The deep blue flames in the furnace flickered once more.
The sharp clang of hammer striking steel rang out again and again.
Under Satoru's watchful gaze, Nezha grew increasingly tense. After twenty full minutes, he finally finished reinforcing the batch of weapons made from those overly abundant materials.
Of the three one-handed swords, one turned to scrap while the other two reached +6. Of the four Crimson Sickle Fangs, one was destroyed and three reached +5. The last one, with only a single attempt remaining, was pushed further under Satoru's calm signal.
A final, all-or-nothing gamble.
And it paid off.
A +7 Crimson Sickle Fang.
For that single weapon alone, Satoru had spent over thirty thousand Col—the result of several days of relentless, near-suicidal grinding.
And yet, he only said with quiet satisfaction,
"See? Got it in the end. A high-grade weapon."
Holding the newly forged Crimson Sickle Fang, now boasting +4 Sharpness and +3 Agility, he gave it a casual test swing, as if proving something to no one in particular.
The fully upgraded blade gleamed sharper than before, its polish noticeably improved. Both its appearance and actual value had taken a significant leap.
Nezha was drenched in sweat. Satoru couldn't really understand why he'd been so tense. Maybe he'd been worried everything would go to waste.
If that was the case… then he really was a good blacksmith.
"By the way, are you interested in buying the leftover 'failed' weapons? It'd be a hassle to sell them elsewhere," Satoru said.
Aside from the one one-handed sword that had run out of attempts, the rest were all at least +5—good enough to serve as main weapons even for front-line players.
"Ah… s-sure. At standard market price?" Nezha asked cautiously.
"That works."
His previously light wallet quickly filled up again. After putting away his curved sword, Satoru turned and left the stall.
"That upgrade just now felt kind of wasteful," the girl behind him spoke again, like she just wouldn't go away.
"As long as it gets the job done, it's worth it. And with RNG systems, if you don't keep the right mindset, you'll just make a fool of yourself. Everyone's luck is different. Try to compare, and all you do is make yourselves look stupid."
He paused, then added flatly,
"Anyway… you're still here?"
He pressed a hand to his forehead, clearly annoyed.
"But I didn't expect the success rate to be this low. Player blacksmiths are usually better than NPCs. And you prepared so many materials. Logically, you shouldn't have ended up with just one finished weapon, Nero."
"…I'm honestly surprised you'd say something that sensible." He glanced at her. "So what are you implying? That I just got unlucky?"
"Hmm… I just think that blacksmith wasn't skilled enough." Sheeta shook her head.
"It's all system-calculated—formulas, materials, everything. Even if it looks flashy, it doesn't change the result. And more importantly… shouldn't you be leaving by now?"
"But the success rate really is low. And weapons can even break during forging…" she murmured, still lost in thought.
"Could you not ignore the second half of what I said? That's the important part!"
Satoru spun around and grabbed her shoulders, staring straight at her.
"Hm? What's wrong, Nero?"
Sheeta blinked up at him without the slightest hesitation. No shyness, no restraint, not even a hint of awkwardness.
That only made things worse for him.
…Though honestly, she really was cute.
Satoru pulled back almost immediately, letting go and taking a few steps away, avoiding her bright eyes.
"Are you allergic to the word 'leave' or something?"
"Seriously, just let me go. We've known each other for, what, a few hours? Why are you this persistent? You're acting like you crossed half the world chasing your husband."
He clasped his hands together like he was praying.
"Even if you've convinced yourself this was some kind of fated encounter, don't take it that seriously."
"Love at first sight is just something you already had in your head suddenly lining up with reality."
"Maybe deep down, you pictured some fearless hero charging into danger… but that's not me."
"Then why did you charge into the Windwasps like one?" she asked, completely naturally.
A perfect counter.
If this were a debate, he'd have just lost points.
"...Yeah. How am I supposed to explain that?" He let out a quiet sigh.
Because the one who made that impulsive move…
…was him.
Because her smile had been too beautiful.
And because of that, he wanted to push her away.
"Think of it like a light that draws people in. But in reality, it's nothing special. It doesn't want people coming to it for the wrong reasons… so it just stops shining."
He paused, then looked at her.
"Do you get what I'm saying?"
"Hmm…" Sheeta thought for a moment, then nodded. "So… you're saying I'm like some annoying moth drawn to the light?"
"…"
"Yeah… that's on me. I explained that terribly."
He pressed a hand to his forehead again.
"What I mean is, I'm not the kind of person who looks after others. If you're not useful to me, you'll just get in my way."
He tried to soften it as much as he could.
But it still came out harsh.
