Tsurugi left school that afternoon with the familiar, heavy ache in his chest. It was late autumn, and the air was cold and thin, stinging his exposed skin.
He moved along the edge of the road, keeping his head down, shoulders hunched forward, focused only on reaching the sanctuary of his dark room.
He didn't notice the sunset, the changing leaves, or the other students walking home in noisy groups.
He was too busy battling the constant thump-tap of Hayato's phantom cane echoing in his ears, a sound that only he could hear.
He walked past the main shopping district, an area he usually avoided because of the crowds, but today he took a slightly different route.
He passed the gleaming electronics store, which often had bright, overwhelming displays. He kept his eyes locked on the pavement, calculating his steps.
Then, he stopped.
His movement wasn't intentional; it was an instinctive jolt, like a cold shock to his system. His eyes, dull for the last year, were suddenly fixed on something vibrant and loud.
It was a huge digital advertisement plastered across the entire glass front of the store, blazing with dazzling blue and gold light against the fading evening sky.
The image was of a vast, impossible floating castle made of stone and light, surrounded by soaring fantasy creatures. At the bottom of the screen, two words pulsed in metallic silver text: Sword Art Online.
Tsurugi felt the world outside the ad fade away. It was a violent pull of memory, so strong it hurt.
"Dude, listen to this! It's called Sword Art Online. Full immersion, 100 floors, massive world!"
Hayato had been buzzing with excitement six months before the accident, waving his phone around the kendo dojo locker room.
"It's a VRMMORPG! You're literally in the game, fighting with swords!" Hayato had insisted, his eyes bright with the energy Tsurugi had crushed.
Tsurugi, focused on cleaning his shinai, had just grunted. "Virtual swords are meaningless. They don't have the weight of a real strike."
"That's the point, genius!" Hayato had laughed, elbowing him playfully.
"It's pure skill, pure reaction. No armor, no heavy gear! It's kendo, but with magic and monsters. You could be the best duelist in there!"
"We'll both play!" Hayato had said firmly.
"When the full game releases, we'll dive in together, Tsurugi. Just you and me. We'll be the dual swordsmen, wiping out bosses!"
The memory was sharp and clear, piercing the fog of the last twelve months.
Hayato's voice, full of that hopeful, infectious energy, rang in Tsurugi's ears, contrasting brutally with the silence of the stairwell he now inhabited.
The advertisement flashed again.
The text below the image was simple: FULL RELEASE IN ONE WEEK.
The irony was crushing. Hayato was the one who was meant to play this game—Hayato, the one who loved fantasy and swords, the one who was now struggling with the real-world limitation of a heavy cane.
Tsurugi, the strong one, the stable one, was now the one who needed a place to hide.
Tsurugi stood on the curb, his backpack slipping off his shoulder, paralyzed by the conflicting emotions: Guilt and Nostalgia.
The guilt was the crushing weight. You can't play a sword game, Tsurugi. You're a monster with a sword. That's why you broke Hayato.
But the nostalgia was a tiny pinprick of light. It was the memory of Hayato's easy laughter, the feeling of belonging that Tsurugi had thrown away. Playing this game—just trying it—felt like the smallest, most secret way to touch the memory of his friend without having to face the real, hurt Hayato.
It's not real, he told himself, clinging desperately to the thought. It's virtual. It's just pixels. There are no consequences in there.
A virtual world. A place where his actions couldn't cause physical damage. A place where he could perhaps swing a sword and find out if the monster was truly inside him, or if it was just the fear of the real consequences.
He glanced around. No one was watching him. The indifference was absolute. He was free to make any choice.
The thought of going home, to the dark room, to the silent dinner, to the constant internal thump-tap, was unbearable.
He needed a break. He needed a place to hide where his mind couldn't instantly find him.
Hesitantly, his leaden feet moved. He walked right up to the window and pressed his face close to the glass, studying the promotional materials.
The details were all there: the sleek, blue helmet called the NerveGear, the promise of a fantasy world, the huge map of Aincrad, the floating castle.
Hayato would have been counting down the minutes, Tsurugi thought, a sharp, sad pang in his chest.
He reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out the faded, crumpled yellow candy wrapper.
He held it up to the glass, mixing the symbol of their broken friendship with the glittering image of their shared, impossible dream.
Tsurugi made a sudden, desperate decision. This wasn't a casual purchase; it was an act of self-immolation.
He quickly pulled out the wad of money he had saved over the last few months.
This wasn't casual spending money; this was the emergency fund, the money meant for university applications and, more immediately, for the new textbooks his parents thought he needed for his failing classes.
He counted the thick, crumpled bills. It was enough. The NerveGear and the game were expensive, but the total matched his entire savings.
He rationalized the sacrifice with cold, brutal logic:
It's a virtual sword. No flesh, no blood, no real-world damage.
It's an escape hatch from the overwhelming weight of school and home. He needed it more than he needed textbooks he wouldn't read anyway.
It's the closest he can get to the real Hayato—the one before the accident—without facing the damage he caused.
He didn't hesitate again. He knew the store was still open for another hour. He shoved the money deep into his pants pocket, adjusted his backpack, and with the first purposeful stride he'd taken in a year, he pushed open the glass doors of the electronics store.
He bought the NerveGear and the game without looking at the cost, paying with the stack of bills that represented his last shred of financial stability.
The purchase was final, desperate, and irreversible.
As Tsurugi walked out, clutching the heavy, white box containing the helmet, the heavy mountain of guilt hadn't moved.
The self-hatred was still there, strong and deep.
But now, he had a distraction. He had a goal. He had traded his real-world prison—the school, the whispers, the guilt—for a virtual one.
He was chasing the ghost of his best friend, hoping that somewhere inside that digital fantasy, he could find the boy he used to be, the boy who wasn't afraid of holding a sword.
He tucked the yellow wrapper away, now pressed flat against the receipt of his desperate purchase, and walked home quickly, heading not towards a home, but towards an escape that was only one week away.