"Stamina?"
Sinon's explanation of a concept absent in SAO makes me blurt out a question. We're at a collapsed watchtower. I chew on [Phosphorescent Grass], a bitter, mugwort-like recovery item that slowly restores HP. It's not sold in the [Dying City]; only wandering merchants carry it, at a steep 300 Col each. Too pricey, and the recovery's slow. Skeleton warriors rarely drop it, and Sinon, hunting them for the Dark Rider, has a few.
"Exactly. DBO's most crucial and nastiest stat," Sinon says, leaning against the wall, scanning for threats while lecturing us. Her beta tester know-how is gold—obviously vital.
Diavel, somehow, is jotting notes with a quill and paper. Handsome and efficient? I'm jealous.
"Leveling up boosts HP and defenses automatically. You get points to enhance stats. But stamina? Only CON increases it—at least, that's what we know."
"What's stamina's role?" Diavel asks before I can. Good, I'd fumble the words.
"It's the driving force for all actions—walking, running, fighting. Normally, recovery outpaces consumption, so it's no big deal. But in combat, intense moves burn more stamina than you recover."
Classic stamina. Like real-life sports versus daily life. That explains my struggle against the Dark Rider. The sky shifts from daylight to twilight—night could bring deadlier mobs. Sinon speeds up.
"The worst part? Sword skills, your trump card, drain stamina heavily. Powerful ones, like Kuri's [Warhammer] skills, hit hard but guzzle stamina."
"Lower-damage sword skills use less, right?" Diavel asks.
"Yes. So, use sword skills sparingly, only at critical moments. That's key to surviving DBO. Boost CON for more stamina, speed up recovery, or wear light gear to reduce consumption. Strategy depends on your playstyle."
Sinon pauses, eyes narrowing with bitter experience. "Beware stamina depletion. It causes breathlessness, fatigue, red vision blurs—hard to fight or dodge. Damage taken becomes critical. Stamina's a hidden stat; no exact gauge. A tear icon appears when it's low. Learn to feel it."
This game's brutal. In SAO, focus and grit let you counter and solo bosses. DBO's stamina system demands tactics—depletion means critical hits wipe you out.
"No quick stamina recovery?" Diavel asks.
"None found yet," Sinon replies.
Diavel slumps—shields likely burn stamina too. I notice my war pick's [S: 28] stat. Maybe it's a stamina consumption indicator? Heavier weapons, higher [S]?
Sinon shares more: apple-like fruits slightly restore HP; no orange/red markers for PKers, no way to gauge player danger; PKing steals all the victim's Col and grants huge EXP, more from higher-level targets.
"PK higher-level players for big EXP. Underestimate a weaker one, and you're dead. That's DBO," Sinon sighs, exhausted.
"Thanks. Learned a ton," Diavel says.
"Yeah, didn't know my state was stamina depletion," I add.
Diavel offers a handshake; Sinon ignores it, turning away. She's shy—same type as me. Diavel, unfazed, bows in thanks.
"Lecture's over. Good luck. Unlike other VRMMOs, this game's creators laced it with malice. They're out to kill us."
"Thanks, Sinon. Let's keep at it," I stammer, smiling. She nods, pitying or mocking me. Rude for a fellow introvert.
Diavel signals to hunt mobs, but I need to check the [Headless Ox] for her. She might not wait, but I gotta confirm. Sinon's fiddling with her menu.
"Sinon, join our party? Three's better for big fights. Your skills could take that mud humanoid," Diavel says.
Smooth, knight. Casual party invite like a pickup line. But he's right—Sinon might know how to beat that mob. Solo gets more EXP and Col, but parties are safer for big targets.
"Sorry, got real-life stuff," she says.
"Fair. Friend request, then?"
"Maybe next time."
They're chatting without me—rubbing in my social gap, huh? Sinon preps to log out, but minutes pass. No dice. I was gonna wave her off like Diavel but snap instead.
"What, can't find logout?"
Stupid move. I knew this feeling from SAO, that day everything broke. Yet I said it.
I'll never forget Sinon's face—eyes wide, lips trembling, like a child sensing disaster.
"No logout," she whispers.
I check my menu. Where logout should be, there's blank space. Pieces click together.
Amusphere III was built by someone tied to NerveGear, a true successor. Her, his sister, dragged me, an SAO survivor who hates VR, into DBO for a reason. The [Dying City], a twisted Starting City, screams new beginning.
Beginning of what?
"Kuri, you okay?" Diavel touches my shoulder, concerned.
I must look awful—Sinon's trembling at my expression. But that's not important. How do I explain what's coming?
"Diavel, Sinon, listen. This is likely true. Hope I'm wrong—laugh if I am. DBO is—"
A cruel mastermind, watching me, triggers their plan. Blue light engulfs us, transfer's weightless rush hits. We're in that plaza, now ruined, packed with more players than SAO's day one.
"What's this…?" Diavel mutters, beside me. So's Sinon.
Diavel's face is pure confusion—a clueless rookie. Sinon's pale, muttering "impossible" and "no way"—a rookie who's guessed the truth. Most players are Diavel-types, but some mirror Sinon's dread. The latter's dangerous—already cracking before the "official service" tutorial. A wise scholar said ignorance keeps us sane. Only SAO survivors might endure what's next. Or maybe we're the least equipped, forced to relive that.
