1

He seemed to be on a road, late at night.

However, his surroundings weren’t dark. White security lights shone down on the asphalt, throwing black shadows that stretched far away.

Shiroe had determined that it must be late because the shopping district was deserted, its shutters closed, and because everything was deeply, eerily silent.

He passed a McDonald’s and a cell phone shop and crossed in front of a florist’s sign without looking up. He was used to seeing such sights, and traveling through them. What was weird was that there were no people.

The pedestrian-only shopping corridor down which Shiroe was walking was a bit less than an hour from Ikebukuro, a street built around a station so minor that the local residents were careful to use the term “the Tokyo metropolitan area” when referring to their location. Stations with “north” or “south” tacked onto the same place name were scattered nearby. In other words, it was a suburban city that was developing into a bedroom town.

Shiroe had been born and raised here.

However, the town seemed contrived, as if it had been faked, and he felt as though it had always treated him as a stranger.

This town, New Town, had a big population.

It had all the facilities that were required in order to live without inconvenience.

That said, the distance was tricky, and residents who were searching for home appliances or clothes or miscellaneous hobby goods all flowed into the city proper, which meant that the town had no commercial facilities to speak of. This shopping district mirrored the town itself: It wasn’t inconvenient, and it had everything. However, if you began to look for something, you generally wouldn’t find it.

It was a town that couldn’t even be called a small city. It was something like an accessory to Tokyo, and it had no center by which to define itself.

Shiroe’s parents had said they’d moved here when they got married. Their two-story house wasn’t small, but it wasn’t spacious, either, and there were many houses that were exactly the same on its street, like so many identical sisters. That residential district, the station-front area, the few vestigial fields, and the trees that lined the street were commonplace and ordinary, the sort you could find all over Japan, and they flowed past and away.

Because this centerless town had nothing it needed to protect, it changed rapidly. Neither its token station building nor its market street had any stores that could be called long-standing, and their tenants changed regularly. Residents came and went frequently as well.

The same could be said for Shiroe’s friendships. Shiroe’s elementary school had seemed pointlessly big, and one-third of its classrooms had been empty. He didn’t know whether they’d expected that many children when they’d designed it, or if it had had something to do with the city’s budget situation. From elementary school through middle and high school, the boys and girls his age had changed at dizzying speed. Now he understood that that had been something like the metabolism of New Town itself. However, as a boy, Shiroe had felt that the world was rather vague and unreliable, and that people and things could disappear at any moment.

Come to think of it…

Remembering abruptly, he looked up.

There had been a local shop on this street, a place that had used eggplant curry, a minor menu item, as its specialty dish. It had been next to the anmitsu dessert shop, he thought, after the fruit shop and the bag store. He’d hung out with friends there several times in high school. It had been a cheap-looking place, and a nostalgic one.

However, the sign with the drawing of the shady-looking Indian wasn’t there.

For a moment, Shiroe was bewildered, but then he remembered with a twinge of sadness.

It had slipped his mind, but the Indian curry house had gone out of business long ago. A mysterious establishment known as a “beef bowl café” had come in after it, then gone under in a few months, as expected, and had been followed by a ramen chain with a flashy sign that had been expanding its influence in the city center. Shiroe, who came back home from university during the long breaks, remembered it all clearly.

He’d gone to the ramen shop once, but the taste had seemed likely to give him heartburn, so he hadn’t gone back.

Although it had gone out of business, what Shiroe kept wanting again was the curry shop. The proprietor, a Muslim who spoke in Yokohama dialect for some reason, had obviously not been Indian, and the curries they served had been less like Indian-style curry than Japanese home cooking (actually, no matter how he thought about it, they’d tasted like that instant brand, Vermont Curry). However, its affordable prices and the astonishing amount of eggplant in the curry had made for the occasional feast to spice up his life.

It’s too bad it went under.

When he looked up with a sigh, the store was the ramen chain, with its gaudy sign of dancing black and red letters. Shiroe stopped, observing the shop carefully. The shutter held the words CLOSED WEDNESDAYS. The storefront, which normally had lots of banners hung out, was quiet, and the store name, which should have been written on the projecting awnings, was blurred and illegible.

Shiroe scratched at his cheek with his index finger, then came to a conclusion:

I see. This must be how it goes when you lose your memories.

The name of that ramen chain no longer existed inside Shiroe.

“I suppose that sort of thing happens.”

It wasn’t much of a shock.

He’d predicted that this would happen, and it didn’t strike him as much of a loss. People’s memories faded until they no longer remembered where they’d put them, and, like junk inside a treasure chest with a broken lock, they thinned and vanished.

The sight of the Silver Sword members falling in the midst of their attempt came back to him.

He’d known that if he challenged a raid, he would die. In the first place, raids were something you attempted repeatedly, accumulating experience, confirming your capture method, and then broke through. They weren’t taking on lower-level enemies, the way they had when they’d gone up against the sahuagins and goblins, and so it was only natural that there would be sacrifices, himself included.

Shiroe felt rather troubled and lonely.

That faint emotion was very nostalgic.

It would have been safe to call it the main hue that had colored the young Shiroe, known as Kei Shirogane.

In elementary school, and in middle school, and afterward.

Abruptly, Shiroe got the feeling he’d been harboring that emotion as he walked through the night.

He couldn’t make out even 20 percent of the store names clearly.

…Even though this was the local commercial street of a place where he’d lived from birth through high school. The rapidly changing tenants had touched Shiroe’s life briefly and vanished, but it was likely that from their point of view, he’d been the one to disappear. They’d come into contact very briefly, left traces you couldn’t even call traces, and evaporated. Before long, even the traces known as memories had vanished.

Considered rationally, Shiroe was the one who’d done the forgetting, and the stores on the street had been forgotten.

However, he felt wounded. It was as if he’d been betrayed.

When he searched for the reason, he was ashamed.

He knew his classmates from elementary and middle school probably didn’t remember him.

It was only natural not to remember a classmate who’d tended to miss school, hadn’t adapted to the class, and had always stayed in the library until dusk. Shiroe reproached himself, realizing that he’d been superimposing past classmates—people even he didn’t remember—on the stores before him.

Venting on others for no good reason. That was awfully selfish.

Even though Shiroe had been the one who’d left nothing in the town where he’d been born, this town which seemed to have everything.

Shiroe walked along the silent street, illuminated by mercury lamps.

At some point, he’d left the business quarters, crossed a bridge that looked modern but was oddly dilapidated, and neared the tree-lined street that led to the elementary school.

He was the only moving thing in this town, but the noise of heavy vehicles passing through echoed from the distant highway. The sound was like the faraway moan of the wind, and with that as background, Shiroe went on, watching his feet.

Reaching a large park, on a whim, he turned slightly and headed into it. The park surfaced palely, illuminated by security lamps, and as he’d anticipated, no one was there.

A pond stood there, covered in tiles with drawings of fish, the whole thing built large enough for children to splash around in. But now it only lay there, the surface of the water reflecting the light. Shiroe and his shadow found a bench from which he could look out over the man-made pond and sat down.

In other words, he concluded, this was probably a type of near-death experience.

Shiroe had died in the middle of the raid with Silver Sword.

