Klein's forceful compassion had succeeded in dragging Zanshin out of the paralysis of the alley, but not out of the mental prison of his self-loathing. For the rest of the afternoon,
Zanshin stood in the chaotic square, leaning against a stone railing near the fountain, the cold Glaive still heavy in his shaking hands.
He was silent while Klein, radiating frantic energy, plunged into the crowd.
Klein moved with an unexpected combination of street smarts and genuine warmth, weaving through the desperate players, shouting names, and eventually locating his friends.
They were huddled together, terrified but intact, having recognized each other's newly revealed real faces.
As Klein introduced Zanshin, he quickly shielded his friend's strange appearance from the confused stares of the group.
"He's with me," Klein stated simply.
"He's Zanshin. He needs a minute."
Klein's friends, though initially wary of the white-haired stranger who could barely stand, trusted Klein.
They managed to secure a large, cheap room in a back-alley inn, pooling their starter Col for one night's shelter.
Zanshin didn't speak a word, letting Klein and his crew manage him like a fragile, heavy piece of luggage.
He was deposited onto a worn mattress, the Glaive resting beside him.
As the sun set on Aincrad's first terrifying day, Zanshin lay in the dark room, listening to the muffled, tearful conversations of Klein's friends.
They were discussing logistics, grief, and fear.
Every whisper was a fresh accusation in Zanshin's mind.
They are good people, worried about each other.
They have a party.
You are an extra mouth. You are dead weight.
The decision was not born of courage or pragmatism; it was born of profound, crushing guilt.
Zanshin was convinced that the longer he stayed, the higher the chance that his own inevitable self—the shaking hands, the inability to commit—would cost Klein or one of his friends their lives.
He couldn't be responsible for another loss. He had to neutralize himself as a destructive force.
He waited until the early hours of the morning, hours after the exhausted group had finally fallen asleep.
The room was silent save for the ragged breathing of nine men sharing a cramped space.
Zanshin slid off the mattress, his movements painfully slow and cautious.
He avoided the floorboards that creaked, moving with the heavy uncertainty of a man fearing his own footsteps.
He strapped the Glaive to his back, the long weapon feeling heavier and more alien than ever before.
He paused by Klein's sleeping form.
His friend's face, exposed and soft in sleep, showed the lines of stress and responsibility he had willingly shouldered.
Zanshin felt a sharp stab of gratitude and then self-hatred.
He couldn't risk leaving a note, fearing Klein would search for him.
Stealth was his only mercy.
With a silent, forced exhale, Zanshin slipped out of the room, closed the door without a sound, and vanished into the predawn gloom of the Town of Beginnings.
His single, desperate goal was to hide until the game ended, letting the world forget the liability.
Zanshin found a dingy, forgotten inn several blocks from the main square.
It was clearly a low-tier establishment used by NPCs and ignored by players.
He paid for three nights upfront, sinking the majority of his remaining starter Col into the expense.
His room was small, barely containing a threadbare bed and a small, cracked wooden table.
It was perfect.
It was a prison.
For three days, Zanshin did nothing.
He didn't open his menu to check his skills.
He didn't even equip his starter equipment, still favoring the dark, unassuming cloak that had been his avatar's first garment.
He barely slept, tormented by replays of the accident—the sound of the impact, the sight of Hayato falling, the realization of his own mistakes.
He saw the players who fled the city, rushing into the fields and quickly dying, their death cries echoing across the zone, showing up as terrifying red cursors on the horizon.
He also saw the players who returned, battered and bleeding, but alive—the core of the emerging frontline.
Zanshin remained untouched by either action.
He ate the few crystalline apples he had carried from the starting inventory, consuming them slowly, carefully rationing the sweet, digital food.
Every bite was an act of survival, yet every act of survival was a betrayal of his conviction that he deserved to fail.
By the morning of the fourth day, Zanshin's situation became critical, forcing reality to finally pierce his psychological fog.
He had exactly 120 Col remaining. His inventory was empty of food.
He stood in front of his menu, staring at the shop prices.
He had hoped to survive on starter items, but the economy of Aincrad was aggressively hostile, built to force players into the risk/reward cycle of leveling.
A simple loaf of NPC-baked bread—enough for one full meal—was 80 Col.
A single mid-tier health potion was 500 Col. Even the cheapest, lowest-grade dagger cost 150 Col.
Zanshin's mind, which was typically precise in calculation and strategy, instantly registered the numbers and calculated the outcome:
His remaining funds would buy, at most, one full meal and one small, cheap drink.
The realization was a cold slap of dread more intense than the fear of a monster.
He had fled the danger of combat only to be trapped by the danger of starvation and debt.
I am a burden even to myself.
He couldn't afford a new weapon to replace the useless Glaive.
He couldn't afford potions.
He couldn't afford to hide for another day.
He was stranded, trapped between the immediate, paralyzing terror of dying in the fields and the slow, inevitable death of economic failure in the city.
He spent the morning in silent, agonizing debate.
If he died now, alone in this room, it would be the clean, quiet end he deserved.
But if he went out, he might die.
The white-haired boy, who was nothing more than a ghost of his former self, finally looked into the mirror above the wash basin.
His gold eyes, rimmed with fatigue and self-hatred, stared back.
To survive, he had to take action.
And to take action meant risking the very thing he feared most: consequence.
Zanshin walked out of the inn, clutching his Glaive, heading not for the bustling main plaza, but for the dark, less-trafficked side streets leading toward the edge of the Town of Beginnings—a place where the lowest-level mobs might grant him a single piece of bread, or a final, swift end.