February 27, 2023 — Floor 25 — EDINBURGH5:50 PM
The sunset dyed the city in a thick, almost melancholic orange, as if the sky sensed something the players had yet to understand. Light slid across the snow-covered rooftops and filtered through the cobblestone streets of Floor 25, mixing with the warm steam escaping from taverns and forges. Life continued at its usual pace: merchants shouting offers, explorers returning with tired laughter, couples walking hand in hand.
It looked like a normal day.
Until a scream tore through the calm.
The sound came from the central headquarters of the Aincrad Liberation Army, so abrupt that several artificial birds took flight from the bell tower. Players in the street froze, turning toward the building guarded by armed sentries. Unease spread like a silent wave.
Inside the compound, the air was thick, vibrating, almost unbearable. Dozens of players crowded in front of the floating panel displaying the clan member list. Their eyes ran over the names again and again, as if blinking might be a crime.
"K-Kibaou-san… what… is this?" a young woman asked in a trembling voice, as if fearing the answer might break more than the silence.
Kibaou didn't respond.He couldn't.
His pupils were locked onto the screen, dilated, unable to accept what they saw. His shaking fingers tried to refresh the list again and again, like a man trying to wake from a nightmare by opening and closing his eyes.
Refresh.Refresh.Refresh.
The interface showed no error.No red warning.No explanation.
Only absence.
Finally, when the tremble of his lower lip became more noticeable than his breathing, a word escaped him—broken, fragile.
"…They're not here…"
That was enough.
A horrified murmur swept through the room; some stepped back, others clutched the railings as if the world were tilting beneath their feet.
And then, as if to crush any remaining hope:
A golden window appeared before Kibaou.
Bright. Festive.Cruel.
"Congratulations.You have been promoted to Clan Leader."
A silence fell so deep that even the echoes of the city outside seemed to die.
Kibaou felt the ground give way beneath his feet. The word Congratulations blinked radiantly, mocking the tremor in his hands. His breathing became uneven, almost painful.
And memories began to strike him.
"We'll be back by sunset, Kibaou." —Michael's warm voice.
"Kiba-chi! Prepare a stage, I'll give a big concert!" —Yuna's crystal laughter.
"Sorry about Historia… I'll make her apologize when we're back." —Elsa's calm, polite tone.
Color drained from his face.
"What happened…? Guys… you said you'd… come back…"
But no one heard him.And even if they had, no one would have known how to answer.
Like endless rain, notifications began to appear:
"—Player X has left the clan.""—Player Y has left the clan.""—Member removed.""—Member removed.""—Member removed."
The blow was too heavy.Losing three names would be a wound.Losing those three names was an amputation.
Outside the headquarters, chaos erupted in waves.
Players leaving the clan spread the news without meaning to; it was as if the words escaped their mouths before their minds could catch up.
"—They say they disappeared.""—What do you mean 'disappeared'?""—It can't be! It has to be a system error!""—Michael… Elsa… Yuna… no…"
And in the middle of the turmoil, a group of adventurers stopped.
"Klein…" one of them called, his voice hollow.
Klein didn't answer right away.He was staring at his friends list, his hand slowly tightening.
Several names were gone.But one…
One hurt differently.
"…Aomine…" His voice came out hoarse, dry, unbelieving.
He said it as if speaking the name could change the outcome.But it was still missing.An absence worse than death: nonexistence.
Elsewhere in the city, far from the noise, a hotel room remained silent.A heavy, damp silence, broken only by the uneven breathing of the person inside.
The copper-haired girl had slid down to sit on the floor, her back against the closed door. Her knees trembled. Her fingers clutched a small silver cross that softly chimed as it struck her knuckles.
Her tears fell without grace, without restraint, as if they were too heavy to hold back.
"I'm… such an idiot…" she murmured, pressing her forehead into her hands."If only… I hadn't been so greedy…If only… I had listened…If only… he still trusted me…If only… he hadn't left…"
Her voice broke.Faded.And in that moment, she seemed smaller than she really was.
"Right… Kirito-san…?" she asked the empty air, as if someone might answer.
But no one did.Only the muffled sound of her sobbing filled the room.
Outside, the sky was still orange.No one knew it had just grown a little darker.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
February 27, 2023 — Floor 26 — Obsidian Overlook4:20 PM
Footsteps echoed first like a distant murmur… then like a weary echo climbing the staircase.They were multiple, uneven, dragging steps—the sound of a group climbing not because their legs lacked strength, but because emotional weight crushed their backs.
The staircase ended at an old door embedded in the rock of the floor itself.Each step seemed to whisper its own lament as the group advanced, as if Aincrad realized who had made it… and how many were missing behind them.
When they reached the top, the blond-haired young man with black-tipped bangs—Aomine—stepped forward.His silhouette barely stood out in the gloom, but his tense hands pressed against the wood.
He breathed in.Pushed.
The door gave way with a harsh creak.
Blinding white light engulfed them—so intense they had to turn their faces away for an instant.Then, with a blink, the brightness faded… revealing what lay beyond.
The group emerged onto a wide platform of black stone, raised like a natural balcony overlooking all of Floor 26.The air was still, heavy, almost cold.
In front of them, planted into the ground, a single sign:
"Welcome to Floor 26Good luck"
A mockery.An insult.A hollow celebration aimed at five people who had lost too much.
Aomine took a step forward, jaw tightening.His gaze hardened as he drew back his leg to kick the sign—then stopped mid-motion.
An icy wind struck his face.
He turned.
From the height of the platform, the new floor spread out below:a vast mountain range stretching like fangs tearing into the sky.And far below—very far—city lights shimmered.
But that city had no day.
Everything was covered in perpetual night; a gloom that devoured outlines.Magical streetlights flickered in the distance, wavering between staying lit or giving up, as if sharing the same exhaustion as them.
The view was beautiful… and cruel.
Understanding that, Aomine simply let his legs give out.He collapsed onto the damp grass surrounding the platform without trying to break the fall.
His shoulders trembled—not from cold, but from a fatigue born in the soul.
The four behind him stopped several steps back.
Their eyes were empty.No spark, no anger, no clarity.Only a silence so deep that even the wind seemed to ask permission to pass.
The only eyes still focused on the world belonged to the purple-haired girl with her hair tied in a ponytail: Mito.
She silently analyzed the horizon, as if trying to understand everything that had happened, yet at the same time she felt… slightly happy… as if she had been allowed to live one more day. That feeling reflected in her gaze.
(Now what…)
It was Aomine's thought—sharp and dry, like a thread about to snap.
The question wasn't simple.What would they do now?What could he do now?
They were a team.They were part of a great clan.And now? How would they report the casualties?Who would hold together a guild whose foundation had been ripped out?
Aomine clenched his fists.The trembling in his fingers wasn't from cold, but from the dark possibilities forcing their way into his mind.
With stiff hands, he opened the menu.The symbol of a shield with crossed swords glowed faintly.He tapped it.
