Final survivor count: 438. By SAO's 95th floor, all safe zones were gone. Floors 96 and up were only accessible directly from the 95th-floor boss area, not via teleport gates.
Then came the massive monster invasion event targeting floors below 95. It killed countless players, and without safe zones, survivors couldn't last. Players dwindled, worn down steadily. Ironically, the safest place was with the frontline raiders, thriving in the most dangerous zones.
I skipped the 96th-floor boss fight, focusing on saving lower-floor players. It wasn't my idea—Agil, driven by righteous fury, paid me a fortune to help. I'd done mercenary work, so I took the job without complaint. Agil probably hired me because I was that kind of player.
What I saw was hell. Players were killing each other in a crumbling world.
Aincrad's beauty remained, but the virtual world had fallen into chaos.
I couldn't help but question Kayaba Akihiko then: "Is this what you wanted?"
Looking back, that sadistic event might've been orchestrated by the lunatic aiding Kayaba's successor. I feel no anger or hatred toward him, though. If he admitted it, I'd shake his hand, grateful for solving one mystery I'd otherwise dwell on forever. Then I'd punch him with my left hand. Non-negotiable.
…Agil. Wonder if he's doing okay. I chew a bacon sandwich—Shinon's dry bread with bacon, a luxury in DBO's grim food scene, first made on day one. It reminds me of that nice guy.
Since ZOO's banquet, Shinon couldn't stand our meager meals. The next morning, she demanded better.
I'll eat anything. Tasty food's nice, but I'd rather spend Col on recovery items. Still, Diavel's the leader, so I left it to him.
"Morning's the same. Lunch is lavish. Dinner depends on the day's Col. Sound good?"
"Nice, Diavel! Unlike that meathead, you get it!" Shinon's eyes sparkled, her scorn clearly aimed at me. My death-game pragmatism's more sensible, right?
Then I remembered him. Even Flash powered up with good food and baths, beating the first-floor boss. His sermon on motivating female players:
"Listen, Ku. Good food and baths—that's what makes female players unstoppable. But if you let them use your bath, lock the door! Promise me, lock it!"
That might've been our first dinner together. After that, it was all gushing about Flash.
"Your faces say my sandwich tastes like a hundred things? Weird head, weird tongue," Shinon teases.
"Just reminiscing about SAO," I reply.
We're eating in a monster-free restricted area, sitting side by side in a cramped, ruined guard break room. Order: Shinon, me, Diavel.
Mentioning SAO shuts Shinon up. She never probes my SAO past. We've gotten close enough for banter, but she avoids my most dangerous territory, just as I steer clear of the venomous darkness festering in her.
Diavel's the same, but he grimaces at "SAO," like it's a foreign irritant in his mind.
"You know how they call guys like me Returners? I tried not to think about it, but how many SAO survivors are in DBO?"
"I haven't met him, but a cactus-headed player with an 'SAO Survivor' title is training newbies. Sharp, great teacher. He's taken over a village near the South Dungeon, tied up all the NPCs, and runs a spartan boot camp for 100 rookies. Sword skills, group tactics, stat allocation, PvP strategies, even lectures on SAO traps—everything to survive a death game," Shinon says with awe.
I know exactly who she means. Every Returner would grimace and point to one guy: the ambitious maniac who nearly killed Thinker to seize the army, exposed by that rat girl thanks to him and Flash. Now he's training rookies? Impressive.
Has he reformed, or is this a new ambition? Either way, he'll push to clear this death game until his heart's content. I hope his goal lies beyond the final boss—like "Second Death Game Liberation Hero" fame. He was always rivaling him, so it's plausible.
"At least his survival tips are more useful than yours. And free," Shinon jabs.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm useless," I retort.
"Haha, Ku always saves us in fights. Don't pout. Here, coffee," Diavel offers.
Diavel's usual post-meal coffee smells faintly closer to real coffee, but it's still vile.
"Maybe you're more practical," Shinon concedes.
"I'm as useful as Doraemon's gadgets," I boast.
"More like household scissors. A far cry from secret gadgets—think Mariana Trench to Pluto," Shinon quips.
"Scissors enriched human culture plenty," I counter.