The room buzzed with tension as the man stepped away from the dais, the gauntlets humming faintly at his sides. The others stared at him in a mixture of disbelief, fear, and growing suspicion. A woman in her early twenties, her auburn hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, broke the silence. "Why would you touch that?" she asked, her voice edged with panic.
The question hung in the air, unanswered. The man shifted uncomfortably, his short, dark hair slightly disheveled, his fingers flexing involuntarily inside the gauntlets. "I don't know," he admitted after a pause, his voice low and uncertain. "It felt... like I had to."
"Had to?" another voice echoed incredulously. A man with tousled sandy hair, wearing a plaid button-up shirt and jeans, stepped forward, gesturing toward the dais. "You didn't think that maybe it was dangerous? That maybe touching some weapon, or whatever it might be might kill us all?" His tone grew sharper with each word, and murmurs of agreement rippled through the group.
"Enough," an older man barked, his thick graying beard and thinning hair adding an air of authority as his steady gaze commanded attention. He stepped between the speaker and the protagonist, holding up a hand to calm the rising discord. "Yelling at each other won't help us understand what's going on." He turned to the man with the gauntlets. "What did it feel like when you touched them? Were you hurt?"
The man hesitated, searching for the words. "It didn't hurt," he finally said. "It felt... like they were waiting for me. Like they're part of me now." He glanced down at his hands, the segmented plates of the gauntlets gleaming faintly. "I don't know how to explain it."
The group exchanged uneasy glances, their murmurs blending into a low, indecipherable buzz. Some seemed curious, others skeptical. A woman with sharp features, her black hair pulled back into a tight bun, crossed her arms and addressed the group. "Look, maybe he's right. Maybe those things are meant for us. If they're here, there's probably a reason—maybe we'll need them to defend ourselves."
"Defend ourselves from what?" someone retorted. "We don't even know where we are!"
"And what happens if we don't take them?" the sharp-featured woman countered. "If these things are here, they're probably meant to be used. Sitting around arguing isn't going to get us anywhere."
Her words stirred a reluctant agreement among some of the group. But before anyone could act, a woman in her mid-thirties with short, dark hair and a focused expression stepped forward. "My name's Yoon Ji-hyun," she said firmly, her short, dark hair framing her focused expression as her voice cut through the chatter. "I'm a championship archer from South Korea." Without waiting for permission or further discussion, she strode confidently toward the dais. Her movements were deliberate, her eyes fixed on the bow and quiver of arrows resting near the edge of the platform.
"Wait!" someone called, but Ji-hyun ignored them. She reached for the bow, her hands steady, and lifted it from the dais. The faint silver light around the weapon flared momentarily, then began to shift. The bow's structure adjusted in her hands, its grip reshaping subtly to fit her hold perfectly. The string, once taut and unyielding, softened under her touch, gaining a flexibility that balanced power with precision. The faint hum of the weapon grew slightly sharper, almost like a note of approval, as if it acknowledged and accepted her claim. Ji-hyun pulled the string experimentally, feeling the response in her muscles. A small smile played on her lips as she nodded, satisfied. It was as though the bow had been crafted specifically for her.
"If these weapons are here, they're probably here for a reason," Ji-hyun said, her voice calm but authoritative. "We need people who know how to use them." She slung the quiver over her shoulder and stepped back, meeting the eyes of those around her. "We can't afford to hesitate."
Her decisive action spurred the group into a fresh wave of discussion.
"She's right," a younger woman murmured, her tone hesitant but thoughtful. "We need to figure out who's best suited for these things."
"Men should take them," another woman interjected, her tall, wiry frame accentuated by her straight, shoulder-length blond hair. Her voice was steady and matter-of-fact. "It's not about who wants them; it's about who can protect the group. Men are stronger. It just makes sense."
Several men glanced at each other uneasily, some nodding in agreement, others clearly uncomfortable with the suggestion. The murmurs grew louder, arguments breaking out over who should take what. Amid the noise, a tall man with a square jaw, short cropped brown hair, and a self-assured smirk stepped forward. "Sergeant First Class Alexander Grant," he introduced himself, his voice brimming with confidence.
"I'll do it," he said, his voice cutting through the cacophony. He squared his shoulders, his posture radiating arrogance. "I was military—special operations. I've got the training to keep us all safe." He gestured broadly at the dais. "I'll take the armor, the spear, and the shield. With those, I can protect everyone."
"Wait a second," someone protested. "Shouldn't we decide as a group?"
"There's no time for that," the man retorted, already approaching the dais. He reached for the armor first, lifting it from its place at the center. As soon as his hands touched it, the white light surrounding the armor flared brightly. The material began to shift, flowing like liquid as it replaced his clothing. The sleek, form-fitting design molded perfectly to his body, its segments locking into place with an audible click. Every muscle and line of his frame was visible, the armor clinging to him like a second skin. The precision was almost unnerving, sparing only his groin area with a modest bulge that seemed deliberately obscured by the armor's design. He flexed his arms and rolled his shoulders, a grin spreading across his face.
"Feels incredible," he said, his tone smug. "This is definitely meant for me."
Without hesitation, he reached for the spear. The moment his fingers made contact with the weapon, its violet gem erupted in a radiant burst, sending a sharp, resonant hum through the chamber. A searing, blinding pain coursed through his veins, matching the vibrant color of the gem's aura. The violet light flared angrily, casting jagged, unnatural shadows across his face, as though the spear itself rejected him. His veins bulged grotesquely, dark lines spreading up his arm and to his neck, visible even under the sleek armor. His jaw clenched tight, his teeth grinding audibly as his body spasmed. A strangled cry tore from his throat, raw and animalistic, silencing the room in an instant. The group watched in horror as he staggered back, clutching his arm, the pain so intense that it left him trembling. The man stared at his hand in disbelief, then reached for it again, only to be met with the same searing pain.
"What the hell?" he muttered, his voice tight with frustration. He turned toward the hammer, his hand outstretched, but the instant he touched it, the pain returned, sharper and more intense. Each attempt to claim another weapon brought the same visceral agony. When he reached for the hammer, the crimson glow of its runed gem ignited, radiating like flickering flames. The moment his fingers brushed against it, the weapon discharged a searing heat that raced through his body, his knees buckling under the intensity. His breath came in ragged gasps, and the veins on his face and arms pulsed with a dark, fiery hue, as if scorched by the hammer's power. His eyes watered, and his entire body shuddered violently, as if rejecting the very idea of touching another weapon. Each attempt left him more disoriented, the auras of the weapons responding violently to his touch. The icy blue glow of the sword sent a freezing jolt through his arm, leaving his fingertips numb and trembling. The shield's golden light resonated with a piercing vibration that wracked his body with sharp, rhythmic pain. His curses turned into broken gasps of disbelief, the cacophony of sensations overwhelming him as he stumbled away from the dais, clutching his sides in agony.
The group watched in stunned silence, their earlier tension giving way to unease.
"Maybe you're only supposed to have one," someone suggested tentatively.
The man scowled, his confidence visibly shaken. "That doesn't make any sense," he snapped, though he made no further attempts to touch the weapons. He stepped back from the dais, his expression dark.
The room fell quiet again, the group's unease deepening as they realized the weapons weren't as simple as they seemed.