"Ahh, ah. Mic test. Mike test."
A mocking, high-pitched tenor ripples the twilight sky. Black mist gathers, pulsing like a grotesque heart.
"Eek!"
"What's that?!"
"Gross!"
Players gawk at the mass, voicing disgust. Screams erupt as a giant mouth and eye form, pure revulsion bait.
This mastermind's truly deranged. Kayaba was mad, but his lunacy fueled Aincrad's dream. This one's different—evil, evident in their vile avatar.
"Everyone, hear me? Shout if you do!" they singsong.
Infuriating. They're playing an annoying character on purpose. I slap Diavel's back; he snaps out of his daze, meeting my eyes. I nod, signaling "leave it to me." No heroics here—just keeping Diavel from looking shaken to help Sinon calm down. It works; she stares, pleading. Explaining this bluff later will suck.
"Thanks for joining Dark Blood Online! 12,682 players logged in! Over 10,000—clap, clap!" The mass laughs, baring teeth. A nearby player gags. Relax, no puking in VR.
"You've noticed: no logout. Raise your hand if you didn't. Teacher won't scold!"
Tendrils spread, darkening the sky. Only the eye and mouth remain. Few can look up.
"You'll now join DBO's official service. Clear the game to log out. No complaints—it's by design."
"Screw that! Let me out!" a bandit-like man yells at the eye.
Pointless bravado. The mastermind's mouth curls into a crescent moon—nothing like the divine moon. It revels in defiance.
"Easy way out: zero your HP. Death frees you."
"Hah! Amusphere III can't fry brains like NerveGear!" the man retorts.
True. Amusphere III's safety passed rigorous checks, built on SAO's lessons.
"Everything's a dream to humans," the mastermind counters. "Reality or VR, only the creator differs—god or man. Control the senses, and death feels real. Ever hear of the placebo effect? Trick a blindfolded person into thinking a cold rod is red-hot, and they burn. It's that simple."
This one's worse than Kayaba—pure evil.
"It was tough collecting data. Dissecting thousands alive in Africa, Southeast Asia… Using VR to make brains think they're burning, triggering bodily inflammation, rotting organs and minds. A real chore."
The bandit clutches his throat, collapsing.
"Argh! Gaaah!" He writhes, tongue out, flopping like a fish on a cutting board.
A public execution. Diavel, Sinon, and I can only watch. His body stops, vanishing—not in light, but like a logout. His brain shut down.
"Clap, clap! Player [Heartruck], real name [Yojiro Uchida], has logged out of life! Cheers to his happy departure!"
The mouth cackles. No one screams; the execution stole their will. He can't be dead—just an act, right? But Heartruck's death felt too real.
"No worries, zero HP won't make you suffer like him. You'll pass out as your brain and organs fail. Promise. Your locations were sent to the authorities, so your bodies are safe. Amusphere III sends vaccine codes to counter self-destruct signals. Remove it, the code stops, and residual signals kill you."
NerveGear burned brains with hardware; Amusphere III uses software. Even if we crack its safety, the vaccine code keeps us alive—untouchable. Replicating this tech requires their insane experiments. No sane person could.
Worst-case scenario. My legs shake. Heartruck's execution wasn't just proof of the death game—it showed the world the mastermind can kill us anytime, with Yojiro Uchida's corpse as evidence.
"Haha! No worries. Amusphere III's 32,000-yen battery lasts eight hours, so no one'll unplug you and cut the code."
"Real considerate, bastard," I mutter, clenching my fists, straining to catch their motive for trapping us.
Kayaba's goal was to make us Aincrad's denizens. This one's different.
"You're wondering why you're in this death game, right? Let me explain."
The dark sky shrinks, revealing a starry night. The true tutorial ends; the death game begins.
"My mentor, Akihiko Kayaba, saw players' [Willpower] in a virtual world. Ridiculous. Humans are meat, ruled by brains. Yet, in a world controlling their bodies, willpower broke its rules? That's soul-talk, god-proof. As Kayaba's successor, I challenge that [Willpower]. The [Black Swordsman] breaking world laws is nonsense. I'll prove it. That's all. Join me. Clear the game, survivors go free. Beat the final boss, get a reward."
I laugh. Kayaba's heir—mad, childish, but unlike Kayaba, they're pitting us against each other. They're game master and player, we're pawns proving Kayaba's [Willpower], and they're the opponent disproving it. We fight their pieces, survive, and validate Kayaba.
"Bring it on. I'll clear your game."
I survived SAO's no-continue nightmare for over three years, conquering Aincrad's 100 floors. I'll beat this, no matter how long it takes.
Anger or something else burns in me. No need to differentiate. My path's clear.
"Last gift: check your storage."
No need to look. Players materialize [Hand Mirrors], transforming into their real selves, like in SAO. I glare at the mastermind's eye, certain they've received my challenge.
"This concludes Dark Blood Online's official tutorial. One last thing:"
"This is a game, but no joke. It's a deathmatch between you and me. Best of luck!"
The black mass vanishes like an illusion.