The guild list unfolded before him like a wall of names… now incomplete.Aomine swallowed hard at the empty spaces where Michael, Elsa, and Yuna had been.
A sharp sound startled him.A notification.
A player had left the clan.
The name stood out unmistakably.Aomine slowly turned his body, as if afraid to confirm what he already sensed.
Historia stood behind him.Her gaze was empty.She was slowly closing her own menu.
"Historia… hey… what's going on? I…" He tried to approach.
But she cut him off without even looking at him.
"I'm tired of this." Her voice was flat, broken inside."I've made my decision after everything that happened."
The words fell like stones.Aomine blinked, unable to process.
Keyki, to the side, scoffed. He didn't even try to hide his indifference.He opened his settings, mirrored Historia's action… then turned away without a word.
He left.His footsteps echoed farther and farther away, until they blended into the wind.
Gundou swallowed nervously.There was a strange expression on his face, guilt wrestling with fear.
"Guys… come on… we're a team…" His voice trembled, uselessly trying to sound calm."Don't do this… this has to be a joke, right?"
Historia didn't even turn her head.She simply began walking toward the forest path, each step shedding more of what they had been.
Aomine couldn't keep justifying anymore.Couldn't keep denying it.
"Wait… Historia…" he whispered, extending a hesitant hand.
She didn't stop.
Gundou stepped forward.His shadow leaned toward Aomine.
"I'm sorry, Aomine-san…" he whispered, his voice torn by doubt."I… can't."
He confirmed his exit from the group… and left without looking back.
Three notifications in a row.Three direct blows to Aomine's chest.
Mito was the only one left.
Her eyes were wide open—but not to cry.It was something else… something close to happiness, though even she didn't fully understand it.
Aomine noticed instantly.
"I-I'm sorry…" His words began to break."WHAT THE HELL DOES 'I'M SORRY' MEAN?!Answer me… why are you leaving?!WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?! TELL ME!Weren't we friends?!Weren't we supposed to stay together… no matter what…?!"
His throat burned.His tears stained the grass.
"ALL THOSE WORDS… THOSE PROMISES… WERE THEY FOR NOTHING?!DON'T GO! ANSWER ME, IDIOTS!Damn it… damn it, you idiots…!…Why?…Why are you leaving…?Why are you leaving me… alone…?" His voice shattered like glass.
Mito watched him.
She remembered the Aomine she met in the early days: lost, insecure, dependent.She compared him to the Aomine who had promised she would be the only one that mattered… and had failed her.
But now…
This broken Aomine.This Aomine crying on the ground, fists clenched, forehead pressed to the cold earth in a posture that would look pathetic to others…
To her, it was an opportunity.A return to the place she had always wanted.
(You won't be alone… if I… if I can be the one who never leaves you… if this time… if this time you believe in me…)
Her hand trembled as it moved toward his back—
And then a message appeared on her HUD.
The name highlighted in yellow:
Lancelot
Mito felt her chest tighten.
1/ Come to Floor 18 right now /1
Her breathing turned uneven.Her hands shook uncontrollably.She replied in fear—yet with hope.
2/ Yes… alright. But I would like to know if I can report a new member to the clan. /2
There was no answer.
Mito looked back at Aomine,who was still in the same position,crushed by loneliness.
She typed fast, almost begging:
2/ There is a player in my current group who is a great fighter. He's mentally unstable right now, but he can be useful. He can trust me. He can make our guild stronger. Please accept my request. /2
Her heart pounded as she waited.
The reply came.
And it destroyed everything.
1/ What?Do you really think you have the right to ask for anything after what you did?You're in debt. A blood debt to me.Until you pay it, you can't ask for ANYTHING.If you don't come in 30 seconds, I'll announce your betrayal.We'll capture you. We'll torture you until you beg to die.I'll be waiting, selfish trash. /1
Mito felt the air vanish.Her vision blurred.Her ears rang.
WHAT SHE WANTEDVSWHAT THEY ALLOWED HER TO HAVE.
Her hand—just inches away from Aomine's shoulder—jerked back violently.
(I… I want… to live…)That thought split her in two.Defined her.
Meanwhile, Aomine was barely starting to pull himself together.
His mind tried to force itself into order.It searched for a reason, an excuse, a comfort.
And then he remembered that promise:
If you make me your number 1, I promise I'll protect you from all your fears
A voice.A woman.The only one who hadn't let him fall before.
(I have to focus. There has to be a reason for this… they must be confused… just like me…)(Everything will be fine… right? Everything…)
"Everything will be fine, right, Mito?" he finally said, turning toward her.
But what he saw…
Wasn't support.Wasn't love.
It was fear.
Mito was already running into the forest.Fleeing.
"Why… are they leaving…?" he murmured, hugging himself."I don't want… to be alone…I don't want to be alone…"
His memories struck like arrows:their smiles, their laughter, their mistakes, his dependence, his rebuilding through others…
None of it had ever been his.
Hours passed without him noticing, sinking deeper into that emptiness.
—6:00 PM—
He opened his eyes.
It wasn't a dream.There was no going back.
The night of Floor 26 now wrapped around him with distant roars, shrieks of beasts he couldn't identify.Every sound froze his spine.Every shadow made him tremble.
Until he couldn't take it anymore.
He got up clumsily…
And started running.Running without looking back, searching for the lights of some city…fleeing the forest, the floor, the pain…from himself.
___________________________________________________________________________________________
FLOOR 18 — ASHUMARI VILLAGE (WEST)
6:15 PM
A ragged breath broke the silence of the sunset.A young woman staggered along the cobblestone path, legs stiff, chest burning with every exhale tearing out of her throat.
Mito.
Her face—lit unevenly by the village's magical streetlamps—was distorted:red eyes, trembling lips, skin cold with sweat and fear.
She braced herself for a moment against the entrance arch, trying to catch air.Even so, her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
She stepped in.
Ashumari was a dim village… dead.Only NPCs walked the streets, performing their programmed routines without changing pace, ignoring other people's misery.Their footsteps sounded like hollow knocks on the damp boards of the floor.
But farther in—
From the cavern behind the western district…
A commotion vibrated—discordant.Shouts, muffled laughter, improvised music, clinking glass.A grotesque celebration that grew louder with each step she took.
Mito swallowed.The sound echoed in her chest, reminding her she had no choice.Thirty seconds.She couldn't fail.
So she pushed the door open.
The smell of fermented alcohol hit her face like a slap.The reddish light inside washed over her figure, revealing a place where morality had died a long time ago.
Drunk players laughed thunderously, others shouted over bets and loot, some slapped women who danced on tables or provided "personal services" in dark corners.
Mito felt nauseous.Not because of the stench.
But because of the atmosphere:debauchery,violence,lack of control.
And yet she kept walking, clenching her hands so she wouldn't show weakness.
When she reached the bar, a broad-shouldered player—the bartender—looked her up and down, evaluating her.His eyes narrowed with recognition.
Then, without a word, he jerked his thumb toward a side door.An old wooden door, carved with knife marks and dark stains she preferred not to identify.
