The silence that fell over the thousands of players in the Town of Beginnings was the deepest Zanshin had ever known.
It wasn't the silence of respect, but the terrified vacuum that precedes a disaster.
Akihiko Kayaba, the game's creator, stood above them, a towering figure draped in the flowing red robes of a Game Master.
His physical body was obscured, but his voice, unnervingly calm, resonated through the square, reaching every mind with crystalline clarity.
"Players, you may have already noticed the absent log-out button in your main menu," Kayaba began, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
"I assure you, this is not a malfunction of the game. It is a feature of Sword Art Online."
A collective gasp, a ragged sound of denial and dawning fear, rose from the crowd.
Zanshin stood rooted to the spot, his Glaive trembling slightly as his hands, without permission from his mind, squeezed the pole.
The fear that had been an icy dread moments ago now began to burn, melting the thin veneer of his digital escape.
Then, Kayaba spoke the command that would shatter their world completely.
"At this moment, I have taken away your ability to log out. And those outside the game, your friends and family, are unable to manually remove the NerveGear headset from your heads."
A new wave of dark, red fluid poured down from the sky.
It wasn't a warning; it was a mechanism.
The viscous red substance coated the player avatars, but they remained exactly as they were—perfect digital representations of their chosen identities.
Kayaba continued, his voice taking on a grim, factual tone. "I must also inform you of the seriousness of this situation. Within the last three hours, the outside world has attempted to remove the NerveGear from approximately 213 users. I am saddened to report that those players are no longer with us. The NerveGear is tuned to your life signs, and any attempt at removal or power failure will trigger the fatal microwave surge."
The square erupted into pandemonium. Screams of disbelief, rage, and pure terror ripped through the air.
Kayaba raised a hand, and the system instantly silenced the players.
The forced quiet was more terrifying than the noise.
"From this point on, you will only have one body—your current, real one—and one life," Kayaba stated, reiterating the rule.
Kayaba paused, letting the words sink in.
Then came the true horror, and the removal of their final mask.
"If your Health Points drop to zero in the game, your avatar will die. And when your avatar dies in the game, the NerveGear will emit a powerful, non-ionizing microwave burst into your brain, destroying the core pathways of your life."
Zanshin didn't hear the rest of the speech.
The calm recitation of the permanent death condition hit him with the force of a physical blow.
Destroying the core pathways of your life.
The world went dark. Not physically, but psychologically.
The bright, medieval town, the sky, the faces of Klein and Kirito—all were swallowed by a sickening, oppressive blackness in Zanshin's mind.
Death. Consequence. Destruction.
He didn't see Kayaba; he saw the ceiling of the kendo dojo, the fluorescent lights blurred by tears he couldn't stop.
He didn't hear the Game Master; he heard the CRACK of the shinai against Hayato's skull, the sickening, irreversible sound of a life broken by his own uncontrolled strike.
He was back on the floor of the dojo, the blood rushing in his ears, amplifying the voice of his guilt: This is it.
You came to the digital world to escape the consequences of a mistake that nearly killed your friend.
Now, you are in a world built entirely on the ultimate consequence—death. You deserve this.
He was frozen, every muscle in his body rigid.
Kayaba delivered the final, cruel twist.
"And now, for your confirmation. Open your inventory. You will find a single item has been forcibly added: Mirror. I want all of you to look upon your true faces."
A ripple of confusion ran through the crowd. Klein, still trying to process the news of the real-world deaths, fumbled with his menu and pulled out a simple, reflective item.
Zanshin's hand, rigid with panic, automatically followed the system prompt.
He pulled the Mirror into his shaking virtual grasp.
As the light hit the reflective surface, the illusion of his avatar was shattered.
The handsome, clean digital face he had created instantly dissolved, revealing the features beneath.
He saw his own face, but not as it had been in the dark of his room.
The game rendered his true appearance in perfect clarity: pure white hair and startling, intense golden eyes—features that had always made him stand out in a crowd and fueled his social anxiety.
His face was naturally striking, but now, it was pale and slick with the cold, digital sweat of terror.
The psychological impact was immediate and crushing.
The last defense, the mask of Zanshin, the digital athlete, was ripped away, leaving him exposed and visible in a crowd of thousands.
The physical distance the Glaive provided was meaningless; he was nakedly himself, the perpetrator of the accident, trapped in a game where his existence was defined by the ultimate consequence.
"Zanshin! Zanshin, hey!"
He could see Klein's lips moving, contorted in fear and disbelief, but the sound was muffled, distant—like a voice trying to reach him from across a vast, impossible chasm.
Kirito's hand shot out, attempting to grasp his arm.
"Calm down, man! It's okay, we gotta listen!" Kirito's voice was a frantic buzz, a vibration he could perceive but not process.
Zanshin couldn't calm down. He couldn't move.
He couldn't speak.
He was locked in a full-blown panic attack, the ultimate truth of the accident—that a moment of violence can mean permanent, final destruction—now the central, unforgiving rule of his world.
The digital blood raining down from the sky seemed to solidify.
He imagined the microwave burst, the final, irreversible action of the NerveGear, and saw the digital blast replaced by the horrifying image of Hayato lying still on the floor, the consequence of Tsurugi's uncontrolled power made manifest.
Kayaba continued, his voice the only clear, cutting sound in Zanshin's auditory field, like the tolling of a funeral bell.
"...You can only clear the game by reaching the final floor. I wish you all good luck."
As the Game Master's colossal form dissolved, the reality of the situation finally pierced the black fog of Zanshin's trauma, but only enough to fuel his fear.
Escape.
The single, desperate word flashed in his mind.
He was trapped, utterly powerless, in the very prison he had purchased to save himself.
His trauma hadn't been left behind; it had been magnified and institutionalized by the game itself.
He was identifiable, trapped, and incompatible with his own defense.
He took a stumbling step backward, the Glaive dragging uselessly on the cobblestone, unable to look either Kirito or Klein in the eye.
He didn't know what to do, where to go, or how to fight in a world where a single mistake wasn't just failure, but death—a consequence he was already convinced he was destined to deliver.