9

Later, I got this background to the story.

Schmitt, defensive team leader for the Divine Dragon Alliance and notable front-line figure, didn’t go to bed after returning to his chambers in the safety of the guild headquarters. He didn’t even remove his armor.

His room was deep within the stone castle—fortress, really—and without a window. Not only that, the building was impossible to enter for nonmembers, so he was perfectly safe as long as he was in his room. But no matter how much he told himself that, he couldn’t help but stare at the doorknob.

The moment he took his eyes off it, would it turn without a sound? Would the silent, shadowy, hooded figure of the grim reaper sneak in and stand behind him without him realizing it?

Others thought of him as a stalwart, fearless tank, but as a matter of fact, the motivation that kept him among the ranks of the top players of the game was none other than the fear of death itself.

On the day we were all trapped in this game, a year and a half ago, he stayed in the center square of the Town of Beginnings and thought. No, agonized. What could he do to avoid dying? The most surefire means was not to take a step out of the city. There was absolute protection within the purview of the Anti-Criminal Code, so there was no fear of losing a single pixel of his HP—the numerical representation of his life.

But as an athlete in real life, Schmitt understood that the rules could change at any time. Who could state for a certainty that SAO’s rule about the towns being absolutely safe would remain constant, to the very moment the game was beaten? What if one day, the code simply stopped working, and all manner of monsters poured into town? Those players who never stepped out of the Town of Beginnings and never earned a single experience point would be completely helpless.

If he were going to survive, he needed to be stronger. And in a safe way, without any risk. After a full day of pondering his position, Schmitt chose to be “tough.”

First, he went to an armory and bought the toughest-looking armor and shield that his purse would allow, then used the remainder to purchase a long polearm. Out of the many impromptu parties soliciting members at the north gate, he applied to join the one that promised the safest activity. Their first hunt involved ten people surrounding and killing the weakest monsters in SAO: small boars.

Since then, Schmitt chose to make up for the low pay of such activity with sheer time. His leveling pace couldn’t match the beaters, who played in small parties or solo, risking powerful foes for great reward, but his never-ending fixation on “toughness” eventually took him to the rank of team leader in the prestigious DDA guild.

His hard work was worth it: Schmitt’s maximum HP, armor strength, and various defensive skills were almost certainly the greatest to be found in all of Aincrad.

With his massive guard lance in one hand and a tower shield in the other, he knew he could handle front-facing attacks from three or four mobs of his level for a good thirty minutes. To Schmitt, those who wore paper-thin leather armor or focused on damage-dealing with non-defensive weapons—even certain solo players dressed all in black, whom he’d met just minutes before—might as well have been insane. In truth, the build with the lowest possibility of death was a tank covered in thick armor. And because they sacrificed power to do that, it was vital that they join a large party to make use of their talents.

In any case, Schmitt had finally achieved the ultimate toughness, the only thing that could nullify his fear of death. Or so he had thought.

But vast sums of HP, high-level armor, defensive skills, and all other manner of systematic defenses meant nothing to a killer who could bypass them. And after all this time and effort, such a person was coming after him.

He didn’t really believe it was a ghost. But even that wasn’t a certainty anymore. The grim reaper had slipped through the absolute rule of the Anti-Criminal Code like black mist and callously, easily taken two lives with wimpy little spears and daggers. Was that not the work of a digital ghost, the aftermath of all of her rage and resentment, imprinted into the NerveGear?

In that case, solid fortress walls, that heavy lock on the door, and the protection of the guild building meant nothing.

She was coming. She would come for him tonight, after he had fallen asleep. And with a third barbed weapon, she would stab him and steal his life.

Schmitt sat on his bed, head held in his silver gauntlets, and thought desperately.

There was only one way to escape her revenge. He would beg forgiveness—get on his knees, press his forehead to the ground, groveling and apologizing, until her anger abated. He would admit to his one crime—a means to find greater strength and toughness, and use it as a launching pad to a better guild—and repent with all of his heart. If he did this, even a real ghost would surely forgive him. He had been manipulated. He had been taken for a ride, tempted into a tiny little crime—in fact, it wasn’t even a crime, just a bit of poor manners. He couldn’t have realized what a tragedy it would lead to.

Schmitt unsteadily got to his feet, opened his inventory, and materialized one of the tons of teleport crystals he kept for emergencies. He clutched it with weak fingers, took a deep breath, and in a hoarse voice, mumbled, “Teleport: Labergh.”

His sight filled with blue light. When it subsided, he was standing amid the night.

It was after ten o’clock, and on a floor far removed from most player activity, so the nineteenth-floor teleport square was completely empty. The stores around were all shuttered, and there were no NPCs walking about, so it almost felt like he was out in the open wilderness, despite being in town.

Just half a year ago, Golden Apple had a small guild home on the outskirts of this town. It should have been a familiar sight, but Schmitt felt alienated, like the town was shunning him.

His body trembled in fear underneath his thick armor. He walked on unsteady legs for the edge of town. After twenty minutes out of the town, he came to a small hill. It was in the open, of course, not protected by the Anti-Criminal Code. But Schmitt had a very firm reason for being there. It was his only means to escape the wrath of the robed harbinger of death.

He dragged his resisting legs up to the top of the hill and found what he was looking for beneath a single twisted tree at the top. Schmitt kept his distance, quaking all the while.

It was a weathered, mossy gravestone. The grave of Griselda, lady swordsman and leader of Golden Apple. The pale moonlight, which emanated from nowhere in particular, drew a shadow of the cross on the dry ground. Barren branches overhead creaked in the occasional breeze.