In accordance with the rules of this other world, he would probably resurrect at the entrance to that raid zone, but this was a time lag, and the abnormal experience of death was showing Shiroe this dream.

He leaned against the back of the bench, looking up at the sky.

There wasn’t a single star to be seen.

…And so here I am again.

He gave a lonely smile.

Shiroe had spent many, many nights on this bench. He’d been raised in a hands-off household where both parents worked, and he’d been a regular guest of this nighttime park since he was young enough to make the staff at the city’s welfare center frown when they heard about him.

It wasn’t that he’d liked this place. He just hadn’t had anywhere else to go. When he stayed at his house alone, even if he crawled into bed, the painful feelings hounded him, and in the business quarter, there were flashily dressed boys and girls who frightened him. As an elementary schooler, the only way Shiroe had been able to forget his unpleasant feelings was to walk around the late-night town until his legs were heavy, then sit down on this park bench.

It wasn’t the sort that had made him hold his chest and squeeze his eyes shut when he was a kid, but a faint pain, which unerringly brought a quiet certainty to Shiroe. The certainty that, apparently, he’d failed again.

Shiroe had come to this exact spot many times in the past.

Ever since he was small, he’d grown up hearing people say he was “mature,” and it was true that he’d had decent comprehension and good self-control for a child. However, because this was true, children his age had seemed savage and irrational to him, and it had created a distance between them. As a result, he’d made a lot of mistakes.

He’d squandered the consideration of his classmates.

He’d coldly shaken off the hands that had been extended to him.

He’d held kindness in contempt.

He’d abandoned places when he should have stood firm and fought for them.

He hadn’t been able to understand his parents’ troubles or feelings.

All had been trivial, but they’d all been irreparable failures.

Every time he’d failed, the young Shiroe had cried on this bench, and he’d sworn in his heart to do something about it. Some things had gone well, and he’d managed to think he’d improved a little. Then he’d fail again, somewhere, and he’d sit on this bench, feeling the same way: troubled, or sad, or as if he was defective.

When you die, you understand stuff. All sorts of stuff. Like how you suck at this, or how you’re stingy or boring. If you die a hundred times, you see it a hundred times. That hurts, and they can’t keep it up.

William’s words came back to him.

He could understand wanting to leave the raid team.

This torment was far more acute than losing memories, and it couldn’t be ignored.

Shiroe knew what William had meant about this feeling very well.

If they were sent here every time they died, over and over, then Shiroe had died before, on Earth, in that town where he’d grown up.

If this was dying, Shiroe had done it many times already.

The night he’d thrown away the notebook he’d treasured. The night he’d shaken off his friend’s hand. The night he’d said “Come back soon” with a faked smile. The night he’d said good-bye to the library…

In short, dying meant feeling as if you wanted to die.

Even if it had been thinly diluted, Shiroe knew what it was like.

That was what was in his heart now. It was the fact that he’d failed at the same thing again and again, not the failure itself, that had gouged open the wound he’d thought he’d gotten rid of. How many times had he felt this emotion? At the very least, he’d been forced to feel it enough that he’d never wanted to feel it again. Still, the next thing he knew, he’d failed and come here. In the end, no matter how many decades he lived, maybe he’d never be able to move a step from this bench. The doubt clung to his back like a shadow, and he couldn’t shake it.

Shiroe didn’t yet know the future, and to him, it seemed unimaginably long.

“Several decades” was too long for him to understand. Would he live through that time, long beyond comprehension, repeating mistakes over and over?

Shiroe remembered Demiquas, who’d gritted his teeth and shoved him with all his might.

He didn’t understand why he’d done that.

He didn’t remember having done anything that would warrant getting saved by Demiquas.

William, who’d simply said, “Yeah, sure,” and held out his hand.

He didn’t know why that young guy had taken his hand, either.

The only thing he remembered doing had made William lose face…

Shiroe couldn’t understand any of it. He was so dumb it made him sick.

Naotsugu, too. In the end, Shiroe had come all this way keeping a secret, even from his friend.

Even though Minami wasn’t what Shiroe was really concerned about. It wasn’t Minami’s scouts that had Shiroe on the alert. He already knew about them.

What Shiroe was afraid of was an unknown third party.

He gazed at his fists, which he’d clenched at some point, and carefully relaxed them.

It was very likely that there was something in this world besides Shiroe and the other Adventurers and the People of the Earth. He’d suspected it might be the Kunie clan, but he’d finally realized that it wasn’t. However, that meant there must be someone else.

Say for instance that, as Li Gan had said, Shiroe and the others had been summoned to this other world through a world-class spell. The other world just happened to look exactly like the game they’d played. Could anything actually be that convenient? Of course, the possibility of it happening probably wasn’t zero, but there had to be a better explanation.

Even on the Earth Shiroe remembered that brain-wave detection technology research had been advanced. They’d been able to extract brain waves and use them to move cursors, to communicate easily with people in vegetative states, and according to recent news, they’d managed to export dreams to external equipment as images. Most of this research was being done in medical fields, and in a few decades, it would probably be applied to the fields of entertainment and space development as well. That cheerful news, the first in a long while, had lit up the Internet.

The latest research tended not to show up on the news. Some national agency might be able to inflict a gamelike virtual experience on test subjects in the course of its secret research. The possibility was definitely there.

However, it had happened to several tens of thousands of Japanese people at the same time, and that was another story entirely; the idea was ridiculous. Shiroe and the others hadn’t even been wearing special equipment.

There had to be a slightly better explanation.

Shiroe had endured the eerie feeling he’d had over the past several months, the feeling that seemed to be warning him of something, and he had continued to think on the possibilities. It was the same sensation he’d felt when he’d heard about the Spirit Theory from Li Gan. That explanation had appeared to be the correct answer, and he fumbled roughly through the darkness that lay in its depths, using only the power of his thoughts.

He’d used his Round Table Council connections to commission a variety of investigations.

He’d asked Roderick about the possibilities of flavor text. Soujirou about changes in monster ecology. Michitaka about how the southern plants were flourishing. He’d asked Calasin to collect and organize the folk tales of Eastal, the League of Free Cities.

With each investigation, he’d found multiple items of proof. It was supporting evidence that there was no “third party” in this world. For that very reason, Shiroe’s doubt had grown stronger. “Stories someone had just remembered,” presented at a convenient time, seemed to be proof from the opposite side.

…But that’s no excuse. I was careless. I was afraid, and I stopped trying to know.

There had been more he could have done for Demiquas, and for William.

He should have told Naotsugu everything. Nyanta, too.

Shiroe’s efforts to avoid worrying people had probably caused them endless trouble. This was something he should have learned many times over, but his laziness had caused it all to amount to nothing.

Just as they’d waited for him to invite them to a guild on that windy night, the people Shiroe treasured were undoubtedly waiting for him again.

Hadn’t they proved to him that his cowardice and laziness had only kept people away?

Shiroe thought about getting up from the bench and starting back to where everyone was.

If he didn’t do at least that much, he’d be embarrassed to face them.

He also had to apologize to Kinjo.

In that hut in the snow, Shiroe had doubted him, and he’d been stingy with his words.

