11

Again, a story I heard afterward.

Schmitt stared back and forth at the faces of the two players who emerged from the black robes, forgetting to breathe in his shock.

The reapers he’d assumed were Griselda and Grimlock turned out to be Yolko and Caynz. But that didn’t change the fact that his two assailants were dead. He had only heard the story of Caynz’s death, but he’d just seen Yolko perish before his eyes only hours earlier. She was pierced by a black dagger flying through the window, then fell down into the street and burst into pieces.

For an instant, he was about to faint in the presence of a ghost, but it was what she had said before revealing herself that saved Schmitt’s consciousness from fleeing him altogether.

“R…recor…ded…?” he rasped from a dry throat. Yolko pulled her hands out of the robe and showed them to him. She was holding an octagonal crystal, glowing light green—a sound-recording crystal.

A ghost would not use an item to record a conversation.

Meaning that Caynz’s and Yolko’s deaths were faked. He couldn’t begin to guess how, but they had produced their own deaths in order to create a fictional agent of vengeance to terrify a third party who was deserving of that vengeance. Now they had a recording of that third man, admitting his crime and begging for mercy. All in order to reveal the truth of a murder that had taken place in the distant past.

“…Oh…I see…” Schmitt muttered in a voiceless sigh, finally understanding the truth. He flopped forward helplessly. He’d been totally fooled, and there was even proof of that, but he was not angry. He was simply numb at Yolko’s and Caynz’s tenacity—and their reverence for Griselda.

“You…you did all of this…for the leader…?” he mumbled.

Caynz quietly nodded. “Didn’t you, too?”

“Huh…?”

“You didn’t do it because you hated her, did you? You were fixated on the ring, but you never bore her any ill will. Isn’t that true?”

“Of…of course. It’s true, please believe me,” Schmitt said, bowing his head repeatedly, face twisted with desperation.

He was probably stronger than the two of them combined. But the thought of drawing his weapon and using it to silence them forever never even occurred to him. As a red player, he couldn’t remain in the guild or the front-line group as a whole, but even more importantly, if he killed Yolko and Caynz, he knew he would never regain his sanity.

So even knowing that the recording crystal was still active, Schmitt repented for his past crime.

“All I did…was sneak into the leader’s inn room and save a portal exit there. Of course…the money I got from doing that helped me get the gear to pass the DDA’s entrance standards…”

“Is it true that you don’t know who gave you the note?” Yolko demanded. He nodded vigorously.

“I-I still don’t know. Out of the eight members of the guild, it’s probably one of the three left over after me, you two, the leader, and Grimlock…But I haven’t contacted anyone since then. Have you got any ideas?” Schmitt asked. Yolko shook her head.

“All three of them joined other mid-level guilds like Golden Apple afterward, and they have normal lives now. No one’s bought fancy gear or a player home. You’re the only one who leaped up in a big way, Schmitt.”

“…I see…” he mumbled, looking down.

After Griselda’s death, the sack of col delivered to his room was a fortune beyond anything he could imagine at the time. It was enough that he could go to the auction house and buy up all of the ultrapowerful gear at the top of the list at once, where he could only dream of owning such things before.

It would take steely self-control to toss that money into storage without using it. But more importantly…

Schmitt looked up, forgetting his plight momentarily, and asked something that popped into his head.

“B-but it doesn’t make sense…If they weren’t going to use it, why would they go to the trouble of killing the leader to steal the ring…?”

Yolko and Caynz pulled back a bit, stunned. There was virtually no benefit to leaving money stored up in one’s inventory. The value of a col was maintained at all times by the Cardinal System’s drop rate fine-tuning, so there was no inflation or deflation in the currency. An expensive sword or set of armor, if treated properly, could one day be sold for essentially the same price. There was no value to col that wasn’t spent. Which meant…

“The person…who sent the note…” Schmitt started, his mind working feverishly.

But because he was concentrating so hard, he failed to notice what was happening.

“Sch…!”

By the time he heard Yolko’s hoarse rasp, the little knife had stretched around toward his neck from behind and stuck into the spot between his breastplate and gorget. It was a sneak attack making use of the small-piercing-weapon skill, Armor Pierce, and the nonmetal armor skill, Sneaking.

After a moment of shock, the reflexes honed by life on the front line kicked in, and Schmitt tried to leap backward. Even being slashed across the throat was not instant death here. The damage would be significant, given that it was a critical area, but even that was miniscule in comparison to Schmitt’s considerable HP total.

However.

Before he could spin around, his legs lost feeling, and Schmitt rolled helplessly to the ground. There was a blinking green border around his HP bar—the paralysis effect. As a tank, he naturally had a high anti-poison skill, but this poison was so high level it was not affected by it. Whose could it be?