The tree and grave were just environmental details, objects placed by a designer to create an aesthetic effect, and nothing deeper. But on the day Golden Apple disbanded, a few days after Griselda’s death, the remaining seven players had decided to make that her grave, and they stuck the longsword that was their memento of her into the earth. Technically, they just laid it at the foot of the grave and allowed the durability to slowly run out until it vanished.

So there was no name on the grave. But there was no other place to go to apologize to Griselda.

Schmitt fell to his knees and crawled miserably over to the grave. He pressed his forehead to the sandy ground, his teeth chattering, as he used all of his willpower to open his mouth, emitting a voice that was quite clear, all things considered.

“I’m sorry…I apologize…Forgive me, Griselda! I…I didn’t think that would happen…I never imagined that it would lead to you getting murdered!!”

“Really…?”

It was a voice. A woman’s voice, oddly echoing, bouncing off the ground from above.

Trying desperately to retain his quickly vanishing consciousness, Schmitt looked upward.

From the shadows of the gnarled branches came a silent figure dressed in black. Specifically, a hooded black robe. With dangling sleeves. The contents of the hood were invisible in the darkness of night.

But Schmitt felt the cold gaze emanating from that depth. He held his hands over his mouth to trap in a bloodcurdling scream, then repeated, “I-it’s true. I didn’t hear any details. I just…I just did what I was told…It was just a little…Just a little…”

“What did you do…? What did you do to me, Schmitt…?”

With bulging eyes, Schmitt caught sight of a dark, slender curve, sliding out of the sleeve of the robe.

It was a sword. But an incredibly thin one—an estoc, a one-handed close-range piercing weapon that hardly anyone bothered to use. The conical blade, which looked like a very large, long needle, was growing a spiral of delicate thorns.

It was the third barbed weapon.

A tiny shriek escaped from Schmitt’s throat. He slammed his head against the ground, over and over and over.

“I…I just—! On the day…that it was voted we’d sell the ring, a piece of paper and crystal just showed up in my belt pouch…and there were directions on it…”

“From whom, Schmitt?”

This time it was a man’s voice.

“Whose orders were they…?”

Schmitt froze in place, his neck suddenly tense. His head felt as heavy as iron, but somehow, he lifted his head for just an instant. A second grim reaper had just appeared from the shadows of the branches. It was wearing an identical black robe. This one was slightly taller than the other.

“…Grimlock…?” Schmitt just barely whispered, his face downward once more. “Did…did you die, too…?”

The new reaper ignored this question and took a silent step forward. From the hood came a voice dripping and twisted.

“Who…? Who was manipulating you…?”

“I…I don’t know! I swear!!” Schmitt shrieked. “The…the memo just said…follow the leader. Wh-when she checked in to an inn and left to eat dinner, I’d sneak into her room and save the location with the corridor crystal, th-then place it in the guild’s shared storage…Th-that’s all I did! I didn’t lay a finger on Griselda! I-I never…I never thought she’d be k-k-killed, just lose the ring…I never thought that would happen!”

The two grim reapers did not move a muscle as he pleaded his case. The night breeze stirred the dried branches of the tree as it passed, along with the hems of their robes.

Even in the grips of his terror, Schmitt was reviewing a memory burned into the recesses of his brain.

On that day half a year ago, when he first pulled the parchment out of his pouch, he thought it was ridiculous—but was also surprised at how effective a move it was.

Inn room doors were automatically locked by the system, but by default, they would unlock for friends and guildmates, except when the room guest was asleep. By placing a corridor crystal marker there while she was gone, they could sneak into her room even when she was asleep. After that, it was as simple as making a trade request, moving her arm to press the accept button, then selecting the ring and hitting “trade.”

There was the danger of being detected, but Schmitt innately sensed that this was the only way to steal an item within the safe zone. The reward listed at the end of the memo was half of the selling value of the ring. If he succeeded, he would instantly get four times the money, and if he failed and the leader actually woke up in the middle of the trade, she’d only see the person who gave him the memo, the actual thief. He could just ignore any accusations from the thief and pretend he didn’t know anything. Sneaking into a bedroom and setting portal coordinates left no traces.

Schmitt wrestled with temptation, but that temptation alone was essentially a betrayal of the guild and their leader. He was doing it to get into a better guild. Schmitt justified it to himself by saying that it would ultimately help the guild leader by making the end of the game come sooner. He followed the memo’s instructions.

The next night, Schmitt learned that the leader had been killed. The day after that, he found a leather sack on his bed filled with the gold coins he’d been promised.

“I was…I was scared! I thought that if I told the guild about that note, I’d be targeted next…S-so it’s true that I have no idea who wrote it! F-forgive me, Griselda, Grimlock! I r-really had no intention of aiding a murder. You must believe me, please!” he whined, scraping his forehead against the ground repeatedly.

Another dark breeze rustled the branches. When it left, the woman’s voice took its place. But her eerie echo was completely gone, as though it had never been there.

“We recorded all of that, Schmitt.”

It was a familiar voice—one he’d just heard recently. Schmitt looked up and gaped in total disbelief.

The black hood was pulled back now to reveal the very face of the person this grim reaper had supposedly killed just hours earlier. The wavy, dark blue hair swayed in the breeze.

“…Yolko…?” he whispered.

When the other robed figure did the same, Schmitt sounded as though he was going to faint.

“…Kains.”