man had once taught him: forge the mind-link, so that beast and master could share sight. He had practiced this countless times—sneaking food from the citadel's kitchens had been excellent training, after all.
His breathing slowed. His thoughts stretched outward. And then...
click.
His eyes flared, glowing with the rich, brownish hue of Ms. Shady's. The world unfolded from two vantage points at once. The labyrinth lay naked before him: endless forks and twisting passages, routes doubling back upon themselves, paths leading straight into doom.
"Right," he murmured, his lips tightening. "No time to waste."
Step by step, he entered the maze. With each turn, guided by Shady's sight from above, he cut past false trails and traps. His mind pulsed with focus, every motion a duel between instinct and calculation.
Then, as he made his first successful turn, his inner eye-system flared alive within his thoughts:
----------------------
[Second tournament in progress]
[Goal: Move through the maze to the last tournament, where you will get new instructions.]
[Zolomon's P.S.: Skiddles, prickles, and riddles… RIDDLES]
----------------------
Simma heaved a sigh. Maybe to Zolomon thinks this was some sort of joke, but to him it meant everything. He was sure Zolomon was making fun of them, since he had completed his own tournament a long time ago.
Simma clenched his teeth. I'm going to kill that man.
Through Shady's vision, he maneuvered on. The leopard prowled the shadows above, guiding him around traps and toward hidden routes. Simma's body moved like an echo of her paws; fluid, measured, and relentless.
At last, after what felt like a lifetime stretched thin, he emerged at the maze's end: another arch of thorns, curved like a cruel smile. Passing through, he stumbled into a clearing.Not just any clearing, but one wiped clean by fire.
He squinted into the distance, trying to see what lay beyond, but darkness loomed far ahead. He hoped he wasn't meant to wander into it. Confusion weighed on him, and he prayed hard he wouldn't have to go further into that darkness.
Then suddenly, he noticed what had been falling lightly on him all this while.
Ashes.
They poured over him, his hair now white, as if he had been standing in snow. The ashes kept falling, slowly and continuously, covering the entire place. The world seemed wrapped in their mournful fall, every ember reduced to silence.
For a fleeting moment, Simma had forgotten about the parchment still clenched in his fist. Now it twitched under his grip as if it wanted to escape.
"Huh?" he mumbled, opening it.
Right there, more letters started scribbling themselves, as though they had been forgotten earlier:
A true test of patience comes from time and will.
Do not give a dime…
But rather stand, unmoving and still.