Diavel, grumpy after calling the coffee "mud," storms out.
"That's an insult to coffee. I'm taking [Cooking] to make my own blend!" he declares.
"Do it later. Filling skill slots with non-combat hobbies now is suicide," I warn.
"I know. But my fourth slot's [Cooking]. Non-negotiable!" he insists, clenching his fist.
Good. His motivation's up, despite still being dragged into this death game. He hesitates sometimes, like something's holding him back. Whatever it is, I hope he resolves it fast—doubt kills in this world.
"Sinon, the event's around here?" I ask.
We're in a side alley off the main street. Mostly defunct smithies, limbless beggar NPCs, and a few with '?' event markers overhead.
"Yeah. Left at the crossroad. The NPC's grumpy but repairs for free the first time. Got anything low on durability?" Sinon replies.
A tsundere old man, huh? Stubborn but soft. Even players get that treatment—high-level NPC.
"Hm?"
I spot a player leaning against a wall in a dim alley. Red, wavy-haired woman, heavy makeup, sharp eyes screaming dominance, whip at her hip. Sadistic type, loves tormenting others. I've been PK'd by her kind before—my instincts don't lie. She eyes us like prey. A Red (DBO has no markers, but I call killers Reds, thieves Oranges) or Orange robber. Either way, her type runs in packs.
"Trouble," I mutter.
Ignore trouble, and it still comes. Gotta minimize the damage. I glance at Diavel and Sinon ahead, lips tightening. Will they forgive what I'm about to do? Despise me? Help if I explain? I lack the guts to find out. I don't mind being hated, but I'd rather it happen passively.
"Hey, sorry, I remembered something. Handle the event without me," I say.
"What's that about!?" Sinon snaps.
I clasp my hands, bowing. "Really sorry! I started DBO because a friend's sister asked me. We were supposed to meet, but the death game kicked off, and we got separated. I need to check the meeting spot. Maybe find clues or witnesses."
Hide lies in truth. I joined DBO on her orders. Diavel knows I was waiting at the [Headless Ox]. My excuse—feeling sentimental in the city—should be believable enough.
Sinon's suspicious, but Diavel nods firmly. "Got it. We'll handle the event."
"Diavel! What're you saying!? If we can't stay in sync, I'm done with this party! I planned to go solo anyway!" Sinon protests, clearly doubting me. Bad timing.
"Sinon, we're not an army or trained soldiers. Selfish moves disrupt us, sure, but I respect Ku as a person. He helped us from day one, sacrificing his search for his friend's sister. We've no right to stop him," Diavel says.
His words sting. I force my face blank—emotions show too easily in VR. DBO's looser than SAO, almost encouraging lies as a weapon.
Sinon looks like she wants to argue but can't. She feels indebted too—otherwise, a headstrong girl like her wouldn't stick with us.
"Fine. But if you get killed, I'm not avenging you. Solo stupidity's on you," she says.
"Thanks," I reply, bowing.
She seems shocked I'd thank her. Is my gratitude that surprising?
Waving to Diavel, I slip out of sight, entering a foul alley reeking of rotting meat, fresh blood, and near-dead NPCs. Three meters wide—perfect for an ambush. I'd be screwed if flanked.
I walk fast, feigning fear, like a coward taking a risky shortcut, activating [Stealth]. I'm the bait. Will they bite or lie low?
A sharp sound—sword skill activation—hits, and I'm knocked forward. Prepared, I catch myself, landing lightly. A VR-only acrobatic move. The attacker's face screams "shock." No wonder—his [Battle Axe] skill barely dented my HP.
"You…!" the bald, thuggish Red sputters.
I close the gap. He swings again, but his moves are amateur. I knee his jaw—my STR and DEX are average, no [Martial Arts] skill, but it should chip a lightly armored foe's HP. It barely does.
He's either high-level or stacked VIT for HP. A tank.
"Damn you, squirming rat!" he snarls.
His brute-force axe is no threat. [Battle Axe] and [Warhammer] rely on timing. Wild swings are easy to read for anyone with combat experience.
Footsteps behind. A hooded, spear-wielding player in a cloak charges, wielding a skeleton warrior's dropped spear, likely maxed at +6. A [Spear] skill, [Sonic Fang], a rushing thrust, activates. It'd send my low-VIT, lightly armored HP to the red zone.
But they're rookies. I expected skill from the spear, but it's a basic rush. I dodge the axe's overhead swing, using its buried blade as a foothold, vaulting over the bald guy's head to his back.
"What!?" he yells.
"Wha—hold on!" the spearman stammers.
Too late. Sword skills don't stop mid-activation, especially rushes. The spear pierces the bald guy, not me, its enhanced power and skill boost slashing his HP by 80%.
I equip my war pick, hidden under my tattered coat. A makeshift shield, though it covers little and wouldn't stop a spear's pinpoint strike. Lucky break.
"Sorry! I didn't mean—" the spearman pleads.
"Pull it out, idiot! The piercing damage!" the bald guy screams.
Piercing damage is his worry? Morons.
I swing my war pick at the bald guy's head, immobile from the spear. Heads have high crit rates. My non-skill swing crits, wiping his HP. He turns, shouting, but shatters into red-black light, lingering like blood.
"Nice gig. PKing for levels and loot? That spear's a trophy, maxed out. Its original owner had real potential," I taunt.
"No! I found it! On the road!" the spearman lies.
Even kids lie better. He's lost his nerve but clings to his spear—maybe a trump card. Fine, I'm impatient. I close in, too near for his spear, trip him, mount his back, and lock his neck in a chokehold.
VR suffocation exists. No breathlessness, but 60 seconds of "blocked breathing" halts stamina recovery, then drains 0.5% HP per second—Sinon's beta knowledge. His HP's full; 260 seconds to death. Slow, cruel.
"Listen. You're dead. Two choices: slow choke or spill everything for a quick end. I'd pick the former, hoping for rescue. You?" I say.
I'm merciful, offering options. Unlike the bald guy, he's lucky. My STR, boosted by mounting, ensures he can't break free. He's done.
"PKers don't get strong from easy kills. Skill-reliant ambushes are trash compared to the real deal. PoH would cry at this," I sneer.
"You… an SAO returner!?" he gasps.
"That's what they call us? Cool. Thanks for the gift."
I bite his ear, tearing it off. No pain in VR, but the mastermind likely made dismemberment worse than pain.
"Argh! My ear!" he screams, thrashing.
I chew loudly near his ear, unrelenting. He struggles, but it's futile.
"Good news: you shaved 10 seconds off your death. Smile. You're thrilled, right?" I mock.
"Help! I've never killed! It was a whim!" he begs.
"Lame excuse. It's Reiwa, not Taisho," I retort.
His HP hits yellow, blinking at 30%. I stare like it's an object. His life. When it's gone, he's dead, like the bald guy. I've killed—one life in under a month.
Pathetic. Nauseating. No self-loathing—my heart's as twisted as the mastermind's. I never planned to interrogate, only to kill. Fine. They tried to kill; they pay. I'll drain them dry.
"Enough. Let him go," a familiar voice says, cold metal at my neck.