At that moment, between Higa's *click* and the void that sucked him in, Kirito understood the true nature of hell: it was not the pain, but the 'anticipation' of pain.
[SYSTEM_NOTICE: FLUCTLIGHT_TRANSFER_INITIATED].
A new system message flashed in ominous red, declaring the imminent journey to Underworld.
Then a 'glacial' current of energy passed through him, as if millions of data needles rewrote his existence. It was not a simple teleportation: it was a 'controlled tear, atom by atom, memory by memory.'
And then... 'the memories pierced through him like swords':
*****
—'The scent of sweet grass on the 22nd floor of Aincrad,' where the breeze caressed the fields like a whisper from the system. It was one of those rare days of truce, where the leaves of the trees swayed their shadows over them and the sound of a nearby stream drowned out the distant echo of monsters.
Asuna, with her lightweight armor exchanged for a simple white dress, had rested her head on his shoulder. The sun filtering through the branches painted golden flashes in her hair, and for a moment, 'Aincrad ceased to be a prison.'
—"Do you think we'll ever miss this?"
she had whispered, as her fingers intertwined with his.
Kirito remembered how the wind carried her laughter that afternoon, how the world seemed to stop when she looked at him with that expression she reserved only for him: 'fragile and fierce at the same time.'
*****
—'The crack of digital bones' under the twin blades of 'Elucidator and Dark Repulser,' when he halted the colossal attack of The Skull Reaper. The force of the impact made him 'bend his knees,' feeling how the cracks spread across the stone floor of the chamber on the 75th floor.
—"Hold on! Just a bit longer!"
he had roared, though he knew it was a lie. 'No one' would withstand another blow.
But he did.
Because at that moment, between the crackling of his virtual tendons and the scarlet glow of his HP bar, 'he saw Asuna's face' in his mind.
And that was enough.
*****
—The emptiness in his chest.
It was not physical pain. It was not the system damage, nor the chilling message of '«PLAYER ELIMINATED»' floating above his head. It was something worse: 'the moment when the weight of Asuna in his arms turned to nothing.'
Kirito recalled with brutal clarity every microsecond of that moment:
'The crack of crystal' when Kayaba's sword pierced Asuna's chest.
Asuna, with the sheen of her tears and her broken voice... smiling at him, saying:
—"Forgive me... I couldn't... stay with you until the end..."
Pause, as her body began to glow in blue crystals
—"But... please, live. Take everything I felt with you... And if you escape from here... tell the world we existed."
Kirito screamed:
"ASUNA!"
But his arms only embraced 'the void.'
The horror of feeling her disintegrate between his fingers, particle by particle, like sand slipping from a closed fist.
For a moment that lasted an eternity, 'the world ceased to exist.'
*****
Each memory 'burned more than the last,' because now he knew the truth:
That Asuna—his Asuna—was holding a copy that bore her name.
A sharp buzz —like the dying beep of a modem— filled his consciousness as the world began to materialize around him.
But Kirito did not register it.
His mind still navigated the sea of memories that bound him to Asuna... Until 'one last memory hit him hard.'
*****
High chamber of the cathedral.
'Kirito lay motionless' on the stone table, eyes open but empty. The light from the stained glass tinted his skin in cold tones, as if he were already part of the sacred architecture.
'Asuna burst' into the room, her white and gold 'Stacia' robe stained with dust and sweat. Upon seeing him, 'she stopped dead,' trembling hands before her mouth.
'Alice,' in shining armor, interposed:
—"Stop! There's nothing you can do. He can't even hear you."
Asuna ignored her, advancing toward him with steps that resonated in the silence.
—"Kirito-kun..."
Her voice 'reached him in the depths of his unconsciousness.'
'A spasm in his fingers.' Light, almost imperceptible.
Asuna 'fell to her knees' beside the bed, clutching 'Kirito's chest' with both hands.
Her forehead pressed against his, her tears falling directly onto his heart
**Plink**.
A drop impacting against his fabric.
—"Forgive me, Kirito! Forgive me for not arriving sooner!"
