After 13 days, we return to the [Dying City]. Compared to the desolate village, it's bustling, despite its decay. The market thrives with players resolved to face the death game, trading items and info. But many have dead-fish eyes, broke, huddling in rags like fantasy slums, begging for mercy. A sight even SAO never saw, built in just 13 days. Shocking, but unsurprising. No safe zones here—not even inns.
Inns boost auto-HP recovery, and locked doors offer some safety, but they're flimsy, breakable wood. Breaking one angers the innkeeper NPC, but PKers wouldn't care. Best strategy: multiple players in one room, one on watch. Doors limit invaders to one at a time—easy to gang up on. No other way to survive. Easier still: group in hundreds, mutual vigilance deterring PKers. Early on, PKers are few, likely small groups. Outnumber them, and they're the ones dead.
Most homeless players aren't that strategic. Instinct, not planning, drives them. Fine—I'm not their babysitter.
"Sorry for dragging you along," Sinon says, her face unreadable, not quite expressionless—hard to pin down. Sometimes clear, sometimes opaque. My latest Sinon analysis.
Crap, that's stalker thinking. Fine for guys, not girls. Creepy, but I won't stop.
"No big deal. I needed a spare sword anyway. Endless leveling grinds without a break would kill my mood, right, Ku?" Diavel says.
"We're a temporary team. I'll help and protect you. Use me," I reply.
"Sure. Without my arrows, you'd be game over fast," Sinon smirks.
Harsh but true. Her ranged support changes everything—chip damage while we manage hate makes fights easier.
"Losing any one of us hurts. Three's perfect: melee, ranged, lookout. We're the best party," Diavel says.
His charm's unreal. How does he spit out likability like that? If I were a girl…
"What's with the moping?" Sinon asks.
"Self-loathing," I mutter.
My eyes must be dead. Imagining myself as a girl? Death penalty. Crucifixion and roasting. Only my goal to crush Kayaba's heir spares me—reduced to skipping dinner. Be grateful, me, to that madman.
"How about eating something tasty before the event?" Diavel suggests.
Tempting, but we guys don't know the city. Sinon's call. Surprisingly, she's game.
"I'm sick of dry meat. Something sweet sounds good," she says.
"Very girly. I'm fine with sweets, but you, Ku?" Diavel asks.
"Pancakes with strawberry jam, chocolate sauce, maple syrup, whipped cream, and marshmallow cocoa? I can handle that."
They look nauseous. Rude—I shared my ultimate combo. My family ate that high-calorie breakfast daily, yet we're all scrawny. Parasites burning calories? Maybe.
"Speaking of, Sinon, does this twisted game have parasites?" I ask.
"Before we eat?" she snaps.
"Not like we're talking shit over curry. So?"
"They exist. Eating raw meat risks infection. Stamina recovery slows, eventually stops, then HP hits zero—game over."
"Countermeasures?" Diavel asks, confident.
Raw meat? Who does that? Yukke fans? Stop it—store-bought raw meat passes strict safety checks. Japanese love sashimi, so maybe less resistance.
"Cook it—100% prevention. Or eat [Black Oil Fruit] regularly. It's like deworming medicine, kills parasites."
"Taste?" I ask.
"Players who ate it never returned to VR. Get the picture?"
Sounds worse than vomit, texture included. But it's small, swallowable without chewing, cheap, and plentiful. Stock up, bulk buy—saves hassle.
"Some mobs are parasitic, draining HP with special attacks. No big threat otherwise. We're here," Sinon says.
Her favorite spot: a rare intact café in this ruined city. Soothing ambiance, scratchy record music, a healing space. NPC patrons are better dressed than others. This world's decay highlights its stark wealth gap. Harsh.
"Tea and fruit pancakes," Sinon orders.
We take the backmost seats, scanning menus. She knew her order—probably thrilled at Diavel's suggestion. Menu's slim: coffee, tea, water, a few overpriced, tacky-named dishes. Even Diavel hesitates, like a guy dragged to a fancy restaurant by his girlfriend.
"Coffee and sandwich," he says.
"Water and chocolate cake. Split the bill," I add.
No treating or splitting. Pay for your own. Everyone gets it—except Diavel, lips tight. Was he planning to cover? Such a leader.
The grumpy waiter heads to the kitchen. The game's cooking time shows the mastermind's attention to detail. Makes the north-south dungeons and east-west fog weirder. The fog feels like lazy design—impossible. That fog's a sadistic trap, I'm sure. The mastermind's goal: crush [Human Willpower], proving themselves right. If I knew why, I could predict their moves. Only a madman like them could understand another—Kayaba.
Wait. The mastermind started this because Kayaba spoke of [Human Willpower], tied to the [Black Swordsman]. That's him. If it's about breaking virtual laws, I know two: [The Flash], a top SAO player, and him. The mastermind meant the latter—likely the 100th-floor fight where Kayaba fell. Kayaba's partner—forgot her name—said he suicided, burning his brain. He's dead.
How'd the mastermind learn of the [Black Swordsman]? Not from SAO data—Kayaba's words felt personal. I trust the mastermind's words are true. This deathmatch is their proof; they wouldn't taint it with lies. They're too childish for compromise.
A wild theory forms. If they're fully honest, an impossible idea emerges.
"Something to consider," I mutter.
"What? No gross talk during meals, or I'll shoot you," Sinon glares.
I dig into my chocolate cake, already served. Sweet, cheap, brain-tingling flavor—not refined, but virtual. Reality's just brain-processed dreams too—sweet, sour, all the same. The mastermind's right there. Still, I crave real food. This ruined world lacks humanity's culinary art.
I toy with the idea: Kayaba might still be alive, somehow.
-------------------
Note:
Skills
[Whip]: Boosts whip performance. Enables whip sword skills.
[Bow]: Boosts bow performance. Enables bow sword skills.
[Shield]: Boosts shield performance. Enables shield sword skills.
Items
[Claws]: Hidden weapon. Favored by shady assassins. Lethal from behind but fragile in direct combat.
[Crude White Powder]: A drug inducing intense pleasure. Crafted with malice to bring ruin, yet its fleeting ecstasy offers sincere solace in this hell.
[Black Oil Fruit]: A fruit brimming with oil. Squeezed for highly flammable oil with foul smoke. Barely edible, so vile even starving beggars avoid it.