Mito didn't hesitate.She didn't want to keep hearing the screams, or see more bodies swaying without dignity.
She pushed the door.
The moment she crossed it, the noise vanished—like someone had cut the connection to another world.Silence struck her.
The interior was surprisingly orderly:wine-colored carpet, warm lamps, tables spaced apart, and players seated with an unsettling calm.
But their eyes…
Were cold.Sharp.Filled with mockery.
Predator gazes studying weak prey.
Mito walked forward, feeling like every step sank her deeper.She couldn't turn back.
The table at the very back was lit by a soft spotlight, almost theatrical.
And there—
She was.
A young woman with completely white, silky hair tied in a low bun.Her skin was so pale it seemed to reflect light.Her posture was elegant, calm, perfectly controlled.
She held a small steaming cup of tea in her right hand.
Her lips curved in a gentle smile that contrasted grotesquely with the heavy atmosphere.
Across from her, sitting slightly back, a silver-haired man accompanied her like a sharpened shadow.His smile was arrogant, malicious, confident.The others around her were hooded, rigid, attentive.
The air around that table was different:authority,fear,power.
Mito swallowed and took one more step.
"A gu—" she tried to speak.
But the white-haired girl lifted her hand delicately—like someone requesting silence at an opera.
She sipped her tea, set it down on the table… and finally spoke, her voice kind—
Too kind.
"Don't you think it's a good night?"
The question pierced straight through her.Mito straightened her back like a spring snapping into place.
"Y-Yes. It is… it's a good night, Miss Risu."
The girl—Risu—tilted her head, smiling with genuine, almost childlike curiosity.
"Such a quick answer. Are you nervous? Come on, don't be shy… uhh… what was your name again?" she blinked, with a sweetness that felt almost insulting.
"Mito… my name is Mito," she replied, barely audible.
"Mm. Mito-san." Risu gently clasped her hands together."I called you here because I want you to tell me…how the final moments of the pillars of the Aincrad Liberation Army were."
The entire room seemed to freeze.
The lamps no longer felt warm.The gazes no longer felt like simple mockery.
Pressure crashed down on Mito like a mountain.
There was no escape.
She could only obey.
Mito took a deep breath.
She knew she couldn't stop.She knew that if she stayed silent, if she omitted anything, if her voice shook too much…they could kill her right here—or worse, let her live.
So she began to speak.
Her voice, trembling at first, slowly became rigid, dull, stripped of emotion—as if her mind disconnected so the words could flow without her soul breaking apart in the process.
She told them everything.
From the moment they first stepped into the dungeon,the silent descent down damp stairs,the echo of their footsteps,the tension in her companions' eyes,the nervous laughter,the empty jokes meant to hide their fear.
She explained how the boss appeared.How it seemed imposing… but normal.A floor boss, like any before.
She explained the strategy, the opening of the battle, the first exchanges of blows.How everything seemed under control.
Until it wasn't.
Her voice faltered when she reached that point.When she had to describe the first screams.The first deaths.
Michael's.Elsa's.Yuna's.
She described the sound of bones breaking under the ice,the shock frozen on her companions' faces,the trembling hands that tried—and failed—to save them,pieces of bodies flying apart,blue particles fading as someone screamed a name that no longer existed.
And when she finished…
There was silence.
Absolute silence.
A silence that pierced her like an invisible spear, because for a moment she thought that…maybe…maybe these people would understand.
But then—
A snort.
Small.Contained.Almost like a suppressed sneeze.
Then another.
And another.
Until, without warning, the entire room burst into laughter.
Loud laughter.Open laughter.Cruel laughter.
Laughter that slammed against the walls.Laughter that mocked every death.Every scream.Every desperate attempt to survive.
As if to them, they hadn't been people…but a particularly good joke.
Mito lowered her head.Her hair trembled.Her hands clenched tightly over her skirt, wishing she could disappear.
Inside…she would have rather died with them than narrate their deaths before an audience laughing like hyenas.
And yet…she remained standing.
Because she had no other choice.
Amid all the laughter and open mockery,only one person was not laughing.
The white-haired girl: Risu.
Seated calmly, observing Mito with surgical focus.No amusement.No pity.Only… interest.
Beside her, Lancelot—the silver-haired man—wasn't laughing either.But it wasn't empathy.
It was restrained mockery, the kind of smile someone wears when another person's misery confirms a personal theory.
The hooded figures behind him also remained silent, rigid, like an entourage trained to react only when their leader commanded it.
When Risu raised a single finger—
The laughter died.
Instantly.As if someone had ripped the joy straight out of the air.
It was unnatural.Absolute obedience.No words.No signals.
Risu lifted her teacup.Turned it gracefully.Set it down.
And spoke.
Her voice wasn't loud.But every word carried a blade.
"Suffering… crying… running away."She closed her eyes for a moment, as if savoring the emotions on her tongue."Many consider those things pathetic. But those actions… are the essence of human growth."
Mito looked up without meaning to.
"There is nothing—" Risu continued,"more infamous, more disgusting, more cruel… than false hope.False hope fattens weak hearts.It makes people believe they can be saved just because they want to be.And that… that is what kills them."
Mito felt as if each word was pressing her into the floor.
"Accepting that there is no hope," she smiled softly,"allows learning.True hope creates admirable people.But false hope… only breeds victims."
Her smile grew smaller.Softer.And a thousand times more lethal.
"That is why, as a human, I regret their deaths.But as a judge… I feel satisfaction.Their fate was sealed.There was nothing they could have done."
Mito felt her stomach drop.
She herself was living proof of that theory.She hadn't saved anyone.She ran.She left them all behind.
"With this," Risu concluded, lightly lifting her hands,"we have fulfilled our role.We will act with moderation for now, until another regime emerges—one capable of driving true dreams, not cheap illusions."
Those present nodded calmly, as if she were talking about the weather.
All except one.
A player seated halfway across the room, his face twisted between disbelief and disgust.
He slammed his fist on the table.
The wood groaned.Eyes snapped toward him like sharpened blades.
And the silence tightened.
"Is something wrong, Vigo-san?" Risu asked with gentle, almost polite curiosity.
The man didn't answer right away.
His hand remained clenched against the table, knuckles pale from pressure, as if that surface were the only thing anchoring him to reality. For several seconds, the only sounds were the distant murmurs of the establishment—glasses clinking, laughter fading away one by one, as if the atmosphere itself sensed what was about to happen.
Vigo slowly raised his head.
His eyes locked onto Risu with a mixture of disgust and disappointment, as if whatever stood before him no longer deserved respect.
"Is something wrong…?" he repeated, letting out a short, dry laugh."What an absurd question… almost insulting."
His voice began to rise, thick with resentment.
"Did you even listen to what you just told us?Moderate ourselves?Hide like sewer rats, waiting for scraps until 'the right moment' arrives?"He spat the words."What kind of person do you think I am?"
He slammed his open palm against the table.