She said, crying from her helplessness.
—"I promised we'd be together... and I left you alone!".
He wanted to tell her she was mistaken, that she was his light even in darkness...
But his mouth only formed, with dry lips slightly parted, a rough whisper:
—"Asuna... I too... saw you... in the garden..."
Their tears fell at the same time.
**Plink-Plink**.
Asuna's on his chest.
**Plink-Plink**.
His on the stone after encircling her face.
**Plink-Plink-Plink-Plink**.
One after another, the tears kept falling from both.
*****
**Plink-Plink-Plink-Plink**.
But then...
**First was the touch** that pulled him from the memory. A penetrating cold coursed down his back, so different from the smooth marble where he lay in his memory.
**CRUNCH**.
His fingers involuntarily closed, tearing clumps of wet grass.
**Plink-Plink-Plink-Plink**.
'The second to arrive was the sense of smell,' brutal and undeniable. The scent of soaked earth flooded his nostrils, mingled with that metallic odor that rain leaves when falling on the foliage.
—"Aaaaah".
He breathed deeply, and for the first time in what seemed like centuries, his lungs filled with the damp air of Underworld.
**¡CRAAASH!**.
'The hearing was the third to awaken.' A deafening thunder rumbled in the distance, so loud he felt the vibration in his sternum. The roar made him blink, though his eyes still refused to open fully. 'That sound... did not belong to the Cathedral. It did not belong to the memory.'
**Plink-Plink-Plink-Plink**.
His 'blue eyes' opened wide.
'When at last the fourth sense that was sight returned,' the first thing he saw was raindrops falling toward his wet eyes.
**Plink-Plink-Plink-Plink**.
They impacted against his lashes before rolling down his cheeks. Between blinks, he distinguished the overcast sky.
'A black sky from the dark clouds, and it was night.'
**Plink-Plink-Plink-Plink**.
(-"These aren't Asuna's tears... They are raindrops.")
With that thought and understanding of his current situation, the last sense that accompanied him was taste...
The bitter and salty flavor in his mouth, tasting the cold drops that were his reality and some of his own unconscious tears.
**Glup**.
He swallowed with difficulty, noticing how the taste stuck to his tongue, as real as the pain he felt when remembering.
Ending his complete conscious state of his five senses in Underworld.
He rose with clumsy movements, like a newborn learning to use his limbs. The 'thick linen tunic' he wore—identical to the one from his first trip to Underworld—was completely soaked, clinging to his skin like a second dermis. The dark blue fabric, usually stiff, now appeared 'wrinkled and heavy,' with the golden edges of the collar and sleeves faded by the rain. The leather belt that usually held his sword hung limply, 'dripping water like a pendulum' with every movement.
—"I'm here... Again."
His voice spoke not only of Underworld but of that 'exact point' where two centuries (or more) ago he had awakened for the first time. His blue eyes scanned the surroundings:
'Twisted oaks,' their black bark shining with moisture.
'Low fog' that slithered between the trunks like ghosts.
'Puddles of rain' reflecting his fragmented silhouette.
The 'Forest of the Black Knights,' near Rulid.
The same forest clearing.
The same stage, different tragedy.
But this time...
There was no 'leather jacket' hanging from the branches (like in his first awakening).
There were no 'laughter and bird songs' bouncing between the trees.
There were no 'swords' stuck in the ground like promises.
The voice of 'Eugeo' was not resonating, asking:
—"Are you okay, Kirito?".
**Crik-crak**.
Only the 'crunch of his soaked leather boots' as he stood up.
**Creck-creck**.
Only the 'crunch of his tunic as he moved,' sounding like laments.
(-"How long?")
The question floated in his mind like a leaf caught in the current.
(-"Months? Years? Centuries?")
Time in the digital void had left no visible scars, but now, under the 'relentless rain of Underworld,' each drop reminded him that the pain was still there.
The biting wind whipped his face, taking with it:
'The residual heat' of his memories.
'The fog of his breath,' dispersing in ephemeral whirlwinds.