“One down,” said a childishly excited voice. Schmitt craned his neck, trying to look upward.

The first thing he saw was a pair of black leather boots with sharp studs on them. Then a thin black pair of pants. Tight-fitting leather armor, also black. In the right hand, a narrow knife gleaming green, and the left hand stuck inside a pocket.

A black mask that looked like a sack covered the player’s head. Round eyeholes were cut out to see through, and just as he noticed the nasty gaze of the player, a player cursor appeared in Schmitt’s view. It was not the usual green but a brilliant shade of orange.

“Ah…!”

He heard a gasp from behind him, and Schmitt glanced the other way to see that Yolko and Caynz were being threatened together by another player. This smaller one was dressed in black as well, but rather than leather, it was a cloth-scrap-like material that hung from all over. There was a skull-shaped mask on the figure’s face, with small red eyes that gleamed in its dark depths. In his right hand was another estoc like the barbed one Yolko had, but the way the metal gleamed bright red spoke to the overwhelming power of its stats. This player’s cursor was also orange.

The man in the skull mask reached out with his left hand and crudely yanked Yolko’s estoc away. He glanced over the weapon, then spoke in a voice like scraping friction.

“The design’s, not bad. I’ll add it, to my, collection.”

Schmitt knew these two. But he’d never seen them in person. He recognized them from the sketches of dangerous players displayed on the guild’s bulletin board.

They were red players, the front line’s most dire foes—even more than bosses. And these men were senior officers of the worst and deadliest guild of them all. The one with the poisoned dagger that had paralyzed Schmitt was Johnny Black, while the man with the estoc threatening Yolko and Caynz was Red-Eyed Xaxa.

Did that mean…he was here?

It couldn’t be. Please no. It had to be a joke.

But Schmitt’s silent pleas fell on deaf ears as he heard the approach of new, scraping shoes. He turned in terror to catch sight of the very image of the greatest danger in Aincrad.

A black matte poncho that hung to just above his knees. A deep, concealing hood. In his dangling right hand, a large, thick dagger as rectangular as a cleaver and as red as blood.

“…PoH…”

Schmitt’s lips trembled with fear and despair.

It was Laughing Coffin, the murderer’s guild.

The guild had formed a year after the start of SAO. Until then, the orange players had stuck to ganging up on solos or small teams and stealing their col and items. But then a number of them grew more extreme and idealized in their actions.

Their philosophy: It’s a game of death, so killing is allowed and expected.

There was no method of legal murder in modern Japan, but it was possible in Aincrad. All the players’ bodies were in a full dive in the real world—simply comatose, unable to move a finger on command. Under the purview of Japanese law, any player who was “killed” by losing all HP was the victim of Akihiko Kayaba, the creator of the NerveGear, and not the player who eliminated the HP.

So let’s kill people. Let’s enjoy the game. This is an equal right of every player.

And the one responsible for the poisonous agitation that seduced some of the many orange players, brainwashing them and driving them to fanatical PK activity, was the man with the black poncho and the cleaver, PoH.

In contrast to his humorous name, the tall man exuded an icy cruelty as he strode purposefully toward Schmitt.

“Flip him over,” he ordered.

Johnny Black wedged his boot tip under Schmitt’s downcast stomach. Once Schmitt was rolled over to face upward, the man in the poncho stared down at him from above.

“Wow…this is a big haul. A leader of the DDA, in the flesh.”

His strong, silky voice was beautiful, but something alien lurked in the intonation of the words. His face was hidden within the hood of the poncho, but there was a lock of rich, wavy black hair hanging in sight, swaying in the breeze.

Despite knowing that he was trapped in a very deadly situation, half of Schmitt’s mind was occupied with questions: why, what, how?

Why would they show up here and now? The top three members of Laughing Coffin were both the symbol of fear in the game and its most wanted criminals. They would not be hanging around in the overworld map of a lower floor like this without good reason.

That would mean they knew they’d find Schmitt here, and attacked.

But that didn’t add up. He didn’t tell anyone at the DDA where he was going, and Yolko and Caynz wouldn’t have let that intel slip, either. Besides, both of them were pale with fear at the threat of Red-Eyed Xaxa’s estoc. Even if they’d been hanging out by coincidence and saw Schmitt walk through the town alone, it was all too sudden for them to have informed PoH.

Was it simply some act of massive misfortune that all three of these players had happened across them on this random floor for a totally different reason? Was this sheer coincidence the vengeance of the late Griselda…?

PoH looked down indecisively at the prone, loglike Schmitt, who was trapped in a tangle of his own confused thoughts.

