Zanshin stood alone, facing the narrow stairwell packed with Level 6 Rusted Reavers.
His world had contracted to three things: the short starter sword trembling in his hand, the echoes of Hayabusa's final command, and the burning shame of his arrogance.
Focus the swing, not the shake!
He ignored the two discarded weapons—the Glaive of his false safety, the Axe of Ryo's sacrifice.
He focused entirely on the first Reaver's exposed shoulder joint, a fleeting target visible through the rust-eaten plate.
The creature shuffled forward, raising its sword for a slow, powerful blow.
Zanshin didn't duck or parry. He stepped into the enemy's range, forcing the system to recognize the commitment.
He initiated the Vertical Square skill cue.
The tremor seized his hand instantly, trying to jerk the short sword sideways into a panicked miss.
Zanshin didn't fight the shake; he acknowledged its existence and simultaneously channeled his entire concentration—not on the hand, not on the fear, but on the precise, millimeter location of the target.
He visualized the blade sinking into the joint, nothing else.
He was Level 3 facing Level 6 mobs—a suicidal disparity.
His normal strike would do less than 15 HP damage.
His only chance lay in bypassing the defense and achieving a Critical Hit through perfect
Skill Cue execution.
For a terrifying, agonizing moment, the system battled his psychology. Then, the focused intent won.
The sword snapped into motion, not with Zanshin's raw strength, but with the system-assisted velocity of a successful Skill Cue.
The blade, momentarily wreathed in a faint azure light, drove straight and true.
[Skill Cue: Vertical Square]
[CRITICAL HIT!]
[-100 HP]
The Reaver staggered back against the wall, its health bar dropping significantly, but it was far from defeated.
Zanshin hadn't won anything; he had only bought himself a fraction of a second and proven that survival required him to risk his psychological barrier three more times just to kill this single enemy.
The success brought no adrenaline, only cold, terrifying clarity.
He had committed the act he feared most—focused, destructive force—and the consequence was prolonged, agonizing struggle.
The remaining Reavers surged forward, sensing the weakness of a single, low-level target.
Zanshin fought with the calculated brutality of a condemned man. He didn't waste movement.
He used the narrow choke point as his shield, relying on the single-file nature of the attack, constantly side-stepping and shifting his weight to keep his low health bar out of the reach of the massive blades.
He fought without looking at his own HP bar. He fought without checking the cooldown.
He simply cycled through basic strikes and committed Skill Cues, driving his focus onto the target point every single time the tremor attempted to sabotage him.
He had to succeed the Skill Cue three times for every enemy, or die.
The first Reaver fell only after Zanshin landed two more consecutive, tremor-fought Critical Hits.
The second Reaver took two hits before it managed to land a blow that dropped Zanshin's HP dangerously close to the yellow zone.
Zanshin recoiled, his hand shaking so badly he almost missed the final, desperate third blow that finally felled the second mob.
He killed four Rusted Reavers in total—a dozen painful, focused Skill Cues—before the physical exhaustion of fighting the tremor became overwhelming.
The mob pile had thinned out enough for a gamble.
Zanshin dropped the starter sword. With a grunt, he hauled Ryo's axe off the floor—the weapon of sacrifice.
He didn't try to use a skill cue. Instead, he swung the heavy axe in a wild, horizontal sweep, a physical motion fueled by raw rage and desperation.
It wasn't clean, but the axe's weight shattered the kneecap of the closest Reaver and forced the mob pile back a crucial foot.
The momentary confusion gave him the space he needed.
Zanshin spun, scrambling over the stone debris and sprinted out of the storehouse.
He didn't stop until he was far outside the city walls, his lungs burning with the exhaustion of both physical strain and emotional trauma.
When he finally collapsed onto the grass of the West Field, he didn't care about the mob spawns. He was safe. He was alive.
[Player Stats: Zanshin]
| Statistic | Value |
| :--- | :--- |
| Level | 3 |
| HP | 250 / 250 |
| STR (Strength) | 18 |
| VIT (Vitality) | 10 |
| AGI (Agility) | 25 |
As he lay there, gasping, he noticed a new notification that had been obscured by the chaos.
[SPECIAL DROP: Blackened Knight Cuirass]
[Special Condition: Obtained upon the death of two party members in the presence of the wearer.]
A dense, crystalline object materialized beside him on the ground.
It was a chest piece, far heavier and more intricate than anything available in the starting town.
He crawled toward it, reaching out a trembling hand.
[Blackened Knight Cuirass]
| Type | Heavy Armor (Growth) |
| :--- | :--- |
| DEF | +15 (Rare for low level) |
| VIT | +20 |
| AGI | +0 (No penalty) |
| Special Effect | Solemn Duty - Base defense increases by 1% for every 10% of lost HP. |
When he picked it up, it dissolved into a flash of gold light, replacing the worn leather armor he wore.
The armor was a masterpiece of grim necessity: a full suit of heavy plate that covered him from neck to waist, crafted from a material that absorbed the light rather than reflecting it.
The primary material was a matte, jet-black metal, so dark it seemed to pull the shadows toward itself.
This dark foundation was overlaid with thin, razor-straight lines of brilliant, polished gold that traced the edges of the plates, the pauldrons, and the center breastplate.
It was imposing, functional, and intensely striking, giving the immediate impression of a walking monument: solemn, absolute, and impossibly durable.
Zanshin stared at his newly armored chest. It was a gift born of murder—the game's cruel reward for surviving the loss of his entire party.
The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting the West Field in long, melancholy shadows.
Zanshin was safe, clad in armor that whispered of destiny, yet he was utterly broken.
The armor felt impossibly heavy. He looked back towards the distant outline of the Town of Beginnings, knowing that somewhere in a hospital bed, Ryo and Hayabusa's bodies lay inert, their consciousnesses lost to the NerveGear.
It was too much.
The calculated, cold focus required to escape the Reavers evaporated, replaced by the crushing reality of his loneliness.
He finally let himself feel it. He didn't just weep; he broke.
Zanshin curled up on the field, the expensive black-and-gold armor scraping against the grass, and sobbed.
He cried for Ryo, the brave, flawed friend who had sacrificed himself out of immediate, pure loyalty.
He cried for Hayabusa, who had chased him into the game, only to be crushed by Zanshin's inability to accept forgiveness.
He cried for the shame of his arrogance, the truth that his guilt had been a selfish way to absolve himself of future responsibility.
He cried until the sky turned to deep indigo and the stars emerged, cold and indifferent above the world of Aincrad.
The tears soaked the grass, washing away the last vestiges of the panic that had ruled him, leaving only the scar of grief.
Eventually, the tears ran dry. Zanshin sat up, pushing the white hair from his face.
His tremor was still present—a constant, low vibration in his arms—but the terror was gone, replaced by a cold, relentless determination.
He had two choices: stay here, paralyzed by grief, and die to the next Frenzy Boar that wandered by; or move, and honor the sacrifices made.
Focus the swing, not the shake.
He stood up, the black and gold armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
He retrieved the starter sword—the true burden, the weapon that demanded perfect focus and commitment.
His paralysis was not a secret power, and his trauma was not a shield. It was a weakness that had killed his friends.
Zanshin was alone, broken, and low-level, but he was no longer standing still. The debt was too great.
He set his face toward the path leading south, away from the First Labyrinth, away from the graves of Ryo and Hayabusa, and toward the Town of Beginnings, where he would begin the long, solitary climb.