"Do you intend to commit suicide!? Change into the bodyglove and wear the chainmail first!"
It was the Blond Man—the one who had silenced Reinhardt. The Vice-Commander of the Royal Knights was looming over him, his face a mask of fury.
"Get your grip, Einar! Stop mopping around. He is dead already!"
Hiro's hand shot up and clutched the man's wrist. He gripped it with a strength that didn't belong to him—a crushing, desperate pressure that made the Blond Man's eyes widen for a split second.
The Brown-Haired Man and the others instantly swarmed them. They pulled Hiro back, their voices a frantic chorus of "Ease your anger, Vice-Commander!" and "We are all that's left!"
"Tch."
The Blond Man wrenched his arm away, giving Hiro one last growl before stalking toward the weapon racks.
Seriously. Cut me some slack! Hiro thought, rubbing the ache in his back. I was as clueless as a newborn here.
He looked down at the black armor. It was sturdier—and heavier—than he'd imagined. At this rate, the "workplace hazards" were going to kill him long before a lucky bombardment splattered him into the stone.
"He was right, Einar. Even if it's you….sigh, here."
The Brown-Haired Man tossed a black bodysuit and a bundle of chainmail at his feet.
Hiro picked up the bodysuit. The material was heavier than he expected. It was a tight, stretching texture that ran from his neck to his ankles; Hiro felt like he might as well be naked in this thing.
True to his thoughts, he saw everyone else stripping down to their birthday suits to pull on the gear.
Contrary to what he'd expected, the bodysuit didn't look ridiculous. It accentuated their chiseled frames, giving them the silhouette of grim reapers rather than the comical "superhero" look he'd feared.
"Might as well try it," Hiro muttered.
Hiro stripped.
"T-This body…"
Hiro traced a finger along his own chiseled abs. This wasn't the body of a man who spent his life touching monitors and flipping burgers. There was no "manager's spread" here; just hard, functional muscle.
Were you really just a Knight, Einar? Hiro pondered.
Hiro was reluctantly almost accepting the nightmare now. The world was feeding him proof, piece by piece. Maybe—just maybe—if he could regain all of Einar's memories, he could find a clue on how to return home. He pushed the thought aside for now.
He stepped into the suit they called a bodyglove.
Zip.
It etched onto his body like a second skin. Hiro tugged at the fabric. It didn't stretch at all now that it was on; it felt thick, pressurized, and protective.
Hiro scanned his new body.
"Whoa."
If he were back in Japan, Hiro bet he'd be a hit with the ladies. He had the figure of an Adonis statue, carved to perfection.
Finally, Hiro checked his crotch.
A smile crept onto his face.
Well. He didn't mind living in this reality quite as much now.
"Einar!"
Hiro gasped at the shout, snapping out of his internal "performance review."
The Brown-Haired Man just shook his head, pointing a calloused finger at the chainmail lying at Hiro's feet.
"Ah—yes, haha," Hiro stammered, offering a slight, reflexive bow. Old habits die hard.
He hauled up the chainmail. It felt exactly like the medium-sized barbell that had spent the last three years gathering dust in the corner of his cramped apartment. The chainmail thing was simple enough: insert head, let the iron cascade down his frame, tighten the chain belt, and done.
He felt like a character straight out of a medieval fantasy game
Crap. I'm dazing too much. Stay on task, Hiro.
He scrambled toward the armor stand before someone decided to strangle him this time. Now that he was looking at the black armor properly, it came with many parts that he didn't know where to start. It was like trying to assemble a high-end industrial fryer without the manual.
Thankfully, the Brown-Haired Man had already started his own "installation."
The man started with the cuirass and pauldrons. Hiro watched and imitated every move.
Clasp.
The man continued with the vambraces and gauntlets. Hiro fingers fumbling with the leather straps, clumsily copying him.
Clasp.
Then came the finale: the tassets and greaves. Hiro failed miserably. It slipped through his unpracticed grip.
Clank.
The sound echoed through the armory
The Brown-Haired Man paused, looking at Hiro with an incredulous expression
"You know what, Einar?" He approached Hiro and knelt to pick up the fallen tassets. "You've been acting like a completely different person."
He stood up and leaned in, his face just inches from Hiro's.
Scrutinize.
"Who are you?"
Hiro pulled his face back slowly. A cold sweat pooled at his hairline. For a split second, the pressure was too much—he actually considered blurting out the truth. I'm a fast-food restaurant manager from the future, please tell me how to return home, arigatou!
"Hahaha! I was just joking. God knows we need it." The Brown-Haired Man let out a dry, weary laugh and patted Hiro's shoulder.
Without another word, he expertly clasped the tassets and tightened the greaves for him. He finished the job with a final tug on the straps before leaving Hiro alone with his "soulless" black body.
"I-I almost blurted it out." Hiro's heart hammered against the cold iron of his breastplate.
Rationality—the only thing he had left from his old life—screamed at him. If he told them the truth, they wouldn't offer him a mental health day; they'd probably offer him a lobotomy. Or worse, a stake and a pile of dry wood for being "possessed."
I should stop now, he told himself. Every remark I make is eroding my sanity.
"This is the last."
Hiro reached for the final piece of equipment on the stand: the black helmet.
He watched the others tuck their helmets under their arms like professional football players heading onto the field and imitated the gesture. Now, it was time for the final station of the "onboarding" process.
He stood before the weapon racks.
He already had a standard-issue sword hanging from his hip—a "courtesy" from the Brown-Haired Man, who had grown exasperated by Hiro's stupor and shoved the scabbard onto his belt for him.
