This is a world where swords burn.
Straight swords, rapiers, curved blades, daggers, flying swords, spears, headbutts, hand axes, warhammers…
A world that abandons magic entirely, leaving only the immersive clash of cold steel in face-to-face combat.
Master any one of them to its peak, and you gain the power to face anything in this world.
However, some people understand the limits of their own talent. There are cliffs that can only be crossed with that faint, elusive spark of innate ability.
So, if one cannot forge a single sword to perfection, then one piles up numbers instead. The clumsiest method, the most exhausting path. And its outcome is already decided. You become utterly mediocre, and in the end, may never even glimpse the gates of "mastery," let alone "divinity."
To treat self-awareness as a strength. That is the only right left to claim.
The rapier's light poured out in a frenzy, scattering dazzling points of flashing steel. This body still couldn't master a single weapon. Then everything would be handed over to the system. All he needed to do was steer, quietly guiding his opponent toward death.
"Guh… ohhh!"
Morte let out an unwilling roar as his virtual body was repeatedly pierced by consecutive sword skills. He retreated desperately, trying to evade, while his left hand fumbled to open a window and switch out his weapon.
The rapier brushed past his cheek, stopping just beside his left face. The stinger-like blade began to emit fractured white light. Under the torrent of code and data, it abruptly transformed into the Crimson Sickle Fang. The curved sword entered a sword skill stance the instant it appeared, red light igniting within the fading blue.
In the next instant, it slashed straight down. And beneath that blade was Morte's left arm, the very one trying to operate the menu.
Shhk.
With only leather armor for protection, Morte's arm was severed clean off. The wound glowed with molten red light. In reality, blood would have splattered across both of them.
Morte let out a stifled groan. Even without pain, the moment of losing a limb still brought an overwhelming surge of invisible shock and panic.
It's happening again.
Again…!
He's always one step ahead of you. Even in that instant of weapon switching.
Beneath the burlap mask, his face twisted. Morte gasped heavily, staring fixedly at Satoru. From beginning to end, that man's gaze had not changed in the slightest. Still as lifeless as stagnant water, cold and mechanical, without a ripple.
After severing his arm, the curved blade didn't pause. It swept upward in one smooth motion.
Curved sword low-tier skill. Rising Moon.
The flash of red confirmed a perfect hit. With one arm gone, Morte could no longer wield his two-handed axe. Even with one hand remaining, he couldn't switch to a rapier in front of this man. The high-quality two-handed axe slipped from his grasp, deemed unusable by the system, and hit the ground with a dull thud.
The Crimson Sickle Fang stopped before Morte's eyes, but did not fall. The uninterrupted crimson glow began to fade, dispersing like dying flames. Morte made no move, head slightly lowered as he glanced sideways at Satoru behind the blade.
Both of them were in red health.
Morte was on the brink of death. His remaining HP was so low that even a casual normal attack would finish him. The numbers were such a deep red they were almost black.
Stopping at the very last moment. Was that calculated too?
Morte coughed softly.
Yet there was no fear in him. Instead, there was sincerity from earlier persuasion, the frenzy of battle, and now a hint of delight.
"How terrifying. Truly terrifying."
The battle came to an abrupt halt. Silence returned to the night plain as Morte murmured.
"If we're talking about pure combat strength, at this stage of Sword Art Online, there's probably not a single player who can beat you. Not that nonsense about clearing stupid AI bosses. I mean real player-versus-player combat."
"So someone like you really exists. Now that I've finally seen it."
"While everyone else treats this game as a prison, grinding monsters and floor bosses to grow stronger, only you have been treating every player as an enemy, quietly preparing."
"That includes the so-called red players, and the so-called normal ones. Heh. Your starting point is far darker than mine. And you don't bother with cheap tricks either. You just settle things face-to-face."
Morte slowly stepped back.
"You really are the best. You really are enjoying this game."
"Don't move. Otherwise this blade will go straight into your throat. At this point, even a scratch will kill you," Satoru said coldly.
"Oh? No need to hold back at all. Finishing me off cleanly is the best choice. After all, I'm not planning to tell you anything you'd want to hear."
"Besides, no matter what, I've already achieved my goal. The moment I saw you use that rapier, I had already won this battle. Well, mentally speaking."
"What… do you mean?"
"You can finally say goodbye to your former, pathetic self. Escape that ugly reality."
"What does that do for you?" Satoru asked despite himself.
"What do I gain? Didn't I say it already? I'm your friend. Isn't it natural to feel happy for a friend's brilliance? Alright, Yurnero. Hurry up. Kill me with that blade, and enjoy your future."
Morte's voice was calm.
Yes. Kill him.
Cut off all future trouble.
That was the correct decision.
But this wasn't the arena. Killing a player wouldn't grant any rewards.
What remained for him was only.
