Dorian stood still for another moment.
He surveyed the field of combat arenas. The luminous lines demarcating each space. The elevated platforms. The obstacle zones.
Then, slowly, he began to walk.
Not toward any specific area. Simply... walked. Letting his feet carry him, letting his eyes roam over the options. He wasn't looking for the most powerful weapon, nor the most advanced, nor the most lethal in theory.
He was looking for something that felt right.
Something that fit.
Because in his hands—though not at the level of "this is already unfair" like his older brother—anything could be a weapon.
But some weapons... some weapons were extensions of the soul.
And today, he needed to find his.
---
To his left, Kael had already grabbed a spear nearly two meters long and was testing it. The blade, made of a dark metal that absorbed light, whistled as it cut through the air. His movements were brusque, powerful, but with a hint of inexperience that betrayed he was still discovering the weapon's limits.
"Too light!" Kael complained, though his smile said otherwise. "Don't you have something with more weight?"
No one answered him.
Hugo, on the other hand, moved with obsessive meticulousness. He passed by the energy pistols and rifles, completely ignoring the firearms section. He headed directly toward an area where combat gloves rested on padded stands. His eyes, always quick, evaluated each pair with clinical intensity.
He tried one pair first. Knuckle gloves, with metal reinforcements on the knuckles. He squeezed them, felt the weight, made some basic movements. Shook his head and set them down.
The next was a more complex design: gloves with retractable blades between the fingers. Hugo examined them, activated the mechanism once, twice. The blades extended and retracted with a metallic click. But he shook his head again.
Finally, he found what he was looking for.
They were simple in appearance. Black gloves, made of a flexible but clearly reinforced material, covering from fingers to mid-forearm. They had no blades, no spikes, no obvious offensive attachments.
But when Hugo put them on, something in his expression changed.
"These," he murmured.
He closed his fists. The gloves reacted, the material tensing slightly around his knuckles. He extended his hands, and the flexibility was perfect, like wearing a second skin.
And then, without warning, a faint red light began to emanate from his hands.
It was subtle. Barely a glow, like embers hidden under ash. But it was there.
Hugo's Helion, responding to the gloves.
Hugo smiled. A small, satisfied smile. He began to move, testing angles, distances. His fists cut through the air with precise whistles, each strike perfectly measured. The red light intensified slightly with each movement, as if the gloves were hungry for more.
"A match made in heaven," Hugo murmured, almost to himself.
No one needed to ask what he meant.
---
Nayu, for her part, moved with that silent fluidity that characterized her. Her light green eyes swept the small weapons section with a hunter's patience. Combat knives. Darts. Shurikens. Nothing convinced her.
Until she reached an isolated stand.
On a simple pedestal, with no adornments or lights highlighting its presence, rested a dark metal cylinder. It measured about thirty centimeters long, with an apparently smooth surface that, upon closer inspection, revealed extremely fine lines running along its structure.
Nayu picked it up.
The weight was perfect. Neither too light—which would make it feel fragile—nor too heavy—which would make it cumbersome to carry. It was simply... right.
Her fingers found a specific spot on the surface. Without thinking, without hesitating, she pressed.
The cylinder responded.
With a metallic click that sounded more solid than it should have, the metal began to unfold. Segments slid over others, telescopic extensions emerged from both ends, and in less than a second, what had been a thirty-centimeter cylinder transformed into a staff nearly a meter and a half long.
Nayu spun it in her hands. The staff was perfectly balanced. She tested its response, felt how the metal adapted to her movements.
Then, with another motion, she collapsed it. The cylinder returned to its original size with the same silent efficiency.
Nayu nodded.
Once.
And stored the cylinder in a compartment on her belt, ready for when she needed it.
---
Dorian kept walking.
He passed curved blades that reminded him of those used by desert riders in historical archives. He passed war hammers that would require both hands and a strength he possessed, but didn't want to waste. He passed long-range rifles, energy weapons, combat staves, gauntlets with retractable blades.
None called to him.
None felt right.
"Sir," Omega's voice resonated in his mind. "I've been analyzing your combat patterns from recent missions. According to my calculations, your effectiveness increases by forty-three percent when using weapons that allow rapid transitions between defense and attack."
"Like with the dual swords. When you faced the Apex."
"I know," Dorian replied.
"Also, according to my calculations, they can compensate with fluid movements. Combined with your trench coat to disorient the opponent before the final strike. A weapon that could integrate with that movement..."
"I know, Omega."
"I'm only trying to help, Sir."
"You always do," Dorian replied with a slight smile.
He kept walking.
And then he saw it.
On an isolated stand, almost hidden behind a column—as if someone had wanted to conceal it, or as if it knew only certain eyes would find it—there was a pair of short swords.
They weren't especially striking at first glance. They lacked the adornments of ceremonial weapons or the aggressive shine of new ones. Their blades were made of a matte, almost black metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The hilts, wrapped in a rough, worn material, had the exact shape of hands that had wielded them thousands of times.
But it wasn't their appearance that stopped Dorian.
It was the way they looked back at him.
Because weapons, for those who know how to see, always look back.
Dorian approached slowly. His fingers brushed the blade of the left sword. The metal was cold, inert, exactly as a lifeless object should be.
But there was something in that coldness. A waiting. A silent promise that, when the moment came, when the Helion flowed through him, that metal would awaken.
He took the first sword.
The weight was perfect. Neither too light—which would make it fragile in clash—nor too heavy—which would slow his movements. It was as if it had been forged with him in mind, with his arms, his wrists, the way his fingers closed around the hilt.
He took the second.
And then, simply... held them.
There was no glow. No light. Just the cold, dark metal in his hands, waiting.
Dorian closed his eyes for a moment.
He felt the weight. The balance. The way both swords complemented each other, how one covered what the other left exposed.
Then, without thinking, he began to move.
It wasn't a choreography. It wasn't a series of rehearsed moves. It was simply... his body responding to the weapons, the weapons responding to his body.
The swords cut through the air in precise arcs, tracing clean trajectories that left no trails of light. The trench coat spun with him, expanding with each turn, contracting with each thrust, creating shadows that would disorient any opponent.
Dorian jumped for no apparent reason.
In the air, the swords traced a complete circle around him. The trench coat expanded like wings, a mantle of pure darkness, and for an instant, Dorian was a silhouette cut out against the ceiling lights.
He landed in silence. The Cyan-V boots absorbed the impact without a sound. The swords pointed at the ground, the matte metal awaiting the next command.
Dorian opened his eyes.
He didn't remember closing them.
Around him, the silence was absolute.
Hugo had finished testing his gloves and watched him with a calculating expression, evaluating. Kael remained focused on his spear, oblivious to anything but finding the right balance. Nayu had disappeared again into the shadows, testing her staff in some isolated corner.
No one had noticed anything extraordinary.
And that's how it should be.
Dorian lowered the swords. The metal remained metal, cold and dark, with no trace of light or energy.
"These are the ones," he said.
It wasn't a question. He didn't need anyone's approval.
Hugo looked up for a moment, nodded indifferently, and returned to his gloves.
"Good choice," he said, nothing more.
---
This... has to be a joke.