"I joined this place to indulge my desires, not to follow someone else's whims.And no—" he added with a twisted grimace,"surrounding yourself with strong people doesn't automatically make you superior."
As he spoke, as his anger expanded and filled the room like thick smoke, he didn't notice the change.
He didn't see one of the hooded figures behind Risu move.
There was no sound.No haste.
It was a motion so natural, so silent, it seemed like part of the air itself—a calm walk, almost elegant, infused with a coldness that would have frozen blood had anyone perceived it.
No one looked.No one reacted.
Risu, however, noticed.
And for the first time since the discussion began, she smiled.
Not a wide smile.Just something minimal.A gesture of recognition… and relief.
"I won't accept any of your stupid rules—"
Vigo didn't finish the sentence.
Something stopped him.
His throat—overflowing with fury just a second ago—went rigid.Frozen.A sharp spasm ran through his neck as he swallowed with difficulty, as if his body had understood before his mind.
He felt something.
Cold.Sharp.
Brushing against his skin.
He didn't dare move his head.
Instead, his eyes slowly shifted sideways…until they met a hand resting firmly on his shoulder.
It wasn't squeezing.It didn't need to.
It was calm, absolute pressure—the kind belonging to someone who never fears losing control, because they have never given it up.
At his neck, barely visible from his angle, rested the blade of a broad weapon.Crude.Heavy.The metal was unevenly perforated, letting light pass through in fragmented patterns, casting warped shadows over his skin.
It wasn't a blade meant to intimidate.
It was a weapon designed to end things.
The air grew heavy.
Vigo understood it without anyone having to tell him:one more word, one wrong movement, and his story would end right there.
"Oh… my."A low voice murmured behind him, steeped in cruel courtesy."What happened, little chatty rat?"
The voice didn't sound annoyed.It sounded… amused.
"Why don't you keep talking?" it continued."Your discontent was so insignificant it was starting to bore me."
A soft laugh followed.Controlled.Almost elegant.
"Come on… what's wrong? Did you run out of words?"
The weapon shifted just a single centimeter.Enough for the edge to press more clearly against his skin.
"Hey, Lancelot," the voice added casually, as if chatting in a refined lounge,"what's wrong with the politician-in-progress?"
The man did not fully reveal himself.
His figure remained wrapped in shadow, hidden beneath a dark hood that devoured most of his body.However, his smile was visible.Twisted.Calmly confident.
From the darkness, one of his eyes gleamed with unsettling composure, watching Vigo not as an enemy…but as something already evaluated, measured, and discarded.
There was no haste in him.No anger.
Only absolute certainty.
The situation had been decided the moment his hand rested on Vigo's shoulder.
"I don't know, honestly, Poh-san."
Lancelot's voice emerged with an almost ceremonial calm, as if he were making a trivial remark during an elegant soirée rather than speaking in the middle of a tension-soaked gathering. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"I suppose I will never fully understand the minds of certain people without first descending to their level…" he continued, "…and frankly, I feel not the slightest interest in doing so."
He turned his face just enough for the light to graze the edge of his smile.
"I pity them. A genuine pity," he went on. "So poorly favored by God… brought into this world with such basic, impoverished aspirations that their only goal is to kill in order to compensate for a mental and physical strength they never possessed in the real world."
He paused briefly, as if weighing whether it was even worth continuing.
"They take refuge among the weak, hide within numbers, and from there dare to call themselves strong." His gaze grew colder. "Even that individual… recently promoted to A-Class Assassin. An empty achievement. A hollow title."
A short, elegant, almost polite laugh escaped him.
"I expected nothing more from someone like that. Trash without motivation, without purpose, without the slightest ambition worthy of being remembered."
He stepped forward, back straight, hands relaxed, like a knight delivering an unavoidable lesson.
"Tell me…" he asked the air, "why are people so irredeemably inept? Is it a punishment? A divine torture? I would truly love to know."
His eyes then settled on Poh, smiling, with a courtesy so forced it bordered on insult.
"But since I am generous," he added, "I will take the trouble to explain Risu-chan's plan in a way so simple… that even a brainless ape like you can understand it."
Some of those present shifted uncomfortably. Others looked away.Lancelot paid them no attention.
"We are not going to hide. Nor are we going to stop the attacks," he continued with absolute serenity. "We will simply execute them better. Less frequently. With greater impact."
He raised a finger, marking the point with surgical precision.
"We will allow them to advance. To breathe. To believe, for a brief and delicious moment, that fear has diminished and that the future is promising."
His lips curved a little more.
"That will give us the perfect advantage to prepare a strike large enough to divide them all. When no one trusts anyone. When every alliance becomes suspicious."
He made a gentle gesture with his hand, as if outlining an inevitable scene.
"It will be a stampede. And it will begin with our apparent absence. They will relax… and then," his eyes gleamed, "the prey will become far more delicious to hunt."
Lancelot finished speaking with the same calm with which he had begun.An elegant tone.Chivalrous.Excessive for some.
But Risu did not look away.
Around her, the hooded figures remained motionless, covered down to their legs, silent, like shadows that had already accepted the course of events.
The plan had been spoken.And no one dared to contradict it.
"How generous of you, Lancelot."
Poh's voice slid through the space with an almost insulting calm, laced with soft mockery, as if he had just witnessed a particularly entertaining scene.
"I didn't think you enjoyed wasting time talking to trash like this," he added, letting out a low laugh. "But I suppose even you have a humble side… hahaha."
At no point did he remove his weapon from Vigo's neck.
Not even a centimeter.
The blade remained there—cold, present—reminding him every second that his life hung by a thread that did not belong to him. Poh tilted his head slightly, as if pondering something interesting, and then spoke again.
"You know, they say that in the safe zone, you're safe from dying."
His tone was curious, almost innocent.
"But what a strange concept…" he continued. "They say we can't die. Not that we can't feel pain."
The weapon shifted slightly.Just enough.
"It says nothing about not being cut.Or torn apart.Or feeling how your body breaks little by little."
Poh's voice grew heavier, deeper, while his gestures remained relaxed, even lazy. That contradiction was what made it terrifying. Vigo swallowed with difficulty. The trembling could no longer be hidden; his body was reacting faster than his mind.
"I might have recruited you myself," Poh went on. "I might have suggested your promotion to Rank A… almost an elite assassin."
The edge pressed a little harder.
"For your sword skills.For those techniques you learned from your old grandfather."
A twisted smile appeared on his face.
"But none of that will save you from what I can do to you with this weapon."
He brought the blade even closer. A thin line of blood began to slide down Vigo's neck, slowly staining his clothes. The red contrasted sharply with the pallor of his skin. His eyes grew moist; small tears trembled without falling, trapped between fear and humiliation.
"It's hungry, you know?" Poh whispered. "And if you so desperately wish to satisfy your own desires… you should first learn how to satisfy those of your superiors."
He tilted the weapon slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.
"I want to hear you scream.I want to hear what your screams of agony sound like."
At that moment, Mito, watching the scene from one end of the room, felt a chill run down her spine. Her eyes were wide, fixed, unable to blink.
