The meager food Zanshin bought was eaten in the cold, silent confines of his cheap inn room.
He did not taste the bread, only the raw, bitter flavor of self-contempt.
The moniker, clung to him like a digital stench. It was a name that stripped him of his history, his guilt, and his identity, replacing them all with a single, utilitarian function: target practice.
He survived the day because he failed to use his weapon.
He survived because he was a distraction.
This twisted form of survival was the ultimate validation of his deepest fear—that his actions, his very presence, were only useful when they were passively destructive or sacrificial.
"What's wrong with trying to survive."
As night fell, the intense psychological pressure, combined with the frantic, clumsy running, broke through the emotional numbness he had achieved.
The images of the everything returned, not in vivid detail, but as a chilling wave of internal disruption.
His entire body twitched, not just his hands, but his legs, his jaw, every muscle fighting the ghost of a traumatic moment.
He lay rigid on the uncomfortable mattress, unable to elaborate on the source of the agony, only experiencing the raw, overwhelming feeling that he was the vessel of disaster.
His trauma had relapsed, silent and devastating, in the solitude of the tiny room.
The next morning, Zanshin had to move.
He had spent most of his earnings, and without Col, he was just days away from genuine starvation.
The only way to survive was to repeat the cycle: find a party, be the decoy, earn a pittance.
He exited the inn, strapping the Glaive onto his back—a useless appendage that served only to signal he might be capable of combat, yet was too conspicuous to abandon.
He tried two separate parties near the East Gate, deliberately giving weak, hesitant responses to their questions about his Polearm skill level.
"A Glaive?" asked one player, a burly swordsman.
"Show us the Horizontal Arc."
Zanshin raised the weapon, and the tremors immediately started, slight at first, then rapidly turning his arms into vibrating rods.
The system failed to recognize the skill.
"Never mind," the swordsman scoffed, turning away instantly.
"Find a different profession, pal."
Zanshin walked away, the rejection a relief and a condemnation all at once.
He was rejected.
That meant he had to return to the only person who might tolerate him: the disposable decoy.
He turned toward a different, quieter section of the outer fields, scanning for lone players or small, equally desperate groups.
That was when he saw him.
Near a small grove of digital trees, waiting patiently for a mob to respawn, was a player in a simple green jacket and starter pants.
The player was armed with a one-handed sword, but it was his face that arrested Zanshin, stopping the white-haired player mid-stride.
He had the strong jawline, the kind, tired eyes, and the short, unruly black hair of his friend.
He was slightly taller in the game, the avatar molding to his real-life features, but there was no mistaking the identity.
It was Hayato.
Zanshin's heart slammed against his ribs. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold and lightheaded.
He thought he was going to vomit.
He's here.
He made it into the game.
Zanshin had assumed, with the accident and the severe injuries, that Hayato would have been excluded from the test, or that his body wouldn't have been able to handle the NerveGear. Yet here he was, alive, in Aincrad.
The name above his head read: Hayabusa.
Hayabusa looked up, caught Zanshin's frozen stare, and his face broke into a wide, relieved grin.
"Tsurugi! Hey! I thought that was you! Man, those eyes and that hair, no mistaking that setup even in a crowd!" Hayabusa jogged over, his virtual movements fluid and easy—the movements of a natural.
Zanshin could only manage a choked, rasping sound.
The consequence is here. The one I hurt is here. I have failed to escape.
"I'm Hayato, man! But my username is Hayabusa here," Hayabusa said, extending a hand in a friendly gesture.
"I looked around for you in the first few days, but I figured you got up and ran with the frontliners. Didn't think you were hiding out in the city still."
Zanshin stared at the extended hand.
He couldn't shake it.
He was terrified his hands would shake so violently they would trigger an accidental attack. He was terrified of touching him.
"I… Zanshin," Zanshin finally managed, using his chosen alias weakly.
"Right! Zanshin! Cool name, man. Listen, I'm putting together a crew. Just me and one other guy, Ryo, a good friend from my neighborhood. We're grinding Frenzy Boars right now, but we need a fourth for efficiency. With your reach on that Glaive, we could really speed things up." Hayabusa's enthusiasm was bright and uncomplicated, a painful contrast to Zanshin's internal decay.
Zanshin instantly backed away a step. "No. I—I can't. I don't use the Glaive well. I am a liability. You shouldn't recruit me, Hayato."
Hayabusa frowned, momentarily confused.
"A liability? What are you talking about? You're one of the most—I mean, you've got a massive reach advantage. And you're telling me you can't swing a digital stick? Come on. Look, we all suck right now. We need warm bodies and party buffs."
"I fail skill cues," Zanshin insisted, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I will get you killed. I will hurt you again."
The last three words, intended as a self-confession, were muffled and lost to the ambient sound of the field.
Hayabusa missed the devastating weight behind them.
"Hurt me? Tsurugi, it's a game! No one's getting hurt unless we get cocky. Don't worry about it. Just hit the boar, even if it's a sloppy hit. We're teammates here, man. I won't let anything happen to you."
Teammates. I will hurt you.
The absolute terror of joining Hayabusa was overwhelming, but Zanshin's mind, calculating his remaining Col, forced a cold, hard choice.
He tried one last time to find another group, quickly walking away from Hayabusa to approach a nearby duo.
"Need a third?" Zanshin asked, forcing the question out.
The duo looked at his shaking, white-haired appearance and then at the massive, unwieldy Glaive. They exchanged a look of pure contempt.
"No thanks," one sneered, having heard the nickname.
"We don't need decoys who can't even hold a sword straight."
The rejection was final.
The field had rejected the liability.
But Hayabusa, the one person he feared harming, was still waiting.
Zanshin walked back slowly, his eyes burning with shame and fear.
He stopped in front of his injured friend, the man whose real-world fate was a direct consequence of Zanshin's power.
"I'll join," Zanshin whispered, his voice empty.
"But you have to promise me one thing: I am only bait. I don't deal damage. I only pull aggro."
Hayabusa slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder, completely missing the desperation in Zanshin's eyes.
"Deal! Glad to have you, Zanshin. Let's get grinding!"
Zanshin nodded, accepting his fate.
He had fled Klein to avoid becoming a burden, only to become a liability to the one person in the world he needed to protect most.
His survival now hinged entirely on his ability to keep his movements contained, slow, and non-destructive.
He had officially joined Hayabusa's party, sealing himself into the very danger he sought to escape.