'The raindrops' that crashed against his skin like 'glass darts.'
(-"I want to go back.")
A childish wish. An impossibility... For now.
He forced himself to focus on the immediate: 'survival.' Thirst burned in his throat, dry despite the rain. Twenty steps away, a stream wound between the oaks, its waters murky from the storm.
He walked toward it with a bit of clumsiness.
**Chof-chof**.
Each step of Kirito sinking into the mud sounded like an hourglass counting lost seconds. The tracks he left behind—'ghostly gaps'—filled with rainwater almost immediately, as if the world were trying to erase his presence.
*shlorp*.
The mud sucked at his boots with a wet sound, as if Underworld hesitated to let him advance. His first tracks were 'clumsy traces,' deep indentations where his ankles bent slightly, 'betrayed by centuries of digital immobility.'
But then...
'On the third step,' the muscle in his calf 'remembered.' A spasm almost imperceptible, like the hum of a copper wire reconnecting.
'On the seventh,' the knee no longer gave way. The movement was still stiff, but 'precise,' like a program rebooting line by line.
'By the fifteenth,' his hip found its axis. He no longer dragged his feet; he 'positioned them,' calculating the weight as if his spine were the mast of a ship in turbulent waters.
When he reached the stream, 'he was not whole.' Not entirely.
His right knee still held a 'tremor of disconnection,' as if the nerves protested for having been forgotten for so long. His shoulders, though firm, 'did not bear the imaginary weight of the Night Sky and Blue Rose swords.' And when he crouched.
**Stretch**.
The tendon in his hamstring pulled with a silent sound, 'reminding him that this body was as much his as it was foreign.'
The water of the stream, agitated by the rain but still clear, trembled as Kirito knelt at the edge. In its surface, the reflection of his blue eyes '—not the pale blue of the sky, but the sapphire blue of the depths of the sea—' stared back at him.
That color was not casual.
It was the blue he had chosen as a promise.
The blue of the lake where he vowed to return with her.
The blue that now shone, 'not with emaciation, but with the serene sadness of one who has fought for two centuries and still does not give up.'
The water distorted his image for a moment—dark hair stuck to his forehead, raindrops sliding down his cheekbones like tears he refused to continue shedding—but his eyes remained sharp. 'Deep. Unbreakable.'
**¡CRAAASH!**.
A distant lightning illuminated his face, and for a second, the stream did not reflect a defeated man, but:
'The black swordsman' who defeated Kayaba.
'The administrator' who challenged Quinella.
'The soul' that Higa could not destroy.
The water continued to flow, carrying leaves and foam, but his gaze—those blues that seemed to hold all the secrets of Underworld—did not move.
—"I can still win."
He whispered, and the stream carried his words to the sea, as if the world itself needed to hear them.
He cupped his hands—those hands that once wielded legendary swords—and submerged his fingers.
The water was:
'Cold, Sweet, and Clear.'
**Plop**.
The sound was 'a metallic hammering,' not the crystalline splash he remembered. The water filtered through his fingers like sand, but it caught enough. He brought it to his lips with the urgency of a castaway.
**Glup-glup-glup**.
He drank with closed eyes, and the drops escaped down his chin, mixing with the rain that was already soaking him. They were not losses but 'offerings':
—"For those who are no longer here."
"For the one who waits without knowing."
"For the me that was and the one I will be."
And when he stood up, the drops on his face no longer tasted like rain, nor tears, but 'like a beginning.'
His sharp eyes were not those of a prisoner.
They were those of a man who, even stripped of everything, 'still had something to lose.'
**KNUK-KNUK**
'The sound of his knuckles tightening into fists was a silent declaration.'
In response, the rain ceased. The clouds opened in concentric circles, revealing a sky wounded by chiaroscuro. 'As if Underworld itself recognized his determination.'
Between the broken clouds filtered a pale light, 'as if accepting that gesture.'
Residual drops shone on his face as he lifted his gaze to the clear sky.
—"Let's see... Yes, I can still fly."