(How…? How did he get to him?)
She hadn't seen the movement.She hadn't perceived the exact instant.
(It wasn't a step… it wasn't a normal displacement…)
In her mind, the image replayed again and again.
(It was like a ghost… like wind carried by the night.)
And then, from Lancelot's side, a reaction emerged that shattered any remaining illusion.
Laughter.
Low. Controlled. Cruel.
Lancelot and the figures accompanying him began to laugh—not loudly, but with contained, refined amusement, like nobles watching a grotesque play. Vigo's expression—pathetic, broken, pleading—was, to them, pure entertainment.
The rest of those present did not join the laughter.
They couldn't.
Their bodies were tense, rigid, dominated by absolute fear. No one dared to look away… but neither did anyone dare to intervene. They knew exactly what would happen if they did.
Elite assassins.
Poh was one of them.
And those standing behind Risu…
…were as well.
______________________________________________________________________________________
February 27, 2023 — Floor 26 — Nebulous City
5:55 PM
Night had already settled over Nebulous City.
Inside a modest inn, far from the bustle of the main streets, a single room lay submerged in an almost absolute stillness. The only source of light came from the moon, filtering faintly through wooden windows, slipping past pale curtains that swayed gently, as if breathing in rhythm with the room itself. Shadows stretched across the worn wooden floorboards, scarred by time and by countless footsteps that were no longer there.
The ceiling beams creaked from time to time, a reminder that the building was old—solid—built to endure long winters and prolonged silences. An unlit chandelier hung motionless at the center of the room, and shelves against the wall stood laden with books, jars, and small forgotten objects, silent witnesses to a life that seemed to have come to a halt.
The bed dominated the space.
Large, made of sturdy wood, covered with thick blankets that lay in disarray, as if someone had risen from it with no intention of returning. The dark fabric absorbed the moonlight, making it seem heavier, colder. Beside it, the floor was bare… too bare, as if emptiness itself were part of the room.
There, leaning against the edge of the bed, a young man sat on the floor.
His blond hair fell messily over his face, with black-tinted tips that looked like marks impossible to erase. The moonlight traced his fragile silhouette while an options window floated before him—translucent, silent, unreal. Letters and symbols arranged themselves in the air, waiting for a decision that felt heavier than any weapon he had ever wielded.
With a trembling hand, he slowly moved his finger, hovering over the options one by one. He hesitated. Stopped. Pulled back. Every small motion betrayed a conflict he could not put into words. His breathing was irregular, restrained, as if he feared even the air might betray him if he dared to inhale too deeply.
Finally, after a long moment that felt eternal, his finger descended.
A single touch.
The window reacted instantly, closing without making a sound, as if it had never existed. The space before him became empty… and it was that emptiness that finally broke him.
The young man withdrew his hand and wrapped his arms around his own legs, curling inward. His forehead rested against his knees and, unable to contain it any longer, tears began to fall. One after another, they struck the wooden floor in silence, leaving small marks that soon vanished into the darkness.
There were no loud sobs.
Only the faint trembling of his body in the dimness, as the night enveloped him completely… as if trying to hide him from the world, or perhaps leaving him utterly alone with the decision he had just made.
"I don't understand… I don't understand…"
The voice came out broken, barely a thread of sound lost in the silent room. There was no one to hear him. No one to whom those words could be directed.
"I wish I could…," he continued, lips trembling. "I wish they had told me something more… anything…"
His throat tightened.
"But now… I'm alone…"
Silence answered.
"Alone…"
The word repeated itself, lower, emptier, as if even saying it hurt.
"I deleted all my friends… my clan… everything…"
His fingers clenched against the wooden floor.
"Even so… I wouldn't have the face to do anything anymore."
There were no tears then. No screams. Only a slow, heavy acceptance, like a slab of stone descending little by little onto his chest.
After that, he did nothing else.
Hours passed without him noticing. The shift between day and night became irrelevant. Light entered through the window, slid across the floor… and left. Returned. Left again.
Days.
Almost a week… and three more days.
He did not leave the room.
He did not open the door.
He did not speak to anyone.
Sometimes he remained sitting, motionless, staring at a point that did not exist. Other times he let himself fall to the floor, resting his back against the bed, breathing slowly, as if each inhale were a conscious effort.
In the end, he lay down on the floor.
On his back.
Staring fixedly at the door.
As if he were waiting for it to open.
As if, in some absurd way, someone might come in and tell him that everything had been a mistake. That there was still something to be done. That there was still a way out.
An ending.
A hope.
But nothing happened.
With every passing hour, that invisible glimmer still resisting in his eyes faded a little more. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. It simply… wore away.
Until even waiting stopped making sense.
The room remained there.
The door remained closed.
And he… remained alone.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________
May 8, 2023 — Floor 31 — Boss Chamber Threshold1:30 PM
The sound of footsteps echoed like a constant reverberation along the wide avenues of pale stone. They were not isolated steps, but many—overlapping, orderly—marked by the rhythm of a large group advancing with purpose. The clinking of metal, the scrape of armor, and the low murmur of subdued conversations filled the air of the central city.
Among that well-equipped crowd, a young woman with auburn hair stood out effortlessly.
Not because of her armor—impeccable, light, functional—but because of her expression.
Her eyes swept insistently across the faces around her, as if searching for someone who was not there. Each time her gaze stopped and failed to find what it expected, her brows knit slightly, and her posture slouched just a bit, betraying a mood she could not fully conceal.
At last, she lowered her gaze.
"So it was true…" she murmured to herself. "Kirito-kun… withdrew from the assault group."
Saying it out loud left a bitter taste in her mouth, as if accepting it meant closing a door she was not ready to abandon. But there were no new messages. No explanations. Only rumors… and silence.
She kept walking, lost in thought.
Then, a small impact against her back abruptly pulled her out of her reverie.
"Ah…!"
It wasn't hard, but it was enough to draw a soft sound of surprise and irritation from her. Without stopping, she spun on her heel, ready to complain—only to be met by a shameless grin.
A girl wearing a light, skin-colored hood looked at her with a playful expression. Three feline-like stripe markings were drawn on each cheek, and her bright eyes seemed to analyze everything with avid curiosity.
"Hey, how are you, Aachan?" she said in a teasing tone. "You look like a zombie. Something happen?"
Asuna blinked, confused for a moment.
"Argo-san…? You're here?"
Her surprise was obvious—not only at seeing her, but at how she had appeared out of nowhere, as if she had always been there.
"What a greeting," Argo replied, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. "A girl asks out of genuine concern and you answer with even more questions. You wound my heart… and my brain."
Her theatrical gestures contrasted with the real fatigue hanging in the air, drawing curious glances from nearby players.
"I'm sorry…" Asuna began, lowering her voice slightly. "It's just that… everything feels confusing lately…"
"Without Kiri-boy around, right?"
Argo didn't give her time to finish.
"I heard you split up on Floor 25. I interrogated him about it," she added casually. "I came to see you, Asuna. You haven't been replying to messages, you know? That's pretty rude."