Satoru gritted his teeth.
Then he suddenly realized.
This was the First Floor. The night grasslands of the First Floor. Yes. This place. Not just the location, but the time as well. At this same late hour, one month ago, he had done the exact same thing.
The face of the dead rose before his eyes once more.
A face twisted by disbelief after being deceived. A face warped by fear and hatred at the moment of death. All those emotions tangled within those eyes, staring back at him with the deepest malice and hatred.
"..."
It's not my fault.
It's the fault of this reality he's powerless to change.
Satoru took a step forward, his steady curved sword trembling slightly.
This pale, gray world, it's not my fault.
The faint yellow that had flashed in his pupils had gradually turned a deep gold.
Yes, expecting a frail, lonely ghoul to still hold onto any hope is simply too much to ask.
'Nero.'
"..."
Satoru stopped. He stared silently at the curved sword, now just inches from Morte's throat, and slowly revealed a weary, resigned smile.
"This is the poison that makes people willingly walk to their deaths."
He let out a quiet sigh and lowered the curved sword.
Morte stared at him in astonishment.
"Get lost. Killing you would only make me even darker."
Besides, there was that flashy guy right beside him.
"I see…"
Morte spoke in a low voice as he stepped back.
"Then I'll be looking forward to seeing you."
His body faded into the shadows behind him, most likely using a hiding skill to escape. No, more accurately, he had been let go. Regardless, from this moment on, Morte no longer existed. This disguise had only held value for tonight.
Satoru sheathed his curved sword, drank a recovery potion, and watched as his health bar gradually returned to a safe level. His indicators followed as well. Since he hadn't actually killed anyone, they would soon shift from pale yellow back to normal white.
He lowered his gaze, lit a cigarette, tossed the empty matchbox aside, and left in silence.
...
5:12 a.m.
Satoru closed the window, gently lifted the tent flap, and stepped inside. The air within was warmer. The ever-burning stove continued to give off light and heat, and Sheeta was still fast asleep.
Only five hours had passed. Yet he had nearly not made it back.
He hadn't been completely confident. If not for mastering a third weapon system a few days ago.
Inside the tent, only the crackling of the fire and the girl's steady breathing could be heard.
He took a deep breath and walked further inside.
"Mmm… Did Nero go to the bathroom?"
A drowsy voice drifted from behind him.
"Yeah."
I was crouched there for about five hours and almost fell into the hole.
"Nero isn't afraid of the dark anymore. Hmm, he's really grown up."
She spoke in her usual childish tone, delivering words like a mother fussing over her child.
Satoru paused and turned back.
"Thank you."
Sheeta mumbled something unclear in response, likely asking what he meant.
"Nothing. I just suddenly felt like saying it. Get some rest. Once the sun's fully up, we'll have to continue our quest with Kizmel."
Satoru sat back down in his spot, but didn't lie down. He took the chance to rest for a while, even after an entire night of exhaustion.
He simply sat there in silence, watching Sheeta's back as she drifted off again. In the warm glow of the firelight, the corners of his lips curved into a gentle smile.
...
Morte sat in the wilderness safe zone, tore off his mask, and casually tossed it to the ground, letting its durability drop until it shattered into fragments. He pulled out a recovery potion and gulped it down. As for his severed left arm, it would take a long debuff period before it could regenerate.
"Surprisingly disheveled, aren't you?"
Someone spoke as they watched him.
"Didos."
Morte lifted his gaze.
"What, did you come to laugh at me?"
"It's just that PoH said you might run into trouble, so I came to take a look."
The burly man shook his head.
"Oh my, I never expected concern from you. Looks like even a tough guy has a soft side. Still, it gives me goosebumps."
Morte returned to his playful tone, even baring his teeth in an exaggerated grimace.
The man studied him carefully for a moment.
"Is he really that strong? I remember you even went out of your way to learn two-handed axes. You were fully prepared."
"Isn't that obvious?"
Morte curled his lips.
"And don't mention two-handed axes to me. I'm resetting it later."
"Why?"
"If you want to beat him, you can't rely on that kind of approach. Thinking about it now, trying to use multiple weapon systems was already a bit brainless. Winning with that many skills is incredibly difficult, and trying to challenge the original creator on top of that? That's just asking to die."
Morte fell silent for a moment. He stood up and gave the man a meaningful look.
"That's right. Without 'single-minded strength,' you can't stand against him."
What Morte saw was the long spear carried on the man's back.
Because of insufficient ability, one compensates with quantity. But surpassing him in both quantity and planning is impossible.
You cannot predict him, yet your every move is reflected clearly in his eyes.
Unless.
It is a kind of power so overwhelming that even if he sees it coming, he cannot counter it. A power belonging to a true genius, honed to its absolute peak.
Morte looked at the spear behind Didos.
His eyes filled with anticipation.