Kirito's voice was barely a whisper laden with skepticism and hope, words lost among the creaking of the wet branches and the last moan of the winter wind. And then, as if Underworld itself had been waiting for this trial, it happened:
An electric tingle coursed down his spine, a tingling that began at the base of his skull and spread like concentric waves through each vertebra. It was not the simple awakening of a forgotten power, but the violent reunion between his will and the fundamental laws of that world.
It was not a jump. It was not magic.
It was 'the memory of two centuries of mastery' that resonated in every atom of his being, like an ancient mantra burned into his fluctlight. His feet, still numb from the cold of the wet earth, began to lift with deliberate slowness, defying both gravity and the skepticism he had carried until that moment.
One centimeter. The distance enough for a residual raindrop to brush against the sole of his boot.
Ten centimeters. Now he could see the marks his footsteps had left in the mud, ephemeral tracks that were already starting to fill with water.
A full meter. The ground, that mute witness to his initial weakness, surrendered to him. The mud stretched its dark claws upward, as if Underworld was not willing to let him go so easily, but it was already too late.
The air grew colder at that height, but also purer. Kirito inhaled deeply, filling lungs that had not felt the freedom of flight in what seemed an eternity. Somewhere between sky and earth, between past and present, he found the perfect balance point.
'He was flying again.'
It was like in those distant days when the air was his. 'He floated as he used to before leaving,' but this time the wind smelled of ash and wet earth.
"It would be better if I dried off."
murmured Kirito as the last raindrops slid down his cheek. At that moment, something deep in his Fluctlight resonated—this core of consciousness he had learned to shape during his 200 years as Star King.
It was not a simple thought. It was an 'absolute command' directed at the very structure of Underworld.
(Mental control system: Release body heat. Eliminate humidity. Restore optimal state.)
The effect was immediate. An aura of barely perceptible gold enveloped his body for a microsecond—the same glow that once characterized Stacia's abilities. His soaked clothing vibrated as if thousands of water particles were expelled by centrifugal forces, transforming into a fine mist that dispersed in the twilight air.
In less than three seconds:
His linen tunic regained its characteristic stiffness, the golden edges shining as if freshly woven.
His hair stopped dripping, becoming soft and fluffy like hawk feathers.
Even the leather belt regained its natural flexibility, showing no signs of having been soaked.
Kirito examined his sleeves with a mix of nostalgia and bitterness.
—"Asuna always said this ability was a waste of sacred resources."
He recalled. But now, in this solitude, it was a reminder that 'Underworld still responded to his will,' even after all that Higa had done to him.
—"Looks like you didn't lie, Higa... That bastard."
The words burned in his throat. 'He couldn't help but say them for everything he had taken from him.'
'Higa had lied about many things, but not this': his connection to Underworld was still alive, 'even if he had stolen everything else from him.'
Then in the analysis of his power, he suddenly thought.
(-"What if I had this strength in the real world?")
The question floated in his mind like a summer breeze, warm and light or a flash of light in the darkness of his digital captivity. It was not a yearning for domination, but 'the simple dream of a protector': to be able to stop pain before it occurred.
Memories of all the worlds he had defended crossed his consciousness.
'Four virtual worlds' where he had been more than an ordinary human:
'Aincrad': Where his sword cut the terrible fate of thousands.
'In Alfheim' he challenged a digital god and won.
'Gun Gale Online': The only one where 'the bullets' obeyed his reflexes, stopping them with his blade of light.
'Underworld': Where he stopped armies with pure will.
'Four different realities. Four proofs that the impossible was merely a matter of context.'
'Totally impossible feats for a normal human body.'
But upon returning to reality, he was again 'Kazuto Kirigaya,' the teenager who could be kidnapped, manipulated, hurt... 'as Higa had shown him.'
A sigh. Not of defeat, but of 'nostalgia for that childhood dream' where heroes could protect everything they loved without limits.
—"I don't want to rule or destroy... I just want to be a shield."
It was a desire as pure as the first day he wielded a sword to save Asuna.
—"It would be beautiful."
He murmured.
That no government threatened them.
That no scientist treated them like lab rats.