Asuna pressed her lips together.
"I didn't know what to do…" she admitted. "A lot happened. Joining a Floor Boss raid alone for the first time feels… strange."
There was weight in her voice—one Argo didn't ignore. She glanced sideways at her as they walked toward the stairs leading to the floor's core.
The architecture around them felt solemn, almost sacred. Tall columns, wide symmetrical paths, structures reminiscent of ancient temples from the Heian period. As they ascended, the view opened up to reveal a massive shrine in the distance, crowned by a colossal black gate inlaid with small green jade spheres that glimmered softly under daylight.
Fatigue was beginning to show among the players.
"Jogging like this wears people down, don't you think, Aachan?" Argo commented.
"It wouldn't be so bad if the dungeon format hadn't changed after clearing Floor 25," Asuna replied, gradually regaining her usual tone. "Sometimes the Automatic Cardinal System reduces the strain… but other times it switches to Manual."
Argo nodded, listening carefully.
"When it's manual, we feel everything. Fatigue, pain, labored breathing… we're not just video game characters. That makes it harder—especially against bosses."
"Exactly," Asuna continued. "And not everyone has the real-world physical conditioning to endure it."
"Though," Argo added with a crooked smile, "for those who do, the Manual Cardinal System is a brutal advantage."
She paused briefly before continuing.
"What worries me is something else. Since the fall of the Aincrad Liberation Army, the Assassins stopped attacking. And now, the Knights of the Blood Oath are taking far too much prominence."
Asuna lifted her gaze.
"Heathcliff…" she whispered.
"Exactly. They're finding boss chambers way too fast," Argo said. "That's why I came—to gather information."
At that moment, Asuna fixed her eyes forward.
A man advanced with firm steps at the head of the group. His platinum armor reflected the light with imposing dignity. He carried shield and sword with absolute confidence, as if their weight meant nothing to him.
Heathcliff.
His mere presence imposed silence.
Asuna did not take her eyes off him.
Something deep in her chest told her that things were not just changing…they were twisting toward a point of no return.
At the top of the stairs, the enormous temple door loomed before them—silent, imposing—like it was observing every player daring to stand before it. The dark stone was covered in ancient engravings, eroded by countless failed attempts and blood-stained victories.
The group dispersed naturally. Some sat on the ground, others leaned against the columns, and several used the moment to check their equipment or catch their breath. Heathcliff, as usual, spoke with key players, his firm posture contrasting with the evident exhaustion of the rest.
Asuna, for her part, found herself alone.
Argo had stepped away to speak with people close to Heathcliff, leaving Asuna a few steps behind. She sighed softly, trying to organize her thoughts, when she sensed something different around her. A low murmur, charged with nervousness. Hushed voices.
She turned.
Behind her stood a small group of girls, clearly hesitating about whether to approach. Among them, one stood out immediately: she was a step ahead, arm extended as if about to touch Asuna's shoulder to get her attention… but she stopped midway through the motion.
Once noticed, several of the group tensed instantly. Some avoided eye contact; others exchanged brief, nervous gestures. But the girl at the front was different.
She remained firm.
Her arm slowly lowered to her side, and though doubt flickered across her face for an instant, she did not step back. Her gaze was severe—almost intimidating at first glance—with her brow slightly furrowed. There was no hostility in it, but there was clear determination, like someone who had decided to step forward for the sake of the others.
She wore short brown hair, perfectly neat, held back by a light band that left her face fully visible. Her armor was light-colored, free of unnecessary ornamentation—designed more to endure than to impress. On her chest stood out a sober blue emblem, marking her affiliation with a group… and her responsibility within it.
Even so, small details betrayed her.
Her fingers curled slightly, and her breathing was deeper than normal. She was not calm. But neither was she running away.
It wasn't arrogance that kept her at the front.It was responsibility.
"Hello… nice to meet you. My name is Xenovia," she finally said.
Her voice came out firm, but trembled faintly at the end, contrasting with the intensity of her gaze.
Asuna tilted her head slightly, observing them calmly.
"Nice to meet you… I suppose. Do you need something from me?"
As she spoke, her eyes scanned the group.
To Xenovia's side, a bit further back, stood a small-framed girl. Her body was stiff, as if she didn't know what to do with her hands. She wore a dark cloak that seemed far too big for her, almost as if she were trying to hide inside it.
When Asuna's gaze landed on her, the girl startled immediately.
It wasn't a sudden movement, but an instinctive one. She took half a step back and partially hid behind Xenovia's shoulder, gripping the edge of her cloak tightly. She avoided eye contact, swallowing hard.
It wasn't panic.It was insecurity.
"Oh, come on, Akeno," Xenovia said in a gentler tone. "Since they already noticed you, you should introduce yourself."
Akeno did not respond. She remained there, listening in silence, without running away, as if simply being close to Asuna forced her to slowly face that fear.
A little further back stood another girl, taller than the others. Her posture was straight, composed, almost formal. She dressed neatly, with blue details that reinforced her disciplined appearance. Her long hair fell naturally down her back.
At first glance, she seemed distant… but she wasn't.
She wore a small, shy smile that contrasted with her serious demeanor. When she noticed Asuna's attention, she inclined her head slightly in greeting, intertwining her hands in front of her.
"I'm sorry if Asia doesn't talk much," Xenovia intervened when she noticed Asuna's gaze. "She only opens up to people she knows well… or who earn her respect."
Asia lowered her eyes, visibly embarrassed by the explanation.
Finally, Asuna's attention shifted to the last member of the group, positioned on the left, slightly apart from the others.
"Oh, and lastly, this is Rumiko. She's kind of cheerful and very positi—"
"Hi! Nice to meet you, I'm Rumiko!" she interrupted enthusiastically. "I like painting, roller skating, and fishing… although I always get yelled at because I do it in illegal zones. It's a pleasure, Asuna-san!"
Asuna blinked for a moment, clearly taken aback by the flood of words. Discomfort crossed her face briefly, though she quickly regained her composure.
"I see… the pleasure is mine. But," she added calmly, "could you tell me what you need from me? And… how do you know my name, Rumiko-san?"
The question landed like an invisible weight.
The group tensed. They exchanged glances, unsure who should answer, until Asia took a small step forward, gathering her courage.
"W-we… got it by paying for information from a girl who looked like a cat," she confessed. "We saw you alone and thought you didn't have a group… we didn't know how to talk to you. Sorry if it bothers you."
Asuna turned her face slightly, a vein throbbing on her forehead.
(Argo!)
she thought, with a mix of irritation and irony.
Still, she did not react with hostility.
"There's nothing to be done now…" Asuna said at last. "Could you tell me what it is you want from me?"
She let the previous issue pass—not because she didn't care, but because she knew it wasn't worth clinging to it. She couldn't erase what they already knew, nor change how they had reached her. So she simply looked at them calmly, with restrained kindness, signaling that she was willing to listen.
Xenovia exchanged a brief glance with the others before stepping forward.