He had been stingy. He really should have said everything he could with all the power he had. For the sake of the future Shiroe believed in, he should have persuaded Kinjo. He should have insisted that this was a significant problem for both of them, as fellow inhabitants trying their best to live in this world.

He had no positive proof, but Shiroe felt eyes watching him. It seemed as though it had always been like that, from the beginning, from the very instant of the Catastrophe.

Shiroe stood, using the slight kickback as an assist, and in that instant, he heard a voice he knew from somewhere.

It was like a whisper from someone, foretelling a chance encounter.

2

After the lightheaded sensation that always accompanied teleportation, Shiroe was standing on a vast, white, sandy beach.

The clear light of dawn illuminated the waterline.

The slowly repeating waves made faint sounds, trailing lacy patterns of foam.

The borderline between white and blue continued into the distance, as far as he could see.

When he took a step, the noise it made—like crumbling mille-feuille—startled him.

Shiroe began walking, awestruck by the unblemished sand.

There was no point in just standing there, and he felt as if he were being led by something.

When the wind buffeted Shiroe’s cheek and he looked up, a great shadow was making for the sky’s zenith from behind him.

Did those elegant wings belong to some sort of seabird?

The white shape danced in the dark cobalt sky, as if playing with its fellows.

Its smooth flight rode the wind, and Shiroe remembered a novel by Richard Bach that he’d read a long time ago. Like that seagull, the seabird flew on forever.

Still, what a strange place…

For a near-death experience, it didn’t look familiar.

He wondered if it was somewhere he’d visited in early childhood. He remembered reading in an article that people didn’t lose memories; they only stopped being able to retrieve them. Still, Shiroe thought perversely, since human memories are encoded connections between synapses, isn’t it all right to consider them lost if you aren’t able to decode them? Regardless, he really didn’t remember this place.

That said, even if it wasn’t in his memories, it was beautiful.

The perfectly clear winter air seemed to unfold infinitely over the sand dunes.

A pale, unspoiled cream color. An ultramarine so clear it felt wasteful to put it into words. The contrast between the two was so vivid it made his eyes smart.

All alone, Shiroe walked along the water’s edge.

His footprints on the ivory sand seemed to be the first in tens of thousands of years. They were a log that traced his path.

Whether it was because he’d left it on that bench in the park or because the silver sands he’d walked over had absorbed it, the sense of helplessness Shiroe had felt was gone.

Only a faint sense of guilt remained. It was a debt he’d have to repay after he resurrected.

Shiroe, who’d walked for a long time, stared out at the ocean as he organized his thoughts.

At his feet, particles of light formed widening ripples.

There was a peculiar crystalline sound, and it triggered a doubt in Shiroe.

The lapis lazuli orb that illuminated the beach was cobalt-marbled with clouds, something he’d seen only in photos. The light in the heavens, which he’d just assumed was the moon, was a blue planet.

—Is this the moon?

When he looked around, that seemed to be the correct answer.

The sand dunes the color of desiccated dinosaur bones and the dreamlike sapphire light that washed over them were a fragile, fantastic sight.

Quickly checking the zone, Shiroe confirmed that this was the fourteenth server, a place he’d heard of only in rumors.

The zone name was Mare Tranquillitatis.

Apparently it hadn’t been registered to the automatic translation system yet. If he believed the display, shown in its original language, this was the Sea of Tranquility.

This was probably the test server Atharva Company had packed with content that was currently under development. Shiroe didn’t know whether the Catastrophe had brought it to this side of things, or whether there were different circumstances at play.

With no way to investigate, Shiroe searched his memories, grateful for the fact that it was possible to breathe.

Through the Half-Gaia Project, Elder Tales had been equipped with a world that approximated Earth, and its territory was divided across thirteen servers. The test server was said to be a fourteenth server not officially included in that number.

However, that didn’t mean it was secret.

Users were able to create characters on the test server at will. Characters created on that server couldn’t be moved to the regular game server; all they could do was explore an endless labyrinth that spread through a subterranean world.

Even so, this system held benefits both for users and for the developer.

The developer was able to have Elder Tales players—outstanding debuggers with basic knowledge—check systems that were currently under development at no cost. The most surefire way to improve quality where the damage balance from special combat skills and weapons was concerned was to ask for input from users who’d actually played the content, instead of simply acquiring the numerical balance through simulations.

To users, this server was a place where they could experience elements that would be introduced to the game in the near future, free of charge. Changes in combat balance and the introduction of new special skills, items, and monsters all changed the game environment. The surest way to get this new information a step ahead of everyone else was to participate in debugging the test server.

These two sets of motives had made it possible to operate the test server.

The server was a system by which Atharva Company, the North American developer of Elder Tales, developed common global content and researched system updates in cooperation with beta testers.

Shiroe himself had a subcharacter permanently stationed on this test server.

Considering that the character was a female Summoner, the fact that he’d gotten caught up in the Catastrophe as his main character (Shiroe) was probably all for the best.

However, even though Shiroe had some knowledge of the test server, he hadn’t known that that server had a “surface.” There hadn’t been any data like that on the overseas information sites, either.

As the name indicated, the server was an environment for tests.

When Shiroe thought of it, he pictured a labyrinthine, underground world divided into areas labeled only with numbers and composed of a series of dungeons: some old, some new, and some that had been scrapped.

Although it was only a vague memory, he seemed to recall that, during the week before the new expansion pack had been released, the personnel who operated the test server had been redirected to expansion work as well, which meant it hadn’t been possible to log in.

Shiroe mulled over the information he’d acquired, but it didn’t yield any new theories.

In the first place, he’d never heard of people coming to the test server during near-death experiences.

Had the other Adventurers not realized this was the test server?

Shiroe thought that was a possibility.

Since the area managed by the test server wasn’t in the Half-Gaia Project, the idea that it might be on the moon or something had been debated only on overseas message boards a few times. Among Japanese players, it wasn’t anything close to major knowledge.

If Shiroe hadn’t known, even he wouldn’t have understood that Mare Tranquillitatis was the Sea of Tranquility. He was pretty sure that was Latin.

When he’d thought that far, Shiroe abruptly realized that there was someone very close to him, looking up at him.

The figure was disrupted by digital noise, like falling snow. When Shiroe strained his eyes, it proved to be none other than Akatsuki, the girl he knew well.

She wore a camel-colored duffel coat, and she was looking up at Shiroe with an expression that was wary and slightly troubled, yet pleading.

It made him remember a neighborhood cat that had refused to be friendly, but had always come right up close to him.

When Shiroe nodded, Akatsuki seemed to feel the same sort of relief.

She was looking up through her eyelashes as if she were sulking, but Shiroe knew her expression grew very gentle when she smiled.

A satisfied, cheerful, bashful smile.

As if inviting Akatsuki to follow, Shiroe began to walk down the beach again. After all, there didn’t seem to be any information to be gained from staying where he was, and Akatsuki, who was twirling around at the waterline, seemed to want to move forward.

The two of them made their way along the beach, taking their time.

He didn’t sense any malice or hostility here at all, but even so, it was an unfamiliar place.

Shiroe kept a careful eye on their surroundings, but Akatsuki seemed to be relaxed.

When he looked back, she was bent over, scrutinizing their tracks in the sand.