That no one would ever separate them again.
To be able to say *"enough"* with the same authority he wielded when holding the 'Night Sky Sword.'
'It was not ambition.'
'It was the last vestige of that boy who once believed that heroes could protect everything.'
—"..."
But...
'The dream lasted as long as it takes for a dragonfly to cross a sunbeam...'
But...
As always, 'reality caught up with him.'
But...
As always, 'the pain brought him back to the present.'
—"Dreams are dreams... Reality is reality."
He murmured with a sad smile, as his fingers slowly closed, 'as if they could still feel the weight of an imaginary sword.'
**-"Fuuu…"**
A sigh. Not of defeat, but of 'acceptance of the reality of the world.'
'He knew the difference.'
'He knew that the impossible was only impossible...'
'...until someone dared to change it.'
**-"Fuuuuuh…"**
And with that stronger second breath, 'he cast the chains of the impossible to the wind.'
(-"Because if he couldn't change the impossible, at least he could move forward despite it...")
He refocused on the present and what he had to do to start his plan.
—"But before I start... I must visit a place."
**Vvvvmm…**
Ascending high above the trees.
His words were carried away by the wind as he ascended diagonally, 'like a human projectile.' The trees became green smudges beneath his boots.
**Shwoooosh!-¡Shwoooosh!**.
The air whistled in his ears, but his mind only repeated one name:
(-"Rulid.")
*****
The cold night air whistled as it brushed against his cheeks, but Kirito barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on 'Rulid,' sprawling beneath him like a cloak of flickering lights.
It was no longer the town of dusty streets he remembered.
Now it was 'a city breathing in the dark.'
What he saw:
The solid light stone walls, reinforced with 'Zakkaria Steel' beams.
'The glass lanterns' lit with luminescent fluid extracted from forest flowers.
The central plaza had:
Two identical marble statues in size and posture:
'Eugeo,' with the 'Blue Rose Sword' resting on his shoulder, looking toward the horizon.
- 'Kirito,' with the 'Night Sky Sword' crossed over his chest, head bowed.
'A simple plaque':
- ["The first knights who united two worlds. Never forgotten."]
The statues were not heroic. They did not display dramatic gestures or victory poses.
They were 'Eugeo and Kirito as friends':
- 'Same height.'
- 'Same young faces.'
- 'Swords resting naturally,' as if they had just stopped to rest together.
Because the Kirito who ruled as Star King would never have allowed his friend to be less than him.
He continued seeing some new buildings:
Like the expanded blacksmith workshops.
A 'great meeting hall' with a red-tiled roof, where the tavern used to be.
And improved stables with larger carriages, but 'pulled by horses.'
The wind carried the smell of 'forged iron and freshly baked bread.' It was different from the Rulid he remembered, but the 'heart of the town remained the same.'
He closed his eyes and, for a second.
When he opened them, the city was still there, 'shining in silence.'
Just 'a city sleeping under the weight of its history.'
And he, floating above it, 'as much a part of that past as the marble statues below.'
And then, 'his gaze was drawn'—not by will, but by that ancient force that binds men with their scars—toward 'the moss-covered stump.'
That was all that remained of the tree he once cut down with Eugeo.
The night wind brought him an echo from the past:
*****
Kirito taught him the technique:
«Aincrad Style • Horizontal Arc».
To his friend Eugeo days before.
- 'He shouted instructions' during the cut
—"Keep the angle! Trust your weight!".
He let Eugeo deliver the final blow as a symbol of his growth.
Eugeo sweated under the afternoon sun, but now he had something new: 'the technique Kirito had taught him.'
—"Don't see it as a tree"
Kirito murmured beside him.
—"It's just a line in the air. A line that your sword already knows."
The "Blue Rose Sword" shone in Eugeo's hands, trembling at first, then firm. He adopted the stance they had practiced to exhaustion:
'Feet apart,' human roots anchored in the ground.
'Perfect horizontal sword,' parallel to the ground like the horizon.
- 'Breath.'