"Um… yes, the reason…" she began. "We currently have four members. Even though we were allowed to come this far, as you must know, Asuna-san, the ideal number to face a Floor Boss is five people. Unless you're a very experienced player who can fight alone… or find allies quickly."
She paused briefly, clenching her fists before continuing.
"We absolutely need one more player. We thought maybe… you could join our group. Help us with this raid and… if possible, become friends."
Her words came out a bit awkwardly at the end, as if she weren't used to asking for something like this.
"It's not that we aren't looking for men," she added quickly. "But since we're an all-girls group… many don't want to support us. And since you were alone, we took the chance to ask for your help."
Xenovia stepped back and, unexpectedly, bowed deeply—clear and sincere. The others followed almost at the same time.
That gesture made Asuna frown.
"Hey, don't do that," she said quickly, a bit uncomfortable. "It's embarrassing… and besides…"
She looked away for a moment.
"I don't think it's a good idea. I'm not someone reliable for forming groups. It would be better if you looked for another member."
Her voice wavered between nervousness, exhaustion, and a weight that was hard to hide. It wasn't rejection toward them… it was fear. A fear born from past experiences, from groups that had fallen apart, from people who had left her behind.
Rumiko, however, stepped forward without hesitation.
"Why do you feel lonely?"
The question was direct. Too direct.
Asuna froze.
At first, she didn't understand what she meant… but something in those words struck her. Not hard. Not immediately. Like a slow pressure building in her chest.
"What do you mean…?" she asked, confused.
"Hey, Rumiko!" Xenovia immediately intervened. "Don't get so familiar. Asuna-san barely knows us—you can't ask her that without knowing her past."
Rumiko opened her mouth to reply, but Xenovia desperately covered it with her hand.
"Mmph!"
Before the atmosphere could grow any tenser, a small, trembling voice was heard.
"I-I…" Akeno spoke, clutching the edges of her cloak. "I-I'm sorry if it was uncomfortable…"
Asuna didn't respond right away.
(That question bothered me…)(Feeling lonely isn't anyone else's business, right?)
Twice.Twice she had been left alone for the same reason: trust.
Then something completely unexpected happened.
"—AAAH! That's disgusting!"
Xenovia's scream shattered the moment.
Asuna looked up just in time to see Rumiko… licking the hand Xenovia had used to cover her mouth.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
"I was curious," Rumiko replied with complete naturalness.
The contrast was so absurd that Asuna couldn't help it.
A small laugh escaped her lips.
It wasn't loud.It wasn't long.But it was real.
Realizing it, Asuna quickly covered her mouth with her hand, embarrassed. The four girls stared at her in surprise… and then smiled.
Xenovia took a deep breath and stepped forward once more.
"We know you don't trust us," she said honestly. "But even so… we want to ask you to give us a chance. At least to get to know each other."
She extended her arm.
Asuna hesitated.
Her memories weighed heavily. Two groups. Two abandonments. A third time… was it worth it?
Then a voice echoed through the temple, calling everyone to prepare. The announcement to open the boss door.
The pressure increased.
Asuna looked at the girls in front of her. She didn't see deception. She saw nerves, awkwardness… and a genuine desire to move forward together.
She sighed.
"All right," she finally said. "I'll be with you… for this boss raid."
The reaction was immediate. Smiles, relief, small restrained gestures of celebration.
Xenovia sent the party request.
A window appeared in front of Asuna.
"You have received a party invitation. Accept / Reject?"
Asuna hesitated for one more second… and then pressed Accept.
The atmosphere changed.
All the players gathered in front of the massive boss door. Heathcliff stepped forward, his shield planted firmly against the ground.
"From what we have observed," he began, "this battle will be conducted under the Cardinal System Manual. The automatic system cannot be activated."
A murmur spread through the group.
"That means it will be more difficult. Do not separate, calculate your support carefully, and remember: there is no information on this boss. Do not take unnecessary risks. Do not die."
With that, Heathcliff turned and pushed the door.
The metal slowly opened, slamming against the inner walls with a deep, resounding boom.
Silence fell instantly.
The interior of the temple was revealed.
It was immense. Colossal pillars rose into an impossible darkness, and incandescent cracks ran along the walls like veins of ancient fire, pulsing slowly.
The air was heavy. Scorching. The pressure pressed against their chests.
And at the center…
He was there.
The floor boss sat cross-legged on the blackened stone. Gigantic. Covered in dark armor with brutal, jagged lines. Curved horns emerged from his head like an infernal crown. His katana rested sheathed at his waist.
He appeared to be meditating.
He did not react.He did not move.
When the last player entered, the door slammed shut.
Torches ignited one by one, bathing the temple in a crimson glow.
Then…
The boss raised his gaze.
Two red eyes burned like embers.
He uncrossed his legs. Planted one hand on the ground. The stone cracked.
He stood.
Each step increased the pressure. The ground trembled. The cracks glowed brighter.
He slowly drew his katana and pointed it toward the players.
And then he roared.
A brutal, primal roar that pierced both body and mind.
This was not an automatic fight.This was not a fair battle.
It was a trial.
The meditation was over.The Cardinal System Manual was active.
And the floor boss…
Had awakened.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
May 8, 2023 — Floor 31 — Southern Forest2:45 p.m.
According to the system, it was still broad afternoon.But on Floor 26, time held no authority.
Night permanently adorned the forest—thick, silent—like a place condemned to never know daylight. There was no sunset, no transition; darkness simply existed, wrapping itself around the towering trees, warping their shadows and stealing depth from the space itself. The moon remained fixed in the black sky, illuminating just enough to make out silhouettes… never safety.
The air was cold.Heavy.Every sound traveled far too easily between the trunks.
Then the stillness broke.
Rapid footsteps tore through the undergrowth, accompanied by ragged, irregular breathing—pure exhaustion made audible. Every step was clumsy. Every stride, a desperate attempt to keep existing.
From between the trees emerged a boy with blond hair, small black-tinted tips mixed into disheveled strands. He ran without looking back, eyes wide, chest burning, as if stopping meant accepting death.
And behind him—
"Hey, hey… why are you running like that?" a voice mocked through laughter. "You look like a lost baby."
"If you stop now, we won't do much to you," another added. "But if you keep going… it'll hurt more."
"Seriously, look at him," a third laughed. "Pathetic. Really pathetic."
There were several of them.Black hoods.Weapons visible in their hands.
They weren't rushing.They were hunting.
The young man felt his heart slam against his ribs, air forced into his lungs yet never enough.
(I don't want to die.I don't want to die.I don't want to die.)
The thought repeated uncontrollably, breaking apart and reforming again and again as he ran. He didn't scream. He couldn't. His entire body was focused on moving forward—on not falling, on not hearing the laughter growing closer.
(Please… someone…)
He didn't see it coming.
A thick root jutted out from the ground, twisted like a claw. His foot struck it, and the world flipped. He fell forward, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. When he tried to rise, a shadow loomed over him.
It was smiling.
A twisted, cruel smile.