When Shiroe noticed this, he turned back and stopped, and she ran up to him with a lightness that made her seem weightless. She spun around him.

Then the two of them began walking again, side by side, and sometimes Akatsuki went on ahead, checking the waterline or pointing at a large bird in flight.

The girl was like a swallow, and her cute camel-colored duffel coat suited her very well.

Possibly because she was a little cold, her cheeks were faintly apple colored, and she sometimes walked ahead of him as if to hurry him along.

This world really must be connected to Elder Tales.

The atmosphere was vast, and the low sound of the wind, unique to the outdoors, showed its slow movement. It harmonized with the sound of the surf, forming the basic background noise for the world. The only other sound was the noise of their footsteps.

Maybe because she was a little frightened of something, Akatsuki’s footsteps grew slower, and she started to lag behind.

Shiroe waited for her patiently, taking his time.

Waiting didn’t bother him at all.

At some point, pure white phosphorescence had begun to drift down from the sky.

The light was endlessly pearlescent and pale, and it fell equally over the dunes and the wide ocean, Shiroe and Akatsuki.

Startled, Shiroe touched it with a fingertip, and felt his heart ache at its dreamlike fragility.

It was just like the snow he’d touched as a child: Even when he thought he’d caught it, when he looked at the palm of his hand, it was gone.

Akatsuki’s eyes were round, and Shiroe nodded to her.

They were both seeing the same wonder.

They were touching the same marvel.

For no reason at all, this brought Shiroe a sense of peaceful satisfaction.

Fear, anger, and regret were all melting into the quiet winter beach. The two stilled in the face of such silence, and its serenity purified them.

“I didn’t think it would be such a quiet place,” Shiroe murmured, stopping at the edge of a perfectly clear, blue inlet.

“Mm.”

From beside him, Akatsuki responded.

The response had been brief, but Shiroe had sensed a feeling of awe in her voice that matched his own.

From far, far beyond the horizon of the ocean, a sound like a church bell echoed faintly.

It seemed almost like an old signal from an unknown species that had lived in isolation since its birth, for tens of thousands of years, and was attempting to communicate its existence to its companions.

Although he had no grounds for thinking so, Shiroe was sure that this inlet was a special place.

Next to him, Akatsuki trembled slightly before she released a heartrending sigh.

At that, for the first time, Shiroe realized Akatsuki had met with death as well.

Even if it was temporary, death was death. It had passed mercilessly over Akatsuki, and had left its mark. She must have felt grief, as well as humiliation.

However, Akatsuki’s eyes at the moment were a little more mature, and far stronger, than the ones Shiroe knew.

If, as William said, death taught you something, then they had a duty not to waste it. Shiroe swore this firmly in his heart, even though he didn’t know what the purpose of that duty might be.

If that was why this inlet took memories, then he wanted to offer them himself, as compensation.

That was Shiroe’s wish.

This was a necessary ritual, in order to become someone who knew just a little more than he’d known yesterday; in order to overcome his regrets and get closer to something he’d wanted.

Shiroe took a small knife from his pocket and voluntarily cut away a tiny piece of his memories.

Seeing this, Akatsuki cut off the tip of her ponytail as well and let the sea take it.

The snow that fell from the sky, this blue ocean—all of it was made from emotion shards.

As liquid energy, soul fragments created the sound of the surf.

The tears shed by Adventurers who hadn’t made it to this inlet were also swallowed by the ocean. This was more a certainty than a guess. Right now, Shiroe was seeing the Spirit Theory with his own eyes.

A small hand gripped his coat.

Without taking his eyes off the ocean, Shiroe whispered, “Amazing.”

Akatsuki nodded. Until the throbbing in their chests subsided, they both gazed out over the sea.

“You fell, Akatsuki?”

At Shiroe’s words, Akatsuki looked startled, but she nodded.

Gazing desperately up at him, the young woman opened her mouth to speak.

Or rather, tried to speak.

It seemed hard for her to do so; she gave it several tries, then shut her mouth tightly in a thin line.

When Akatsuki looked up at him again, she had tears in her eyes, but they seemed to be tears of frustration more than sadness. In the end, she hugged her inner pain to herself, confessing none of it to Shiroe.

Her expression hurt him. To be here in the first place, Akatsuki had to have gone up against a very difficult problem and been defeated. He wished he could have helped, but he hadn’t been there.

“I see. That makes two of us, then. I died.”

“You, too, my liege?”

“Mm-hmm.”

When he closed his eyes, it came back to him—Silver Sword’s firm voice:

The ring of clashing swords, of blazing flame and freezing cold spells.

He wasn’t frustrated because he’d failed to win.

What frustrated him was the fact that he hadn’t done all he could, hadn’t accomplished what he’d needed to do.

However, Akatsuki’s burning eyes didn’t hold the slightest trace of fear.

She might have been defeated, but she hadn’t lost.

Shiroe didn’t know what had happened, but as he looked at her, he sensed that they were the same. That pain was Akatsuki’s treasure. The pride of someone who’d resolved to fight, pride that must be retaken.

That meant there was no need to comfort her.

“I messed up. My predictions were too naïve. —I didn’t believe completely.”

He’d been reluctant with his words.

He’d been reluctant to take others’ hands.

He’d been reluctant to give it his all.

“I don’t understand.”

The voice seemed to be on the verge of tears, but it was desperately trying to encourage him. Shiroe wanted to tell her, It’s all right. I understand. I know you’re working hard, Akatsuki. I know you’ll understand someday. Maybe you’re a little lost right now, but it’s a detour you need to take.

…But he couldn’t say it yet. The petite young woman was fighting. Shiroe was fighting, too. Neither of their raid battles was over.

“It’s funny. I never thought I’d get to meet you here, Akatsuki.”

“Yes, my liege. It’s funny.”

So he touched Akatsuki’s small, round forehead, praying to the inlet that all the things he couldn’t tell her would get through to her somehow.

Mistakes couldn’t be erased. However, as Adventurers, they could stand up and try again.

“…And so I’ll try one more time.”

“I’ll try again, too, I suppose— Everyone taught me.”

Countless phosphorescent particles drifted down over the two of them.

This world was one horizon leading to eternity, with all emotion etched into it.

That understanding made the world’s light even clearer.

From far away, the sound of the surf rolled toward them.

It washed over the shining beach, lapping at Shiroe’s and Akatsuki’s ankles.

Shiroe smiled at his friend. Their time was ending.

However, it was linked to their reunion.

He moved the hand he’d set on Akatsuki’s head slightly, feeling troubled. As a rule, right about now, he could have expected a flying kick from her. Don’t treat me like a child, et cetera. But because it didn’t come, and because Akatsuki’s expression was serious, he wasn’t sure how to stop.

Akatsuki, looking perplexed, began to say something. The music of the water kept Shiroe from hearing her voice, but he didn’t worry over it. The sensation of her hair, like fine, cool silk, remained on his fingertips.

Its softness definitely saved Shiroe.

3

When William opened his eyes, he was looking up at a ceiling so high that it blurred in his vision.

A hoarse voice spilled out of his stinging throat.

He knew how pitiful and mangy his face looked, but he couldn’t hold back the rumble that seemed to be leaking out of him. In the only resistance he could manage, he rubbed his arm roughly across his eyes. He didn’t even have to check to know that they were wet.

