Bookshelves overflow with tomes about [it]. The internet teems with articles on [it]. In certain circles, hushed gatherings discuss [it].
For me, [it]—Sword Art Online—was a literal hell, a prison I can't escape.
Six years ago, Akihiko Kayaba's unprecedented cyber-terror, the SAO Incident, trapped nearly 10,000 people in a virtual death game. Only 438 survived. It took three years and seven months to clear. Was that time short or long? Depends on who you ask.
For me, Koma Hifuji, it was terrifyingly brief. Three and a half years to conquer Aincrad's 100 floors? Even Kayaba couldn't have predicted that. Proof? At the 100th floor, facing Kayaba—no, Heathcliff—as the final boss, he clapped in pure admiration. No irony, no exaggeration. I still hear the dry echo of that applause, gratingly vivid.
It was a nightmare. For me, for [Kuri], the player who survived SAO, it's a nightmare that's faded but never gone.
So I distanced myself from other survivors. Fewer than 20 were minors, and the government planned to gather us for "mental care" and "rehabilitation education" under surveillance. But several, including me, pushed back, making it optional. My body, more ravaged than most, couldn't handle school.
Looking back, I feel some guilt for the teachers who visited my hospital room like private tutors. My stubbornness must've been a hassle. But I'm deeply grateful—they helped me complete compulsory education and high school credits in just a year, even securing special university admission.
I swore to avoid VR. After SAO, I thought the industry would collapse, but it's thriving like I'm some Urashima Taro, out of touch. So I planned a life far from VR.
Meanwhile, the world moved on. The "Death Gun" murders stirred panic, but the police's new VR Task Force resolved it. Some survivors joined as observers or worked with the Defense Ministry. None of that concerns me.
My focus now? Plants and animals. If VR is civilization's inevitable path, nature is its opposite—raw, real, untouched by virtual lies.
"Or so I thought…"
Before me sits a neatly wrapped game package, eager to be opened, next to a massive cardboard box hogging space in my six-mat room. These are the tools for the latest VRMMO—costly gear, a small fortune that could fund months of study without grueling construction or night guard jobs.
Inside the box? The Amusphere III, fourth-generation successor to NerveGear, its silver body glinting under my room's fluorescent light, chillingly radiant.
Amusphere III, an upgrade from the poorly received Amusphere II, promised NerveGear's resolution with better safety. But complaints piled up: clunky design, heavy weight, power-hungry. Worse, a mysterious SAO survivor turned VRMMO critic, SABOTEN/HED, trashed its resolution as "worse than NerveGear's." It sold a tragic 30,000 units worldwide.
Japan's VR dominance waned. America's tech giant, that apple company, announced a "true NerveGear successor." Yet, three months after Amusphere II's flop, Recto Electronics unveiled Amusphere III.
I saw it at Tokyo Game Show, dragged there by a friend's sister. One glance, and I nearly vomited, emptying my stomach in the bathroom.
It's visor-shaped, like Amusphere, not NerveGear. Yet it felt like the root of my nightmares. The world, though, loved it—sleek design, vibrant colors, moderate power use, and a 42% resolution boost over NerveGear, verified by 1,000+ testers, including SABOTEN/HED's glowing endorsement.
But I don't care. Someone tied to NerveGear's creation is behind Amusphere III—I'm sure of it. I asked a friend, sharper and more attuned to virtual truths, for their take.
"Same vibe," they said. "Silica agrees. I'll dig into Recto, but don't expect much. Could use your help, though."
Explode, you normie. Their email's subtext screamed they're still surrounded by girls. Jealousy hit, but mostly at my own lack of romance.
Still, I'm relieved. That friend, scarred worse than me by SAO, is holding it together, working with a younger partner, building a fortune with the police and Defense Ministry.
No contact since. We rarely talked anyway. They'd probably drag me into their detective games as "Partner #2" if I got too curious. Which means? Silica, their near-constant companion, and their sister—overly attached—might strangle me.
Silica's their partner-secretary, glued to them 365 days a year. The sister? A mess, mostly due to her brother complex. Seriously, tell your sister your contact info! If she finds out I know, her lightning-fast kendo strike might split my skull.
So I tried forgetting it all. Conspiracies? Avoid them, avoid harm. I sold my VR books, stopped searching online.
Yet here I am, with a just-released Amusphere III and a game disc. Sender? Their sister, with a cute rabbit-themed letter:
"Lies can unravel anytime, can't they? That's what's scary. Let's talk in the game."
…Yeah, sure.
What do these siblings want with my life? SAO was hard mode; now they're cranking reality to very hard?
No choice. To meet her, I must dive back into the virtual world I swore off. I'm dreading it, but… maybe a little excited.
A cute girl showed me kindness (used me), listened to me (made me owe her), and though I betrayed her trust (she suspected me from the start), I'd face a trauma or two for her.
"What even is this game?"
It's a VRMMO, but I'm out of the loop. Title? DBO… Dragon Ball Online? No, it's—
DARK BLOOD ONLINE
Is the world sick, or is my sense of normalcy off? This title, launched with Amusphere III, screams bad taste.
The package shows a knight in tattered armor, sword chipped, against a sunset wasteland—light dark fantasy. The back? A robed woman, likely a mage, in a bright meadow under a blue sky.
"Play to find out? Nothing but bad vibes."
I'd research, but the service starts in under 20 minutes. The letter details how to meet the sister in-game. Detailed enough she might be a beta tester.
…Pass. Beta testers? One nearly PK'd me in SAO's first hour. She was a beauty, too, but got taken out by that guy.
"Men need grit, women need guts, and charm's for the bold! Time to dive!"
I set up the game in my tiny room, don the Amusphere III, and boot it up.
Back in SAO, a chill warned me of danger before the death game began.
Now, that same—or worse—icy, unmistakable dread of death creeps down my neck.