The plains outside the Town of Beginnings were littered with the echoes of chaos. Screams, curses, the sharp ring of steel against monsters. For many, the first night of Sword Art Online was the last.
Mikoto slipped through the madness like a shadow, blade flashing against low-level boars and wolves. His movements were sharp, efficient—never wasted. Every strike calculated.
"Three hits… one dodge… watch the telegraph…" he muttered to himself, the rhythm of combat calming his racing heart.
With each kill, experience trickled in. With each level gained, his body felt lighter, sharper. While most players panicked and flailed wildly, Mikoto relied on the patterns he had memorized from the beta.
Survive first. Lead later, he reminded himself.
But survival wasn't just about him.
—-
On his second night, he stumbled across a ragtag group of players huddled near a broken fence, their HP bars already dangerously low. A kobold patrol circled them, growling, weapons raised.
"Damn it—my sword won't activate the skill!" one shouted.
"Don't run, just hold it—!" another yelled back, panic overtaking reason.
Mikoto sighed, tightened his grip, and moved in.
The fight was over quickly. His blade carved through the kobold's weak points, every skill timed with precision. Within moments, the monsters shattered into polygons, leaving stunned silence behind.
The group stared at him, wide-eyed.
"Y-You saved us…" one girl stammered, clutching her staff.
Mikoto sheathed his sword, scanning them. Their formation was sloppy. Their timing was worse. If they keep this up, they'll all be dead in a day.
"You're doing it wrong," he said bluntly.
"Huh?"
Mikoto crouched, dragging his sword across the dirt to sketch a quick formation. "Tank in front. Damage dealers on the sides. Rotate to Heal and stay back. Don't all swing at once—you'll break the rhythm and draw aggro. Watch the monster's animation—every attack has a tell."
The group exchanged glances. Confusion. Embarrassment. A glimmer of hope.
Mikoto stood, brushing dirt from his hand. "Follow that, and you might actually last the week."
At first, he intended to leave. But something tugged at him when he saw their faces—ordinary people, terrified, clinging to the hope of survival. Just like him.
"Alright," he muttered. "Form up. We'll practice."
The next few days blurred into an unexpected routine.
Mikoto led small groups into the fields, barking instructions mid-battle.
"Hold your shield higher!"
"Wait for the window—now strike!"
"Don't waste potions, ration them!"
Players began to gather around him, word spreading fast. He wasn't just strong—he knew things. He taught them how to kite monsters, how to chain skills, how to avoid needless deaths.
And, slowly, the panic in their eyes dimmed.
They began to trust him.
Some even started calling him "leader."
Mikoto hated the word.
Late one evening, while the firelight of the camp flickered, two players whispered just out of earshot—though Mikoto caught every word.
"He's amazing… if we stick with him, we'll survive."
"Or we let him do the hard work, then swoop in."
Mikoto closed his eyes. Figures. Envy, greed… people don't change that easily, even in here.
By the end of that week, whispers about him spread through the Town of Beginnings. Some players praised him as a lifeline. Others sneered, dismissing him as someone pretending to be a hero. A few eyed him like a resource to be exploited.
Mikoto knew what came next if he stayed. Dependence. Politics. Burdens.
So one night, without a word, he slipped away.
—-
The next morning, the camp woke to find him gone—no trace but fading footprints.
Farther out in the plains, Mikoto cut down another wolf with ruthless precision, wiping his blade clean. His EXP bar climbed higher. His body moved faster.
Alone again. Just the way he wanted.
I can't afford to be tied down yet. Not until im strong enough.
And so the early seeds of a leader's reputation were sown, even as Mikoto vanished into the wilds—chasing survival, one kill at a time.