He’d been crying like a child. The disgrace of it crushed his chest.

Around him, low, moaning voices rose, one after another.

The members of Silver Sword were automatically resurrecting, one by one.

This was the entrance to Abyssal Shaft, the beginning of the zone.

William’s group had been wiped out, brought back to this place, and revived.

It was the sort of annihilation that always accompanied raids, but it was something different as well.

Three raid bosses had appeared and kicked William’s unit to pieces.

This informed Silver Sword of two facts:

First, that there was no way they could win this fight.

Second, raids were built on a very delicate balance between being winnable and unwinnable. Guilds that had gotten equipment together and trained repeatedly fought through battles that were like walking a tightrope, and in the end, they won: That was a raid. Therefore, if three large-scale boss battles linked together like that, there was—without exaggeration—absolutely no chance of victory. The more used to raids one was, the better one understood this.

There was no possibility that they could win this fight.

It was despair that painted William’s heart pitch-black.

The second news was even worse. No—it was bad beyond comparison. If raid bosses were able to band together now, and if it was happening everywhere, it meant there was no longer a single raid in the world that Silver Sword could win.

Of course, in a raid that players with very low levels—say, level 50—could attempt, if an extra boss appeared, they might be able to deal with it. However, when William’s group thought of raids, that wasn’t what they pictured. They weren’t banding together to seek out weak enemies and torment them.

The raid William and the others wanted was the type where they fought an enemy on their level and their blood seethed in their veins, and that type of raid had just died.

The breath William spat out was stone cold. An indescribable listlessness was torturing him.

The same could be said for his companions. Their low, crushed-sounding voices went on endlessly.

Anything William had been able to understand must have been clear to everyone in Silver Sword as well.

They hadn’t even needed to be annihilated: The instant the raid bosses had appeared from the great gates of the coliseum as reinforcements, the raid members had known.

This world had rejected them.

Forcing his limp body to move, William sat up, only to see Silver Sword in the process of being crushed. It wasn’t the sort of scene where anyone could have said nonsense like, “I don’t want my comrades to see me looking pitiful.” Simply being wiped out wouldn’t have done this to them. Hearts broken, the members just lay there or curled up, without the energy to stand. They were suffering, all vitality gone.

To Adventurers, physical pain wasn’t lethal. What was searing their souls was the brand of having been exiled from the world.

He heard sobbing. Disgraceful weeping, escaping from full-grown adults.

William knew the reason behind it. He’d been in contact with it himself until just a moment ago.

Losing memories was nothing. William could declare this more firmly than D.D.D., who left a safety margin when they acted, or the Knights of the Black Sword, who pressed forward with their captures through strong teamwork, or Honesty, with their damned egalitarian principles. This was something Silver Sword could say precisely because it had, without question, been wiped out more often than any other raid guild on the server.

The instant between death and resurrection when they were shown their own mistakes and imperfections, that soul-chilling torrent of memories, chipped away at raiders’ souls. They needed to win only a little. No matter how many mistakes they’d made, they could make a fresh start, saying they’d corrected their errors and had grown… But how could they cancel out a mistake they couldn’t fully atone for, or regret they couldn’t shake?

Voices reverberated inside him like echoes from the past.

“And? What is that good for?”

“Wow. A game, huh…?”

“On a PC? These days? What’s wrong with social network games?”

“You stay home on holidays?”

To hell with that.

William spat the words out.

“Well, sure, you don’t look like the type that gets asked to go sing karaoke and stuff.”

“You mean you talk to the computer, right? Yikes…”

“Why don’t you pick a hobby that could be useful to you someday?”

“Mm, yeah, there are people like that out there, too. Why not?”

To hell with it.

William roughly wiped his face.

He attempted to leap to his feet, but pathetically, his knees were quaking.

He tried to yell, but realized he had no words that would encourage his friends. What was he going to do, inspire them? Tell them they’d win the next one? He couldn’t do that. It would be a lie. Then should he tell them to shake it off and invite them to go find a different raid with him? Leave this place and run home… That was impossible.

Could he scowl at them and deliver a parting shot of “Let ’em say what they want,” as usual? There was no way he could. His comrades were lying there, prostrate with apathy, and words like those wouldn’t reach them.

William’s mouth hung open, and his gaze swam.

He saw Dinclon. Touko. Junzou. Eltendiska.

He gazed at his friends, one after another.

Then, before long, he stopped being able to look at anything except his own feet.

William was watching his own guild crumble, and he didn’t even have anything to say to them. His heart had been knocked down so many times; every time, it had been shown its own flaws and laziness and had pieces shaved off it, and now there was nothing left in it for him to offer them.

William searched desperately.

He looked for words he could share with his comrades.

However, he found nothing in his frightened, cringing heart.

He heard a voice mutter, “So, what, is this the end?”

He didn’t know who it had been, but one of his companions had probably said it. At the words they’d heard from a corner of the sprawling hall, everyone sucked in their breath. After all, it was something that scared everyone here to the point where they’d been trying not to think it.

Those words set a question even William couldn’t run from right in front of him.

We’ll go back to Susukino and become a good guild that keeps the peace.

The People of the Earth will probably be grateful. This world runs on the law of the jungle, and the Ezzo Empire in particular gets a lot of monster attacks. People are desperate to protect their way of life. That’s what Susukino’s like, and as long as Adventurers behave themselves, they’re popular there. We could even mingle with the People of the Earth, get girlfriends and stuff. We don’t have to stick with raids; if we’re just conducting defensive quests in the area around the town, Silver Sword’s combat abilities are good enough.

It was so utterly ridiculous that William felt as though his insides were on fire.

“Maybe so. Probably so. I think so. But so what? To hell with that.”

Surrendering to his frustration, William rebelled, without a thought for the consequences.

That probably wouldn’t be a bad way to live.

It was a way of life that skillfully avoided trouble in this other world, purchasing safety.

…But it was also exactly the same as the words of “advice” the adults with know-it-all faces had given William.

“Yeah, we lost. Total annihilation. We might be through. It was probably useless. Like those other guys always say, we’re probably just idiots who’ve been doing stupid stuff this whole time. We’re shut-in game junkies. Total rejects. —But who cares? We already knew that. We’re doing this with our eyes open. Still, we like games. We chose this.”

It would be okay to end it. That was what William had thought.

However, even if they lost, even if they were through, there was something they couldn’t ignore.

There was something they absolutely couldn’t just leave.

William went on, as if the blazing, roasting heat inside him had given him a shove.

“It’s nothing big. We lost in a raid, that’s all. This stuff happens all the time. No need to be shocked. All this means is that the wins-and-losses data recorded on the server will go up by one, or it won’t. ‘Games are just kid stuff. It’s about time we grew up and went back to town’—I’m never gonna say that. I won’t let any of you say it either. We lost, and maybe we’re crap maggots and the lowest of the low, but I won’t let even God say it was useless.”

To William, raids were something special.

They were the heart of Elder Tales, which gave them about the same meaning as “the center of the universe.”

