"I... don't know." Percy murmured, casting a wary glance over the array of weapons Emerett had laid out before him. Each one shimmered with a distinct power, resonating in a way that made his skin prickle. He could feel their auras pulsing, humming softly against his senses, just as Master Dimitranovich had taught him. But something was wrong. Despite their undeniable strength, Percy felt a hollowness within them—a sense that they were more show than substance.

He let his fingers drift over the hilt of a beautifully crafted sword. Its blade was etched with intricate designs that seemed to twist and pulse as he watched, but when he held it, there was no surge of connection, no sense of unity. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was handling an empty shell. Could this really be Emerett’s finest work? It was as if these weapons were crafted to impress rather than to endure. Why would Master Dimitranovich, of all people, send him to a weapon smith whose creations felt so shallow?

“Is something bothering you?” Emerett’s voice was soft, his eyes glinting with something Percy couldn’t quite decipher.

Percy hesitated, unsure how to express the knot of unease tightening in his chest. "These... weapons. They’re powerful, yes, but... it’s like they’re missing something. They don’t feel—real," he admitted, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words.

Emerett’s lips curved into a small, approving smile. He crossed his arms, studying Percy with an intensity that made his skin prickle. "Interesting," Emerett murmured. "Not every warrior can sense that, you know."

Percy looked up, his brows knitting in confusion. "What do you mean?"

For a moment, Emerett said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. Then, without a word, he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. In an instant, the room around them twisted and blurred, dissolving like smoke in the wind. Percy staggered as his surroundings morphed, the walls stretching, shifting, then reforming into a darker, colder chamber.

The air here was different—denser, more charged, as though it was thick with centuries of stored power. It made Percy’s skin tingle, and he felt a weight settle over him, a tangible energy pressing down on his shoulders. He glanced around, taking in the new room. The walls were lined with weapons, but unlike the ornate creations from before, these were different. Each weapon exuded an aura of restrained power, silent but fierce, as if waiting for the right hand to wield them.

Emerett had transformed as well. Gone was the light-hearted figure from before, replaced now by a figure draped in formal mage robes of dark indigo, embroidered with arcane symbols that glimmered faintly in the dim light. His face held a gravity Percy hadn’t yet seen, his eyes sharp and assessing.

“Consider this your first lesson, Percy,” Emerett intoned, his voice calm but laced with authority. “True power isn’t in the appearance of strength. It’s in the bond between the warrior and the weapon. Those weapons I showed you before were all powerful, but they lacked the ability to bond with their master, to grow with them as they increase their power. This is why many mages and warriors stagnate. It's not because of their skill, it's because of their weapon. As much as they want to pretend their entire power is them, it's not. You cannot puncture steel with a toothpick. That is just not possible.”

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Percy’s gaze wandered around the room, captivated by the raw energy radiating from these weapons. Here, there were no dazzling decorations or excessive embellishments—these weapons didn’t need them. Their aura was unmistakable, primal, and ancient. They were crafted not to impress, but to endure, to conquer.

“Go on,” Emerett said, his voice a low rumble in the vast chamber. “See what speaks to you.”

Percy took a tentative step forward, his gaze sweeping over the selection. His hand hovered over a heavy, battle-worn axe that exuded a sense of raw strength. He gripped it, feeling its weight settle in his palm, the cold metal grounding him. Swinging it experimentally, he could sense the fierce power behind it, but… it felt too blunt, too reckless. There was no finesse, no balance.

He set it down and moved on to a slender spear, its shaft smooth and sleek, glinting with a sharpness that was both inviting and dangerous. He tested its weight, feeling the balance shift as he extended it, but the spear felt distant, impersonal—like it demanded more control than he could offer. Frustrated, he let it go, stepping back with a sigh.

Emerett watched him in silence, his gaze contemplative, as if assessing more than just Percy’s choices. After a moment, he stepped forward, gesturing to a shield emblazoned with intricate patterns. “Try this,” he said.

Percy took the shield, feeling its weight settle comfortably against his arm. He could sense its solid power, the way it offered stability, but it lacked the flow he sought. It was almost too restrained, too passive for his style. He shook his head, feeling his frustration rise. None of these felt right.

Emerett approached him, his expression softer this time. "Sometimes, Percy," he said, his voice steady, "the right weapon finds you when you’re honest with yourself."

Percy swallowed, nodding. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, letting go of the tension in his shoulders. He was tired of trying to fit himself to a weapon; he wanted something that felt like an extension of himself, something that flowed with his movements rather than resisting them.

Emerett seemed to sense the shift. He walked to a pedestal at the far end of the room, where a simple, unadorned longsword rested. It was far from grand—no embellishments, no glinting jewels, just a straight, honest blade. Emerett picked it up, running his fingers along the steel, his expression unreadable, before he turned and handed it to Percy.

Percy hesitated, then took the sword in his hand. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, he felt a hum, a resonance that traveled through his arm and settled in his chest. This wasn’t like the other weapons; there was a calmness to it, a silent power that didn’t demand but invited him to wield it. He swung the sword lightly, and it moved with him, as if it were anticipating his every motion. He could feel the weapon’s weight, but it was a natural, effortless connection.

Emerett nodded approvingly. “Not all strength comes from might alone. This weapon, it matches not only your skill but your spirit. That’s the harmony you were looking for.”

Percy looked at Emerett, his brow furrowing. "How did you know?"

Emerett’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction. “Because every weapon reflects its bearer. This blade is more than steel. It’s balanced, patient, waiting for precision over brute force. You needed something that doesn’t overpower but complements. A weapon that amplifies what’s within.”

Percy nodded slowly, a newfound respect settling over him as he took in Emerett’s words. He felt a pulse of determination, a confidence that he had been missing. This wasn’t just a weapon. It was a partner, a tool that would challenge him, teach him, and grow with him.

Emerett stepped back, a hint of pride in his eyes. “We’ll start with this, then. Let’s see what you’re truly capable of.”