When he looked up, he understood the truth: he was surrounded.
His breathing turned erratic, spiraling out of control. Fear flooded him completely, seeping into every muscle, paralyzing his will. He knew what was about to happen. He knew it. And yet his body refused to accept it.
"Please!" he finally screamed, voice breaking. "There are killers here! They're going to kill me! Please, someone—!"
The laughter grew louder.
Every word he screamed was fuel for mockery. Every plea, entertainment. As he spoke, memories crashed into his mind—faces of friends, voices from the past, people who had once been there… and were no longer.
He closed his eyes.
He waited.
And then—
A cut.
Precise.Silent.
Then another.And another.
He opened his eyes wide.
The bodies of his pursuers lay on the ground, motionless, fragmenting into blue particles that burst soundlessly. The blood that had splattered the forest floor vanished with them, as if they had never existed.
The young man didn't understand.He couldn't.
He lifted his gaze.
An elderly figure stood before him.
He remained still, as if time itself had chosen to ignore him. His eyes were closed—not from fatigue or neglect, but from a deep calm born of years of discipline. He wasn't sleeping. He was meditating.
A sword rested within its sheath, secured by a thick cloth cord crossing his waist. It wasn't drawn, but its presence alone warned that it was no ordinary weapon. It was a companion. An extension of his body.
He wore a black kimono with wide sleeves, austere and unadorned. Beneath it, a light-colored hakama fell perfectly ordered to his ankles. Nothing was out of place.
His face was marked by age. Deep wrinkles. Old scars crossing both sides of his narrow eyes—memories of battles that needed no explanation. There was no fragility in him. Only dignity.
He stood upright, unshakable, as if the world itself could collapse without moving him a single step.
He didn't need to open his eyes.He didn't need to speak.
His existence was a warning.
The young man trembled.
"I-I…" he tried to speak. "Thank you… thank you for—"
"Leave."
The voice was low.Short.Heavy.
The old man did not open his eyes.
"B-but…" he swallowed. "I… I don't know what to do… they're going to—"
"Leave," he repeated.
There was no anger.No compassion either.
Only an order.
The young man remained still for a few seconds longer, unable to process what had happened. Then, legs still shaking, he clumsily stood and began to walk away.
But he didn't leave.
He turned his head back.
"Why… why did you help me?"
Silence.
The old man opened one eye slightly.
"I didn't do it for you."
That was all.
The young man stood there, not knowing why those words hurt more than the laughter of his pursuers—reminding him how easily people disregard his life… or his feelings.
He didn't move.
The fear was still there, gripping his chest, reminding him that mere seconds ago he had been one step away from vanishing. His hands trembled—not from the forest's cold, but from the brutal certainty of what he had just lived through.
That man…He was strong.Undeniably strong.
And he was not.
Before his mind could stop it, his body had already decided.
He dropped to his knees on the damp earth. The impact was dull, clumsy. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead into the ground, burying it in leaves and mud—in a posture that left no room for pride.
"Please…!" he cried.
His voice shattered as it emerged, torn from the deepest part of him.
"Please help me… help me become strong like you!"
The words spilled out desperate, uncontrolled, almost shameful. It was a selfish plea—shameless, even. Asking something like that from a stranger, from someone who had just saved him without a word… he had no right to do so.
And yet he did.
Because he was afraid.Because he didn't want to run again.Because he didn't want to beg ever again.
The forest fell silent.
Not even the wind moved.
The old man had stopped a few steps away. He didn't answer immediately. He didn't turn. He remained with his back to him, unmoving, as if the plea had never been spoken.
The young man clenched his teeth against the soil.
(I knew it…)(It was too much…)
Then, with a slow movement—almost imperceptible—the old man turned.
It wasn't abrupt.There was no threat.
Just a calm rotation of his body.
He looked at him.
His eyes, now open, held neither fury nor compassion. They were deep, weary—like those of someone who had seen far too many identical pleas. His gaze fell upon the kneeling, trembling figure reduced to nothing.
He said nothing.
That silence weighed heavier than any spoken rejection.
Seconds passed—thick, endless. The young man felt sweat slide down his back, his heart pounding violently, waiting for an answer that wouldn't come.
Finally, the old man spoke.
"Do you know what you're asking for?"
His voice was low.Grave.Emotionless.
The young man swallowed, not lifting his head.
"N-no… but—"
"Then you don't know how to live."
The words fell like a blunt strike.
The old man took one step closer. The young man could feel his presence—heavy, dominant—without being touched.
"Strength is not asked for," he continued. "It is paid for."
Silence.
"Why do you want to be strong?"
The young man clenched his fists into the dirt. His breathing grew uneven.
"Because…" his voice trembled, "because I'm afraid."
The old man did not react.
"Because I'm tired of running," he added. "Because I don't want to watch anyone die in front of me again without being able to do anything."
For the first time, the old man's gaze sharpened.
"That is not an answer."
The young man trembled.
"Then…" his voice broke, "I don't know. I don't know why I'm still alive. I don't know how to live. But if I stay like this… I'll die anyway."
The old man observed him for a long moment.
Then he spoke again, his words short—razor-sharp.
"You hide."
"…"
"You want strength for others. Not for yourself."
The young man didn't answer. He couldn't.
"Tell me," the old man continued. "How do you plan to live… when this world finally breaks you?"
The question lingered in the air.
The young man felt something inside him crack. Images flooded his mind: broken promises, hands letting go, people drifting away one by one.
He had no answer.
And that…That was what hurt the most.
"Leave," the old man said at last. "Besides, I stopped entering alone. I only move forward to find someone."
The young man slowly raised his head. His eyes were red, filled with something beyond fear.
"…let me try," he said. "Even if I don't know yet."
The old man looked at him one last time.
"Persistent," he murmured.
He turned around and began to walk away, disappearing between the trees, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps.
The young man remained there, kneeling, his forehead still stained with dirt.
He didn't know if he had been rejected.He didn't know if he had been accepted.
But for the first time…
He didn't stand up to run away.
And that, even if he didn't know it yet, was already the first step.
(If I stay here…)(if I remain alone…)
Before finishing the thought, he swallowed hard and took a step. His legs wavered at first, but he managed to stay upright. He looked in the direction where the old man had disappeared. Between the trees, the darkness seemed thicker, tighter.
He had received no approval.He had received no clear rejection.
Only words that hurt more than a "no."
Even so…
He took one step.
Then another.
Not running.Not calling out.Not asking for anything more.
He simply kept walking.
Keeping his distance.Stepping carefully.Like someone who knew he had no right to be noticed.
The old man did not stop.
He didn't turn his head.He showed no sign of having perceived him.
But he didn't speed up either.
The forest enveloped them both in a heavy silence. Leaves crunched beneath the young man's feet with an awkward sound, far too loud compared to the old man's clean, effortless advance.
Every noise felt like a mistake.Every breath, an intrusion.
(If he tells me to leave…)(if he kills me…)
He clenched his teeth.
(…that's fine.)