“What does the bit data recorded on the server mean, anyway? Is that what you asked? It’s got meaning. Because I decided it did. I decided it was something awesome, something fantastic. The lot that believes there’s some ‘correct value’ that the powers that be decided, and that it plays the same way for the entire country… Guys who believe a line like that can’t understand this. Guys who say ‘The value you people believe in is stupid, and that means you’re wrong’ won’t understand this as long as they live. No matter how dumb we look, no matter what kind of a gilded fake it seems to be, if I—if we—think it’s awesome, then it’s awesome. Isn’t that choosing? I’m here because I chose to be!”

To him, this was a sacred oath, and he wouldn’t let anyone diss it. With a chest-searing pain that he couldn’t hold back even by gritting his teeth, William harangued them.

At some point, the members of Silver Sword had sat up, or planted themselves on the ground, and they were looking up at their guild master and field battle commander.

“We spent time in Elder Tales. We spent a long, long time there. Tough enemies showed up, and we took up our swords and our bows and charged at them. We rushed them, yelling like little kids. Then we either won, or we lost. Yeah, that’s right, all of that was just bits on the server turning into ones or zeroes. What about it? We got obsessed over it. That’s awesome. If we won, we were flying high, and we’d celebrate the victory. We’d divvy up the fantasy-class stuff equally and drink a toast. If we lost, we’d get frustrated, hold a review meeting and kick up a ruckus until after midnight. If you want to call that pointless, you go right ahead. Maybe it’s a toy or a showy trinket, but it doesn’t matter. If we think it’s awesome, and we decide to sink our time into it, then it’s the real thing!”

William howled. He expelled the heat from his lungs, loading it with resentment and bitterness.

But that was as far as it went.

The flames that had pushed him into motion blazed up all at once, burning him to ashes body and soul, and vanished. Victory and defeat belonged to combat; they were a part of it.

Raids were the most sacred of all battles.

They were something that should not be violated.

Making light of them meant showing contempt for the enormous amount of time William and the others had spent striving for them. William’s group had lost the match, and now they were broken. There was no way to reverse that.

As a result, there were no more words for him to say.

There wasn’t a single thing that could rouse his comrades.

“…I mean, we were like that, you know? That’s what we were, right? I dunno about guys who have all sorts of stuff. Guys who can live cleverly and be popular have pretty much everything, so they can just get by on that. Do you have something like that? Anything’s fine. Anything that can take you as far as you want and help you make friends with anybody. It could be brains, or looks, or a cheerful personality, or funny jokes. Anything’s fine, so do you have something like that, the stuff that makes guys who shine in real life all shiny? Do you? …I don’t. I don’t have one single thing.”

Even so, still looking down, William went on in a low mutter.

It was no longer a secret that belonged to a sacred battle.

It certainly was true, but compared to the magnificent Elder Tales, it was trivial. In short, it was William’s small, personal confession.

He no longer had anything that would let him throw out his chest and address the members. Even so, the guild master of Silver Sword continued to face them.

4

“Listen. I never said it before, and I couldn’t say it before, but you’re my friends. Without the game, see, I can’t make friends. Seriously lame, right? What a loser. But because I had the game, I managed to get by. And because I had the game, I knew what you were thinking. When I game, I think, ‘Oh, this guy wants to be recovered,’ or ‘This one’s dropped back, but she really wants to move up,’ or ‘This one’s all hesitant so they can’t say it, but they really want this armlet that boosts magic strength.’ And that’s not all. I think things like, ‘This person really thinks about what’s best for their friends,’ or ‘That one’s a coward, but they’re shouting at the top of their lungs,’ or ‘He’s tired, but he psyched himself up and logged in today.’ I can tell stuff like that. I really do understand.”

William desperately strung together scraps of words that wouldn’t flow smoothly.

It was fragmented sincerity, and not the least bit organized.

It was the last remaining flame, no more than the tip of a fingernail.

Elder Tales had taught William a lot of things. If it hadn’t, there was no way a high school kid who was bad at talking and couldn’t make friends could have made it as a guild master.

He doesn’t understand others’ feelings. Self-righteous. Inconsiderate. Uncooperative. Can’t stick with anything. Can’t read atmospheres. Doesn’t try to be part of the group.

Even an isolated boy who’d been told things like that—who had thought that, if that was how it was, his critics could shove it and he’d have none of it—had been able to make a few connections in Elder Tales. He’d treasured those connections and protected them, making sure not to treat them carelessly. As long as William had lent his ear to the very first friend he’d taken into his thin arms, Elder Tales revealed many secrets to him.

The first secret he’d learned had been teamwork.

With some players, it went well, and with others, it didn’t. Some players were skilled, and some were lousy. Slowly, he’d figured out what he had to do in order to work with them. In short, William just had to match their pace. When he’d thought a player was lousy, he simply hadn’t understood what they were trying to do. If he synchronized himself with them, most players’ moods got a lot better.

He then began to go on raids.

The required teamwork grew harder and harder, but William didn’t let himself fall behind. Little by little, the number of players he could make small talk with increased. Once he tried connecting with them, he found they were all good-natured people.

The second secret: Strangely, on nights when they’d had fun talking about stupid stuff, their win rate rose. He learned that dumb, pointless stories had a mysterious power that brought victory to their efforts.

William learned more and more.

Some of his friends were in good shape, and some were in bad shape. Condition was important. He started taking an interest in how other people lived. Some of his friends played enthusiastically, and some were low-energy. His friends had all sorts of worries. Of course they did. He realized, belatedly, that everyone else was just like he was. Then he started to understand what they wanted. It was simple: They all wanted to go on raids and win.

Who should get recovered this time? Which enemy should they concentrate their attacks on? Should they press forward with their attack, or call in substitutes and build their strength back up? Should they go all out, or keep it to about 70 percent?

Even if they disagreed on what they needed to do in order to win, each of them wished for the best. It just wasn’t going well, that was all. They went along resolving those little mistakes and disagreements, one by one. Finally, they won, and even though it was a small victory, William’s group was over the moon.

The third secret had been a little painful for William.

He’d learned to ask the people around him questions, and to be open-minded.

It had happened only after his friends had learned to put up with William’s short temper, but he’d managed to learn a little. After he’d learned it, he was able to understand that it was necessary.

Many raid guilds were short-lived. Twenty or more members fought harsh battles, winning or losing, over and over. If they were lucky, they could get treasure every time, but even if they were victorious on a raid, there was no guarantee they’d get the fantasy-class items they wanted. Naturally, dissatisfied members cropped up, and strained relationships and calculations about individual interest appeared. In a situation like that, most raid guilds didn’t even last half a year before disappearing.

Before Silver Sword had destroyed itself with the strife that always accompanied raid guilds, the people in question had learned enough tolerance to be able to talk with each other. William learned to trust the people around him and speak frankly, and the guild members learned that, although their leader might be short-tempered, he wasn’t malicious. For a raid guild, this was a very fortunate thing.

William did sometimes wish he’d picked up on that secret a bit earlier, but on the other hand, it was a secret he’d managed to learn precisely because he’d wanted to protect this guild.

By the time William understood the secret to spending time with others, Silver Sword had begun to develop a reputation as an up-and-coming raid guild.

“So I know now, too… You feel like that was it, don’t you? Game Over. It didn’t work. You feel like this is the genuine end. It might be. It might be, but…”

For that reason, William understood.

