The training ground behind the Blacksmith shop was empty again.
It was the morning of Zanshin's third day in the small, nameless settlement.
The sky was clear, promising another long, hot day on the First Floor, but Zanshin barely noticed the heat.
The only thing he felt was the constant, chafing presence of the heavy, dark wool cloak.
He ripped it off.
The movement was abrupt, fueled by frustration.
The massive weight of the cloak had been a constant impediment during his training, snagging on his arms during wide swings and trapping heat until he was dripping with sweat.
It had served its purpose—hiding the Blackened Knight Cuirass—but its inefficiency was now slowing his essential progress.
"It's ridiculous," he muttered, kicking the discarded cloak into a corner.
"I can't spend every day fighting my own clothes."
But with the cloak gone, the Cuirass was exposed again.
The jet-black metal, scored with thin, arrogant lines of gold, caught the morning light.
It looked less like armor and more like a signpost pointing directly at him, screaming, "I have rare drops! I am a survivor of something awful!"
Zanshin opened his inventory menu and stared at the gear slots.
The Cuirass had been the catalyst for his escape, providing the necessary stats to absorb hits while he desperately landed Critical Cues.
[Blackened Knight Cuirass]
| Type | Heavy Armor (Growth) |
| :--- | :--- |
| DEF | +15 |
| VIT | +20 |
He thought back to the Town.
The early days were defined by confusion and fear, but soon they would be defined by exploitation.
As players grew desperate, the sight of a powerful, unique piece of gear on a low-level player would not inspire awe, but avarice.
He couldn't risk the distraction, let alone the potential PK threat that such a valuable item would inevitably attract.
He scrolled down his list, selecting his original, worn, brown Frayed Leather Vest.
It offered no defensive value worth mentioning, but it was generic, anonymous, and invisible against the thousands of other players.
The swap was painful.
Zanshin felt the digital weight of the Cuirass lift away, replaced by the light, familiar touch of simple leather.
[DEF -15. VIT -20.]
His HP bar barely shifted, but the core stability he had felt for the last two days vanished.
He was soft again, vulnerable.
He was back to being a Level 3 player relying entirely on his agility and his still-rusty Skill Cues.
He stored the Cuirass, knowing he would need it later, but resolved to move forward without relying on its protection.
His survival would depend on his skill, not his stats.
Stripped down to basic armor and the short starter sword, Zanshin sat on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest.
He reached into his menu and pulled up his Player Stats, specifically focusing on the VIT boost he had lost.
That +20 VIT would have given him a comfortable margin, but comfort wasn't the goal anymore.
He stared across the field toward the distant, hazy shadow of the First Floor's dungeon, the place where Ryo and Hayabusa had met their end.
The grief was now a dull ache, hardened into a terrible sense of obligation.
He had run once, abandoning his duty on Earth, choosing to be a pacifist in a death game.
That decision had killed his two best friends. He wouldn't run again.
"Don't focus on the shake, focus the swing, not the shake!" Hayabusa's words.
"Just go, man! Use the axe! You have to survive!" Ryo's scream.
He closed his golden eyes and placed his hands flat on the ground.
The tremor was still there, a ghost in the machine.
"I won't waste it," Zanshin whispered to the empty air, the sound barely audible over the rustle of the field grass.
"I won't let either of you have died for nothing. I will use the power, even if I break myself doing it. I won't stop until this game is cleared."
It was not a vow of vengeance, but a self-condemnation to a future of relentless, committed action—the very thing he had spent a year running from.
The sacrifice of his friends had finally overwritten the paralysis of his guilt.
With renewed, cold purpose, Zanshin stood up and headed back into the small settlement.
He had one final, defining choice to make.
He found the Weapon Specialist shop, marked by a massive, rusted icon of a crossed sword and shield.
Inside, a stout, NPC blacksmith was hammering lethargically at a glowing piece of metal.
"Welcome, traveler," the NPC greeted him with rote kindness.
"You look like you've survived more than the average field skirmish. Seeking to formalize your path, perhaps? I can register your primary skill specialization for you."
This was the critical choice that most players, still confused by the system, often overlooked.
Choosing a specialization early granted a permanent, small boost to skill acquisition speed in that category.
It also meant a massive commitment—a path you were locked into.
Zanshin didn't hesitate.
He knew what he had to do.
He navigated the menus instantly, selecting the skill tree he had tried so hard to avoid.
The Specialist's projection screen flickered, listing the options: One-Handed Sword, Rapier, Battle Axe, Mace, Spear…
Zanshin's finger hovered over the One-Handed Sword option.
It was his class. It was the weapon that demanded close-range commitment, explosive speed, and the precise, fatal execution of his most terrifying memories.
He took a deep breath, fighting the internal panic.
Hayato would never forgive me if I ran again.
He hit Confirm.
A flash of golden light momentarily filled the small shop. The system registered his choice with absolute finality.
[SKILL SPECIALIZATION CONFIRMED: One-Handed Longsword]
[Acquisition Speed Bonus: +5%]
[Skill: One-Handed Sword Mastery (Current Level: 18/100)]
The blacksmith nodded, satisfied. "An excellent choice, traveler.
The Longsword is versatile and demands both speed and precision.
Now, go forth and master your destiny."
Zanshin gripped the hilt of his short starter sword.
The commitment was made.
He was now fully locked into the path of the sword, a destiny he had fled for a year, a path paved with guilt and sealed by sacrifice.
His current weapon was short, flimsy, and weak.
His skill mastery was a meager 18/100.
But he was now officially a swordsman. The only thing left was to find a proper, long weapon that fit his new designation, and then return to the fields to climb.
The climb was no longer about survival. It was about redemption.