"Secondary weapon…" Hiro muttered to himself.
He had never held a weapon in his life.
If a kitchen knife or a heavy-duty spatula counted as a weapon, then he was a seasoned veteran. But the steel "inventory" in front of him didn't share a single speck of DNA with the restaurant tools.
Halberd. Flail. Claymore. War hammer. Axe. Spear. Mace.
"I can't even swing a sword…" Hiro grimaced, looking at the arsenal of high-fidelity slaughter.
He stood there, desperately hoping for another headache. He wanted the "Einar" data-dump to storm his brain and give him the muscle memory he needed to survive.
He needed the "SOP" for murder, and he needed it now.
His eyes scanned the racks, skipping over the complex flails and the massive claymores. Then, his gaze snagged on something heavy, blunt, and oddly familiar in its weight.
A Mace. Or perhaps a War Hammer.
It's just a heavy kitchen mallet, he tried to convince himself. Just... for much tougher meat.
"If it's a weapon. Do they have it?" Hiro searched around the racks.
He circled the arsenal, inspecting every nook and cranny of the place until he was just the only one left. His eyes stopped at the barrel of steels at the corner of the room. He looked down.
"It exists!"
Hiro reached in and pulled out a flintlock pistol.
He inspected the "antique gun." The ones he'd seen in those old cowboy movies but it usually only had one barrel. This one had four, a cluster of iron pipes that felt heavy and reliable in his hand. The flintlock had a silvery gloss, so polished he could see the reflection of his own glowing red irises on the metal. It wasn't as compact as a modern handgun, but he could live with this. It felt like a tool he could actually use without a decade of sword-fighting experience.
"What is this?"
A holster was buried beneath where the flintlock had been resting.
Hiro snatched it up. Several tubes were etched into the leather. One tube contained silver marbles—the bullets—while another held the coarse black powder he recognized as gunpowder. There were two more tubes filled with silver and white powders that he didn't recognize at all.
"Well. I'll figure it out later," he muttered, sliding the flintlock into the holster and strapping it to his thigh.
"EINAR!"
Damn. They will kill me. Hiro grimaced as he ran outside.
Everyone was already lined up. Gone were the haggard prisoners in shackles; in their place stood a row of black-armored figures adorned with red-cross tabards and an arsenal of weaponry. Hiro stood among them, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the steel.
"You sure took your sweet time, pretty man," the man who had led them to the armory commented.
Hiro didn't ignore him, he simply didn't know how to respond. His trademark bow didn't seem to carry much weight here either. The man, however, took Hiro's silence as a personal offense.
The man approached, looming over him.
Hiro unconsciously stared back, wondering if Einar's instincts were taking over or if he'd just finally reached his limit for being bullied. Through the slit of the man's red-cross visor, he could see a glare.
The man raised his hand—a sudden, aggressive motion.
Schwing.
The sound of a dozen blades clearing their scabbards sliced through the air in a single, unceremonious note. Before the man could even finish his gesture, he was staring down a wall of steel.
The Blond Man, the Brown-Haired Man, and every one of Hiro's "coworkers" had moved in perfect unison. Their swords were leveled at the man's throat, the tips gleaming with a cold, predatory light under the moon.
Schwing.
The man's comrades didn't stay still. They drew their own blades in a frantic counter-move. Steel was seconds away from dancing in the dark.
Hiro gulped.
"No one touches our corps," the Blond Man stated firmly, his voice like grinding stones. "No matter how stupid he may be right now."
The man didn't flinch, though a dozen points of sharpened steel were inches from his chest. He let out a dry, mirthless chuckle.
"It seems a crippled lion is still a lion after all," the man muttered.
He slowly lowered his hand, his eyes never leaving the Blond Man's. He began to walk forward, the wall of swords following his every movement like a wave of iron.
Thud. Thud.
Heavy footsteps interrupted the standoff.
"Sir. The Vice-Commander ordered us to meet at The Keep," another soldier announced.
Reinhardt's orders had technically saved them from a confrontation.
The man scowled, spinning on his heels and signaling the unit to move. "Don't wear the helmet until the Commander receives you," he warned, throwing one last, specific glare at "Einar."
Hiro let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His palms were slick with sweat inside his gauntlets, and his arm was shaking so hard the helmet tucked beneath it was literally rattling.
The relief made him feel weak—sickeningly weak.
Hiro felt a cold stone of guilt sink in his gut. He had almost caused a bloody riot, and once again, he was completely at the mercy of others.
Saved again, he thought, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his helmet.
In his old life, he was the one who handled the "Karens," the one who protected his staff from the lunch-rush chaos. Here, he wasn't the manager; he was the liability. The realization stung worse than the armor's weight.
No more.
He was tired of being glared at. He was fed up with the constant, grinding anxiety that someone might kill him just because he breathed the same air as them. He didn't ask for this! And he knows nothing!
Clench.
He realized that if he wanted to survive, he needed to muster every bit of courage he had to adapt. He had to treat this exactly like his first year as a new hire: knowing nothing, being bullied to the edge of depression, and being manipulated—all while keeping a professional smile on his face.
He had always been average in every aspect but one: Discipline.
He had been the employee of the year. Every year.
For 20 years.
Laugh all you want. Hiro hissed, his resolve hardening like the iron on his chest. But I will give this "job" my all.
He looked up at the ashen sky just as another blazing boulder shrieked overhead. The bone-shaking tremor of the bombardment no longer disturbed him now. He had changed.
Swoosh—BOOM.
"Ack!" Hiro yelped like a bitch.
Okay... that will be the last one, he swore, adjusting his armor with as much dignity as he could muster.