He knew how pitch-black everyone’s feelings were right now.

He knew that, with their precious raids taken from them, they were watching him and feeling like abused dogs. Even if he felt so pitiful he couldn’t look at his friends, he knew.

“When I came to this world, I’m not gonna lie: I was happy. That must’ve been true for you guys, too, at least a little. I bet nobody here was one hundred percent against the idea, right? I mean, this is Elder Tales. The world we threw ourselves into like idiots. The world of the raids we’re better at than anybody. I thought, ‘This could work.’ But more than that, more than anything, I was glad I was with you. You’re just like you were in the game, see. Me, too, but anyway. I guess that doesn’t matter. As long as we can go on raids together, I’m good. There’s nobody in this world who’ll make fun of us, either.”

William sniffled.

The veteran field commander, the elf sniper with the byname “Mithril Eyes,” was no more.

“Still, that’s why even if we lose, we can’t run. Listen! Maybe we can’t win. Yeah, we probably can’t. In fact, we’re almost certain to lose. But that’s no good; there are some things we absolutely should just not admit. And anyway, if we go home like that, what are we going to do? If you take this away from us, what do we have left?—we played Elder Tales so hard we scared other people away! These past two years were solid Elder Tales for me. It’s all I thought about, morning to night. I ate, slept, and bathed just so I could do this. I even studied for Elder Tales. If you want to call me a washed-up loser, do it. I’m such a hardcore gamer no one wants to be around me. I’m such a social misfit that I can be psyched beyond belief, all night, over a single rare item. I played this thing for keeps… So I can’t cut and run just because a second or third raid boss showed up. Hell, even if I ran, where would I go?! After I ran, you think I could make fun of games and live like that? Like I could make friends if I stopped raiding? Should I laugh a little and say, ‘Boy was that a big fat waste of time…’?! Up yours. To hell with that.”

It was all mixed up.

Were they supposed to stand their ground and just keep dying? How many more times would they have to feel like that?

They’d been able to suck it up and get through it because they’d had a hope of victory, but that hope was gone now.

What you’re doing is just a game, even if the world’s changed; it’s just a game, you people are parasites, completely worthless, and you can’t even win at that game— How were they supposed to face a reality like that?

“I…I’ve run before. I was confused, but I finally got it. It was in Akiba, at that first Round Table Council. Back then, I’d just gotten started in this world, and I wanted to go raiding so bad I couldn’t stand it. That’s why I didn’t join the RTC: so I could go on raids. That’s the truth. I’m not lying. But I also thought, ‘These people are doing something really dumb. What a waste of time. I’m surprised the pigs can keep that up when they’ve got no shot at winning.’ I made fun of them. I did something I hate so much I’d deck anyone who did it to me. It cracks me up. I know now. I ran. It looked like it wasn’t gonna work, so I just let it go right by me.”

Even so, there were players who hadn’t run.

That was something William idolized.

The legendary band of players who’d been formidable opponents for the big guilds in tough raids, even though they weren’t a guild themselves.

William had still been a new player, and hearing about their exploits had thrilled him.

It had thrilled him so much that he’d resolved that someday, even if he was a loner, he’d get them to let him join that fantastic team.

By the time William had gotten himself leveled up to 90, the group had disbanded. It struck William as an awful betrayal. They hadn’t waited for him. Not only that, but its members had gone back to playing solo and scattered, without forming a guild. Then what was the point of leaving those legends? he’d thought.

“But Shiroe won. I thought that raid was pointless and impossible and they’d never win it, but he won it, and he made Akiba. It was the raid that made a town. I shouldn’t have laughed at that. —I thought he was an awesome raider, and a great commander.”

There was a player who’d fought, without running.

The high ranker he’d once looked up to really hadn’t been ordinary at all.

“Because when that guy, Shiroe, got down on his knees and asked, I jumped at the chance. ‘Of course we don’t have a shot at winning. I’d expect nothing less. Machiavelli-with-Glasses brought this one in, so obviously we’re all gonna go through hell. You can tell the guy’s a damn pain-in-the-butt sadist just by looking at his face!’ But…I also thought that it would be fun. I thought it would be great if we could win. Why? Because we’re hardcore raiders!”

William could feel the heat gathering in the air. When he looked up, he saw the faces of his guild members. Their expressions held pain like his, pain they were unable to vent.

They might be able to give it just one more try.

The heat that dwelled inside them gave him that impression. William had set his comrades on fire.

However, there was no sense of victory or achievement there. Instead, he felt stifling pressure and responsibility.

William was a guild master, and he was about to lead his comrades into the jaws of death, an unwinnable battle. Neither Krusty nor Isaac would have made that decision. Although they were combat guilds, they’d been smart enough to understand the significance of the Round Table Council and give it their cooperation.

I am a seriously dumb guild master.

William’s lips were on the verge of trembling, and he bit them hard.

As he tasted seeping iron, he scrabbled frantically for a plan.

He wanted to win. He wanted to win more than he ever had before, but it wasn’t for his own glory. It was from the frenzied desire to give his comrades victory.

5

Shiroe’s consciousness returned in the way dawn gradually began to turn the world blue. Words filtered down to him, like light through water.

It was a mutter like a scream.

A man’s halting voice, protesting unfairness.

William’s confession was quiet, but Shiroe never lost track of it as he regained consciousness. As if prompted by those words, he began thinking to himself.

Shiroe tended to be isolated, and his normal state was monopolized by pondering, to the point where it was inseparable from his own orientation.

The fact that there was a “self” he could question seemed to be proof that his mind was awake.

The first thing he did was start to confirm the circumstances and examine future developments.

Flatly rejecting the dizzying, drunken feeling and the bewilderment of resurrection, Shiroe began analyzing the raid capture and its peripherals without a moment’s delay.

In the first fifteen seconds, he understood that these were seriously difficult circumstances. It would probably have been more accurate to call them impossible. Only twenty-four people could enter this zone, and it wasn’t possible to overthrow the enemy’s total forces with numbers like that.

If it had been just Ruseato of the Seventh Garden, they could have won.

His grasp of the monster’s distinguishing characteristics was complete, more or less. In Black Knight mode, Ruseato gave off single, powerful attacks, reflection of close-range damage, and ranged attacks. In White Knight mode, these switched to self-recovery and kin summoning.

Almost all raid bosses had a variety of distinguishing features. They took special actions and went through transformations depending on elements such as time and remaining HP. It was safe to say that seeing through these features and putting together tactics was the foundation of defeating raid bosses.

He’d finished studying these features for Ruseato of the Seventh Garden. That didn’t mean they’d be able to win right away, but he did feel they’d be able to win if they practiced a few more times. They wouldn’t have to suffer through hideous consequences like being wiped out in order to practice; even if the front line fell, they’d only have to retreat temporarily. He could say they had a shot at victory.

However, when it came to the frost giant, Tartaulga of the Fourth Garden, and the fiery serpent, Ibra Habra of the Third Garden, things were different. They hadn’t even scouted those two yet. He didn’t know how far it was safe to use Tartaulga of the Fourth Prison and Ibra Habra of the Third Prison as reference, but it was likely that the two attacks that had annihilated Shiroe’s group had been ordinary ranged attacks. They were probably attacks with massive damage and recast times of anywhere between 50 and 150 seconds. They weren’t certain-kill attacks, and they weren’t “distinguishing features” they’d have to capture. He had absolutely no hope of conquering them.