**Shhh… Shhh…**.
In sync with the whisper of the forest.
—"Now!".
shouted Kirito beside him.
And then—
With the perfect horizontal cut (180°)
The universe held its breath.
**Tsuuuin!**.
The 'Blue Rose' cut through the air with a 'blue flash,' so bright that for a moment, the 'Gigas Cedar' seemed transparent. The sound was not of wood breaking, but of 'some ancient spell shattering.'
**CRAAAAAAAAACK!**
The sacred tree of Rulid 'gave way in slow motion,' its growth rings exposed to the sun like open wounds. Eugeo fell to his knees, the sword planted in the ground, his tears mingling with the sap that oozed from the stump.
—"We... we did it..."
He gasped, looking at Kirito with eyes that shone brighter than any technique.
(-"Lie. He had only achieved it. I had merely been the echo that pushed his will.")*
***
But now...
The stump of the 'Gigas Cedar' remained there, like a **mute witness** to the promise they once made beneath its branches.
Kirito clenched his fists, imagining for a second the **rough touch** of the axe they never used anymore... because in the end, they only needed **one sword and a shared will.**
'A black disk under the moon,' its surface covered in moss ('like the skin of an elder').
Now, under the moon, those marks were 'unique.'
Like him.
Like his guilt.
And he could also notice around him, 'new shoots.'
("Trees fall, but the roots remain alive.")
He thought.
(-"And maybe—just maybe—that also applied to heroes.")
**Haaah...**.
His breath condensed in the cold air, 'the only proof that he was still alive' in this place where time had turned him into a legend with his best friend, Eugeo.
After reflecting, he felt it was time to leave. With a silent push, he 'took off into the night sky' toward the Central Cathedral, slicing through the clouds with a single goal: to find a way to outsmart Higa and return to the real world and reclaim what had been stolen from him.
The wind howled around Kirito.
**¡Shwoooosh!**.
Carrying away that absurd thought he did not want to acknowledge:
(-"What if I had this strength in the real world?")
He mocked himself.
-"Pathetic."
he murmured, though no one else could hear him. At his age (how many had he really lived?), that kind of fantasy was for children playing at being heroes. 'He was no longer a child.'
**¡SHHHHOOOOO!**
He clenched his fists and accelerated his flight, as if he could leave behind not only the forest but 'that ridiculous idea' that clung to his mind like a sticky cobweb.
-"Impossible."
He repeated.
-"Stupid."
He insisted.
What he 'did not' know was this:
In some hidden corner of his Fluctlight, in that sacred space where neither Rath's scanners nor the laws of Underworld could penetrate, that impossible desire had left its mark. It was not a corruption, nor a virus in his existential code. It was something much deeper:
'A newly born star.'
Tiny as a grain of sand, but with the firmness of a diamond. It shone with a dim but steady light, fueled by:
The memory of Asuna smiling under the sun of Aincrad
The promise made to Eugeo in his last moments
The determination that kept him standing during 200 years of reign
Kirito did not see it. He could not see it. But at that precise moment, as the wind of Underworld passed through his entire body.
**DOON**.
'The star pulsed.'
It was not magic. It was not technology. It was something that transcended both concepts: 'the crystallization of a pure desire,' the undeniable yearning of every living being to protect what it loves.
And although his conscious mind had already dismissed that fantasy as impossible, although he had reaffirmed the limits between the real and the virtual, that small star continued to exist in silence.
'It was not a key' that would open magical doors.
'It was not a weapon' that would destroy obstacles.
It was simply... 'a possibility.'
A possibility that would wait patiently, like seeds that survive decades under the desert until the rain comes. When the moment was right, when Kirito faced the ultimate crossroads, 'that light would respond.'
But that would be much later. For now, it was just an invisible glimmer stored in the heart of the one who was once known as 'the Black Swordsman,' the warrior of the two swords who challenged the impossible in every world he stepped into.
The title of Star King belonged to the past. 'The Black Swordsman' was his eternal essence... That part of himself that never needed crowns or thrones, only the certainty of wielding his weapons to protect what he loved.