Hard limestone, a chorus of voices, and the scent of sweat and mold; all my senses flooded back. I started hoisting myself up when that voice echoed throughout the room.
"I welcome you! Heroes!"
Surveying for the source, I turned my body and appraised my surroundings.
What came into view was a room filled to maximum capacity by a shifting crowd. At least two dozen people were crammed within this small space, each appearing as disoriented as I was.
If there were any hints why we were gathered here, you wouldn't find them within the demographics of our group. The only trait we all shared appeared to be our Asian ancestry.
Aside from that, I could see students, office workers, bookworms, and athletes. Yet, despite this randomness, I stood out like a sore thumb.
Unsurprisingly, military-grade combat gear was rare amongst the civilian populace.
Eventually, I moved my attention to the room itself.
Discerning fine details about it was impossible, given that the room was poorly lit at best.
It relied upon a few rudimentary torches to illuminate its walls. Despite that, I could still glean that we'd been left in some rustic, cellar-like space.
The walls were composed of crudely cut, gray stone blocks and thick wooden support beams. Above and below was a layer of fortified wooden planks.
Though I tried to look away, the dancing yellow-red flames of the mounted torches captured my gaze.
Seeing the exposed fire, I felt my heart constrict with a crippling tightness, and my gut was wracked with a queasy squirm. The sensation was so intense I had to clutch my hands over my mouth for fear of vomiting.
I took rapid gasps for air while reliving the scene of my supposed death. It was unrelenting, so I staggered away, looking for any kind of safety.
I sought out the darkest corners of the room for shelter to regain my composure. Once wrapped in a shadow's embrace, I recovered enough to investigate the situation further.
What came next was standard with a soldier's paranoia: I searched the room for any exit routes.
A plan of action always came first, and it seemed any would be limited to a single wooden door on the opposite side of the room. Obstructing it were several cloaked figures, each focusing their attention on the unruly crowd.
Gripped within their hands were strange, symmetrical objects. The objects weren't guns, blades, or weapons of any kind. Instead, they were…books?
"What?" I questioned under my breath. I thought kidnappers would've had more than just an arsenal of literature.
Despite the figure's greeting, none of my countrymen dared respond.
The air was still shackled in unease, so the best they managed were awkward stares. That is...until the commanding voice of a young woman filled the room.
"Heroes? What are you talking about? Where am I?! Is this some cult?" Matching her every word were expressive hand gestures.
Based on her youthful appearance and mannerisms, I was confident she was in her late teens.
Uncommon for her age, she had a ferocity in her voice that'd make platoon instructors proud.
Look-wise, she'd been just as flamboyant. She boasted a pair of attractive eyes that shimmered a deep, golden amber and an equally golden tied-back ponytail.
It wouldn't be a stretch to say she was the color yellow personified.
Though the young woman spearheaded the verbal charge, our group was anything but organized.
Rather than an orderly questioning followed by civilized decision-making, the interrogation devolved into pure chaos. It became the norm for my countrymen to avoid questions altogether, resolving to hurl insults at the figures instead.
I wasn't interested in haphazardly gleaning information during all that disorder, but I was grateful for it. Thanks to the distraction, I was able to check for the wounds I had succumbed to a bit ago.
Pressuring the straps, I heard a light snap. Once the buckles were undone, I shifted my vest and lifted my shirt to reveal my scar-ridden stomach.
Setting aside the fact that my incinerated gear was once again pristine, I was utterly shocked by what I saw...didn't see on my body.
I took my free hand and brushed my fingertips across my abs and chest.
Though the skin was rough, a byproduct from four years' worth of wounding, it hadn't at all been what I was expecting. There were no fresh stitches…no burned flesh. Only scars that had been long healed by the graces of time.
'My wounds… they're gone?!' My rational mind was thrust into a turmoil of questions. I knew that now wasn't the time for those answers, though.
Trying to shelve my nagging curiosity, I tried reasoning with myself. 'Okay, as far as I can tell, I'm healthy. My wounds are gone, and my gear is in peak condition. If anything, that's good and not something to question.'
I sighed and fixed my gear back into position. Once my vest had been fully in place, another alarming reality struck me.
Of course, it made sense, but for a soldier to be separated from their weapon…
I could only compare the emptiness I felt to that of a husband missing his wife. You might say I was exaggerating, but that firearm was my will to live manifested. Without it, I was at risk of losing half of myself.
As unsightly as it was for me to lose my cool, angst began to set in. Between my newfound pyrophobia, my missing wounds, and not having my gun, it took everything I had to concentrate on analyzing the cloaked figures.
Black hoods obscured their faces, the only exception being the revealed old man.
Each had a holster with a ceremonial knife. Noticeably, the hilts were impractically ornamental, with various golden engravings that snaked across them.
Studying the holster's curvature, I noticed the blades were jaggedly curved like kukris. All of these facts meant that they were obnoxiously unfit for combat.
I brought a hand to my mouth in contemplation. 'They have black robes, occult books, and cosplay daggers?' The prospect of them being members of a cult, like the young woman accused, was becoming more likely by the second.
Though the barrage of questioning by our mob was still ongoing, the hostility ricocheted off of the old man and his allies.
They just stared at their verbal assailers with vacant expressions. Their faces mimicked that of disinterested parents as they waited for noisy toddlers to tucker themselves out.
Eventually, my countrymen fell silent again. That's when the old man finally resolved to speak.
"Many apologies, dear heroes," he crossed his arms behind his back, "I know you all must have many questions. I'm sad it isn't within my authority to answer them, for I am merely a humble summoner."
A few choice words caught my attention, but nothing was more jarring than his tone of voice and posture. Every bit of it felt empty and stale.
pαпdα Йᴏνê|,сòМ He'd acted more akin to that of an advertiser than a jailor.
The young woman scoffed and took to the spotlight again. "Forget apologies; at least tell us where we are! Surely, at least, that is 'within your authority!'"
The old man performed an easing gesture. "I understand your frustration, Miss, but please calm down." The woman's fury hadn't been quelled, so he sighed and continued. "I suppose I could explain the basics of the matter to you all. "
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