In addition, those two would attack at the same time. That wasn’t all: It was even possible that other bosses in this zone would join the fray. No matter how you looked at it, they were done for. They had no prospect of victory whatsoever.

Shiroe listened to the warning voice inside him: Don’t think about why it’s impossible. Think of solutions. The kind words were entirely correct, but they did make him feel like complaining that the demands were always too hard.

In his mind, a row of blue cards sat before him, to his right. These were the conditions he had. His advantages or, in other words, his weapons: Silver Sword’s experience, his friends, support from the Round Table Council, the facts that had been made clear to him up until now, and information.

Farther back on his right were the difficulties he had to overcome, in the shape of phantom cards. Ruseato, Tartaulga, Ibra Habra, and the other bosses they hadn’t seen yet. They’d nearly gotten through the dungeon area in this zone. Almost all the map was clear. The only things left were the three, or possibly four, bosses.

He thought up several strategies, then sorted them based on the possibility of making them happen. The odds were so low they didn’t really merit discussion, but he tinkered with each strategy, seeing whether he could improve them. They really weren’t at a place where they could be put to practical use.

The various reforms in this world were subject to individual limitations. For example, when developing a new dish, the level of the Chef dictated whether or not it would be possible to make it. In combat, this manifested as more severe personalization. Even if you had a lot of powerful weapons, their use was limited by their level. For example, even if he’d had a Gatling gun and trench mortar now, he’d barely have been able to make use of them. More than powerful weapons and spells, they needed to break through the circumstances.

He knew he was asking the impossible, but right now, for Shiroe, the word retreat didn’t exist.

Next, Shiroe began analyzing not their advantages but the difficulties they’d need to overcome, the weak points in their forces.

There were special capture methods for most raid bosses. Even if they didn’t look like obvious shortcomings, it was possible for attacks that seemed powerful at first glance to have vulnerabilities.

Feeling as if he’d just had a sudden flash of inspiration, Shiroe desperately followed the thin thread of his thoughts.

Prisons or gardens, they were the guardians of something. Were they aware of their own roles, especially now that they had wills of their own? They’d cooperated in the battle a short while ago, and when he wondered why reinforcements hadn’t made an appearance until Ruseato of the Seventh Garden was obviously losing, he thought the key to a breakthrough might be there. However, he couldn’t deny that there were some naïve hopes in there as well.

Temporarily discarding those fond hopes, Shiroe set about constructing and selecting a more realistic capture method. Even after several dozen attempts, though, he hadn’t managed to come up with a strategy that seemed any more reliable.

The fantasy that was almost a fault seemed to have the best chance of success.

There was no way to calculate the actual odds, but it seemed to be worth betting on.

“Hey, Shiro. You awake?”

“—Yeah.”

Naotsugu had spoken, leaning in to look at him.

Shiroe sat up, stretching his stiff back, and found himself on a marble bier with a blanket spread over it. There was no telling what the square stone had been originally, but apparently he’d been asleep on top of it.

Naotsugu had been leaning over that stone to look at him, but when Shiroe adjusted his glasses, he seemed relieved. Shiroe turned away, looking back at the open space.

Tetora sat nearby, cross-legged. The two of them were the only ones near him.

He could hear William’s thin voice. It was a high voice, trembling but proud; a voice you’d never have imagined belonged to the commander of one of the leading combat guilds on the server. And yet, it couldn’t have been more appropriate.

The whole time his eyes had been closed, Shiroe had listened to those words.

He’d listened to the many sobbing voices as well, and the groans that cursed their helplessness.

As a result, Shiroe nodded again. “Yeah.”

In the hall, as they watched, the members of Silver Sword slowly got to their feet. They were gazing at their guild master. This probably wasn’t something Shiroe and the other non–Silver Sword members were to hear, and for that, Shiroe was grateful to Naotsugu, who must have read the atmosphere and then carried his body to this corner, away from the crowd. At the same time, however, Shiroe needed William’s words. The person standing there was just like Shiroe at sixteen.

Elder Tales had caused him a lot of pain.

Being labeled by strangers. Having judgments made about him based solely on what he could do. Never really being seen.

Still, at the same time, it had given him gifts that were much greater.

Captain Nyanta, Nurukan, Aihie. They were all good friends. Kanami had taught him what easygoing meant. He’d learned self-control from Kazuhiko, and the strength known as trust from Naotsugu.

As he watched Silver Sword from a distance, Shiroe thought they were a good guild. He also thought William was an excellent guild master. The idea that they had all gone through “that” made his chest feel tight. What if it had been him? He probably would have gotten back up, but he didn’t know if he would have been able to encourage his companions with words that genuine.

When Minori and Touya were heartbroken, what could he tell them? What could he do for Isuzu and Rudy? He didn’t feel as if there was anything.

He recalled Akatsuki, but in his mind, the small Assassin had just looked angry.

The thought struck Shiroe as a tiny bit funny, and he laughed.

He felt as if he’d been told, I’m the one who protects you, my liege, so mind your own business.

People were incredibly complicated. Shiroe knew Akatsuki was worried about him; that the friend who shoved him away brusquely with an angry expression actually worried twice as much as most people. He now knew that Akatsuki was worried about him, even as she was fighting somewhere far away.

This was no time to get discouraged in a place like this.

“I want them to win. Don’t you, Shiroe?” Tetora murmured as she sat cross-legged, rocking back and forth.

Her back was to Shiroe, and from where he was, he couldn’t see her expression. Still, her voice had been strong, and he was able to answer with an honest “Yes.” But then, it hit him: He wanted them to win. To have Silver Sword win. He wanted to break through this difficulty with this raid team, as one of its members. Tetora’s frank words took shape within his emotions and promptly became resolve.

“You say some good stuff sometimes,” Naotsugu quipped.

“I am a first-class idol, you know.”

As they gazed at William in the distance, Naotsugu and Tetora spoke to each other briefly.

That was all it took: Although the three of them hadn’t said anything in particular, their thoughts had overlapped. As a group, they didn’t know what form “winning” would take, or what it would feel like. However, whatever they did, they knew that they couldn’t let Silver Sword die like this.

That was already a set decision, and the only problem left was how to make it happen.

“And? What do we do? Got any ideas, Counselor?” Naotsugu asked, indifferent and cheerful. He’d phrased it as a question, but he was really just looking for confirmation.

Shiroe’s friend had no doubt that there was a way to break through this. He figured that Shiroe was bound to come up with something… And so, Shiroe pushed up his glasses and answered.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Naotsugu. You as well, Tetora. And William. The rest of them, too. I should have told you why this raid is necessary, and what’s inside this place, and why I want gold. I leaned on you, and I was trying to do it all myself. If you’ll forgive me… I have a slightly better strategy. Only slightly better. The odds of winning are fifteen percent.”

“Great, bring it on.”

“That’s perfect.”

“I also need to tell Kinjo and the others about our wish, and about the land of Yamato. This time, when we speak, I’ll look him in the eye.”