Game 17: Don't Flex in Front of Old Men
If there's one thing you should never say in a crowded treasure room, it's: "Move and you die."
Because nine times out of ten, someone's gonna move just to check if you're bluffing.
And in this case, that someone happened to be a bald guy holding an axe with way too much confidence for someone whose build screamed "retired forklift driver."
The muscular man stepped forward, veins bulging like over-inflated garden hoses. His voice rumbled through the hall.
"From now on, anyone who moves… will die. By my hand."
You'd think such a declaration would freeze the room. You'd imagine everyone trembling, begging for mercy. But this was Korea after the Tower appeared, not some Hollywood action flick. These people weren't extras, they were broke players desperate for loot.
Instead of running, half the room snorted.
One dude even spat on the floor.
Another guy with an axe shouted back, "Back off! You try moving one toe, I'll smash your skull open right here!"
The hall broke into laughter. Not cheerful laughter, but the kind that carried nervous cracks in it, the laughter of gamblers sitting on their last coin.
From his not-so-perfect hiding spot behind a Roman vase, Han Tae-yang (한태양) raised an eyebrow.
Oh nice, we're doing the 'alpha male bark-off.' Can't wait for someone to start chest bumping. Maybe we'll get a live WWE show before the lightning mage arrives.
He adjusted his grip on his dagger and whispered to himself, "Note to self: if this turns into a brawl, run. Preferably behind the fattest guy. Human shields are underrated."
But the muscular man didn't laugh back. His expression turned hard, eyes flashing with something darker.
The air grew heavy. A faint tremor rolled through the marble floor, shaking dust off the ancient ceiling lamps. His aura thickened like a fog you could almost chew on.
Nobody laughed now.
Then, without a word, the man tore off his outer garment. Cloth ripped apart, sleeves scattering like feathers. His torso gleamed under the dim museum lights, muscles stacked like steel plates.
And then came the real show.
His arms darkened, skin turning rough, jagged, and unyielding until both limbs gleamed like sculpted granite. Stone.
Every player in the hall froze.
Whispers hissed from the crowd:
"He… he's got a unique skill!"
"Stone Arm…? No way, already?"
"That's… impossible. It's only the second day…"
Even the axe-wielding loudmouth lowered his weapon, sweat dripping down his temple. His earlier bravado melted like butter on a hot pan.
Han Tae-yang tilted his head, unimpressed.
Stone arms? Really? Bro, I've seen statue pigeons with more style. My clone skill is technically more useful. At least I can play hide-and-seek with myself.
He snorted quietly. Stone arms… what's next? Marble abs?.
The muscular man didn't waste words. His gravel-like voice filled the hall.
"The map… is mine. Leave."
A command. Not a request.
The sound bounced off the marble walls like a war drum. Players who moments ago were ready to fight now shuffled, eyes darting to the exits.
But before the room could empty, a quiet voice cut through the tension. Calm. Steady.
"…The map is yours?"
All eyes shifted to the speaker.
At the far end of the hall stood a thin, frail old man in a simple gray robe, leaning on a wooden staff. Beside him, a young girl no older than fourteen held onto his sleeve, wide-eyed but calm.
Han Tae-yang blinked. Where did Grandpa Gandalf come from? Did I just miss the pensioners' tour group?
The muscular man turned, lips curling into a sneer.
"You?" he scoffed. "You crazy, old man? Do you even know what you're talking about?"
The old man didn't flinch. His voice carried the patience of someone who had lived too many years to be bothered by loud children.
"My name," he said, "is not 'old man.' It is Park Min-jae (박민재). Min for the grass beneath the heavens, Jae for the harmony of blossoms. A name that means to live in peace with all that grows."
The hall fell awkwardly silent. Even the girl tugged his sleeve, whispering, "Grandpa… maybe less poetry, more intimidation?"
Han Tae-yang nearly choked on laughter. Bro just dropped a whole botanical thesis in the middle of a death threat. Respect.
The muscular youth's face twisted in irritation. He stomped forward, stone arms flexing, each step leaving cracks in the marble.
"Did I ask for your autobiography? Look at my mood and get lost, or I'll wring that wrinkled neck of yours like a chicken's!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
The girl beside the old man glared, cheeks puffing red. "Watch your tongue, pig!" she hissed, but Park Min-jae raised a hand, silencing her.
The old man sighed, head shaking gently.
"So young… yet your tongue is sharper than any blade. But tell me…" His eyes glimmered, a faint electric spark dancing within them. "…Which do you believe is faster? Your hands breaking my neck, or your body reduced to ash where you stand?"
The crowd froze.
Han Tae-yang slapped his forehead softly.
Oh, perfect. Grandpa just pulled the 'choose your death' card. This is how anime characters get fan clubs.
He whispered to himself, "Place your bets, folks. Will Stone Arms become Stone Dust, or will Grandpa become Kentucky Fried Min-jae?"
The muscular man barked a laugh, deep and mocking. "You dare threaten me? You? A bag of bones clinging to his cane?"
But before he could finish his insult.
CRACK!
A burst of lightning shot from Park Min-jae's fingertips, white-blue and blinding. The crack split the air like the wrath of a storm god, thunder rolling down the marble halls of the museum.
The glow lit up every shadow. The young girl beside him grinned. The players gasped, shielding their eyes.
Even Han Tae-yang's jaw dropped.
"Okay… Grandpa just turned into a human taser."