"I see. So you want someone around you who's about the same level as you."
That wasn't entirely wrong.
He gave a firm nod.
"I understand." Sheeta looked a little disappointed.
She really was straightforward. No hidden motives at all.
Fine.
He'd just add her as a friend. If he could help with small things, he would.
"So, Nero, let's have a duel. If I win, I get to stay by your side."
After hesitating for more than half a minute, she spoke with sudden resolve.
"…What?"
He stared at her, completely dumbfounded.
"Huh? Was that wrong? If I win, that means I won't get in your way, right?"
Just a moment ago she'd looked completely certain, but his reaction made her falter, and she began second-guessing herself out loud.
"No… your logic isn't wrong. It's just a bit of a leap," he said, struggling to find the words.
"Then let's not waste time. Let's start right away."
Sheeta sent a duel request for an in-zone PVP, looking more like she was inviting him for a walk than challenging him to a fight. Her bright eyes shimmered with excitement.
"…You really want to do this?"
She's going to get crushed.
After confirming once more that she meant it, Satoru tapped accept, and at the same time, a sixty-second countdown appeared above their heads.
Sheeta drew her one-handed sword, her stance sharp and composed, but having already seen her skill level, Satoru knew this spar was already decided.
He didn't take out his fully enhanced Crimson Sickle Fang—that would've been overkill. Instead, he drew a shop-bought curved sword of similar quality. Even the names oddly matched: hers was "Excellent One-Handed Sword," his "Excellent Curved Sword."
The two of them settled into ready stances, facing each other in silence as the countdown ticked down. Each second ended with a clear chime, audible to nearby players, gradually drawing attention.
Most people barely spared Satoru a glance before their focus shifted to Sheeta.
"…Wait, can you PK NPCs now?" someone muttered.
A small crowd began to gather.
In this game, PK—player killing—had effectively become standard PVP, the core of most online systems.
No matter how grand a single-player game's world was or how difficult its monsters were, in the end, they were just data. People were different.
Shaped by different environments and experiences, every player was unique. When fighting someone with a will of their own, sometimes execution mattered more, other times awareness and judgment.
That was what set online games apart—from one-on-one duels to large-scale battles. For some, the thrill came close to a real fight.
Some games leaned toward PVE, others toward PVP, pushing players to compete directly. After all, if better gear and skill couldn't give you an edge over others, there'd be no reason to keep improving.
Satoru made his living in that world. Compared to farming materials and gear, ranked matches and arena fights paid far better. If he wanted to survive, he had to be a pure PVP player.
SAO wasn't a familiar PC setup. Even players with top-tier reflexes had to start from scratch here.
He was the opposite type.
Knowing he lacked that kind of natural reaction speed, he focused on the system instead—analyzing every skill, every combo, over and over, memorizing cooldowns down to the millisecond. By the time he entered a fight, he was simply executing scenarios he had already simulated countless times.
Built on information. Reading the opponent. Predicting the entire fight.
That was how he fought.
Only someone like him—someone with nothing else to do, no one to spend time with, no one who needed him—could invest that much into it.
No nagging mother. No friends waiting on him. No boss breathing down his neck.
Just a hollow kind of freedom.
A player whose entire worth existed in the virtual world.
Someone who lived off the game.
And someone like that… had every reason to stand at the top.
He always had.
"I'm not losing to you."
Ten seconds left.
Both of them raised their swords. No pre-motion. No skill setup.
Five seconds.
Still nothing.
To the crowd, it looked like neither of them knew what they were doing.
Three seconds.
Satoru's gaze sharpened.
The one who commits first loses.
The moment a skill is revealed, it can be read. Countered. Broken.
He didn't know every weapon skill—but the common ones, curved swords and one-handed swords, he knew perfectly.
This preparation time wasn't meaningless.
It was for reading your opponent.
Face to face.
Even the slightest change in expression mattered.
Was she holding back to avoid being read?
Or did she not even understand how to prepare a skill?
Two seconds.
One.
In that final instant, Satoru moved.
And what made his pupils shrink—was that she moved just a fraction of a second after him.
More patient.
And her skill… was aimed directly to counter his.
This girl…
Zero.
The duel began.
There was no time to change skills. Once again, he was reminded how close his reaction speed was to average. The system locked in his action, and his skill activated instantly.
The sound and light of their Sword Skills collided as they charged straight at each other.
In that instant, his impression of her shattered.
She was no longer the fragile girl quietly playing a lullaby.
She was a seasoned swordsman, scanning for openings and striking with ruthless precision.
In those clear blue eyes, there was no trace of fragility—only the unwavering resolve of a swordsman.