The Anneal Blade gleamed faintly in Mikoto's hands, the polished metal reflecting the soft light of Horunka's village torches.
[Anneal Blade]
Type: Longsword
Special: Enhancable up to +8
His eyes widened. Eight times…? Most low-level weapons capped at three, maybe five. But this one—this was something special. He could already feel the weight of its potential, humming through his grip.
"Alright," Mikoto muttered, sliding it into the enhancement console near the village blacksmith. His heart raced with every strike of the hammer. +1. +2. +3. Each success flared bright against the dull metal. By +5 his palms were sweating, but he pressed forward, gambling everything.
The last hit rang out like a bell, and the notification blinked before his eyes:
[Anneal Blade +7 – Success.]
Mikoto exhaled hard. His weapon now carried a blade sharp enough to cleave through most mobs with ease. It was leagues beyond the starter gear—something that could carry him through the early death game.
—-
The next days blurred together in an endless rhythm of steel, sweat, and monsters. Mikoto carved through wolves and boars dire wolves and insects, with practiced precision, testing every swing of the blade. The +7 bonus transformed each fight; the mobs that once demanded caution now fell in clean arcs of silver light.
Efficient. Strong. Exactly what he needed.
But efficiency didn't make the forest quiet. His ears caught faint cries one evening, just beyond the treeline.
Five players sprawled across the grass, their health bars blinking in the red. Broken armor. Empty potion vials scattered around them. A massacre in the making.
Mikoto's first instinct was to melt back into the trees. Not my problem. Not again.
But a voice caught him—hoarse, trembling.
"Y-You…! Emerald eyes… messy brown hair… you're him, aren't you? The one who helped the rookies back in town…"
Mikoto froze. His chest tightened. He cursed himself inwardly for ever trying to help those groups in the Town of Beginnings. Rumors traveled fast.
"Please," another begged. "Potions… anything…"
Reluctantly, Mikoto crouched and pulled three small vials from his belt. "That's all I can spare. Use them wisely." His voice was curt, sharp—more command than kindness.
The players scrambled to heal, color returning to their health bars. Relief spread across their faces like sunlight breaking clouds.
One of them tried to thank him, but Mikoto raised a hand. "Don't. Gratitude won't save you from the next monster. Adapt. Learn. And don't push so far outside your limits again."
He straightened, tightening his grip on the Anneal Blade. "I won't be here to lend you guys aid next time."
And with that, he turned on his heel and left, ignoring the whispers that trailed behind him.
—-
By the time the forest swallowed the sound of their voices, Mikoto let out a long breath.
This is why I said I'd play solo. Every wct of kindness ends up roping me into someone else's problems. Every rumor sharpens eyes in me. Envy. Expectations. Dependency.
He hated it. But part of him hated himself even more—for stopping, for helping anyway.
Still, he couldn't deny the usefulness of the information the party had spilled: rumors of a strong monster migration on the next floor. Details about quest cooldown timers. Even whispers about players—Kirito and Ryufior—already clearing content faster than most.
Mikoto tucked it all away, sharpening not just his sword but his mind. Knowledge was survival.
The night fell quiet again, only the rustle of the trees and the faint glow of his blade as he drew it once more. The Anneal Blade +7 cut through another wolf in one clean strike, sparks flying.
He whispered to himself as the XP bar climbed higher.
"Survive first. Lead second."
And so he pressed forward, deeper into Aincrad, leaving his reputation and his doubts to smolder quietly in the wake of his blade.