“Well…Normally this is the time for my ‘It’s Showtime’ slogan…but first, how to play with them?”

“Let’s do that one thing, Boss,” came Johnny Black’s cheery, high-pitched voice. “The game where they kill one another, so only the winner gets to survive. Of course, with these three, we’ll need to set a handicap.”

“Yeah, but remember how last time, we killed the winner after all?”

“Oh, c’mon! You’re gonna ruin the game if you tell them that before it starts, Boss!”

Xaxa hissed with laughter at the lazy and horrifying chat, still holding up his estoc.

At this point, the honest danger and despair of the situation settled in, crawling up Schmitt’s back. He instinctually shut his eyes. Without the ability to move, the heavy metal armor that covered him was nothing but a weight holding him down. Very soon, they would finish their pre-meal appetizer and bare their bloody, greedy fangs. PoH’s large dagger, Mate-Chopper, was a rare monster drop that had greater stats than the highest quality items a player-blacksmith could create at present. It was an evil thing that would easily pierce through his full plate armor.

Griselda, Grimlock. If this is your vengeance, then I suppose I deserve to die here. But why would you involve Yolko and Caynz? They put all of this tremendous effort into revealing the true culprit of your murder. Why would you do this?

As Schmitt’s despairing thoughts popped from his mind like short-lived bubbles, he sensed faint vibrations through the ground pressing against his back.

The rhythmic beat approached, da-da-dum, da-da-dum, growing louder and more insistent. Eventually, the dry, deep sounds hit his ears as well.

PoH sucked in a sharp breath and warned his two followers. Johnny jumped back, holding up his poisoned dagger, while Xaxa jabbed his estoc even closer toward Yolko’s and Caynz’s throats.

Schmitt made use of what little neck mobility he had to catch sight of a white light approaching from the direction of the town.

The light bobbed up and down and, several seconds later, was revealed to be cold flame licking at the hooves of a black horse so dark, it melted into the night. On the steed’s back was a rider, also in black. This person, who appeared like some undead knight from Hell, was bearing down on them and blazing a trail of white flame behind him. The sound of the hooves turned into a rumbling roar, soon joined by the whinnying of the horse.

The steed reached the foot of a little hill and bounded to the top in a few leaps, then reared up on its hind legs, spraying a white cloud of steam from its nostrils. Johnny took a few nervous steps back, and the rider pulled back hard on the reins—and promptly toppled backward off the horse.

The figure fell onto its butt and hissed a sharp “Ouch!” in a voice that Schmitt recognized. The man got up, rubbing his backside, and, still holding the reins to the massive black steed, turned to look at Schmitt, Yolko, and Caynz. In an easy, carefree tone, he said, “Looks like I made it just in time. You’ll have the DDA expense the taxi fare, I hope.”

There were no itemized mounts in Aincrad. But certain towns and villages had NPC-run stables where players could rent riding horses or cattle for transporting massive belongings that didn’t fit into an inventory. But because they required considerable technique to master and cost an arm and a leg to rent, very few players bothered with them. There were only so many people in this deadly game with the time and wherewithal to bother practicing horseback riding.

Schmitt let out the breath he’d been holding in and looked up at the new arrival: Kirito the Black Swordsman, solo player.

Kirito tugged on the reins to turn the horse around and patted its rump. The rental service was disengaged, and the black beast began to run off, accompanied by Kirito’s relaxed voice.

“Hey, PoH. Been a while. Still sticking with that ugly fashion sense, huh?”

“…Bold words, coming from you,” went PoH’s reply, his voice sharp with unmistakable lethality.

On its heels, Johnny Black darted forward a step and shrieked hysterically, “You freak! Quit actin’ like you got this under control! You know what’s happening here?!”

PoH silenced his follower’s poison knife with a gesture, then tapped his shoulder with the butt of his own cleaver.

“He’s got a point, Kirito. Flashy entrances are all well and good, but surely you don’t think that even you can handle three of us at once.”

Schmitt clenched his left hand, the only part of him that was capable of moving. PoH was right: Even Kirito, with his attack power near the top of the front-line gang, couldn’t possibly defeat three officers of Laughing Coffin at once. Why hadn’t he at least brought the Flash along?

“Yeah, I guess not,” Kirito said calmly, his left hand on his waist. “But I’ve taken a poison-resistance potion, I’ve got a bundle of healing crystals, and I can hold out for a good ten minutes. That’s enough time for the cavalry to arrive. Surely you don’t think that even you three can handle thirty front-line vets,” he teased, throwing PoH’s challenge right back into his face.

The leader clicked his tongue in irritation, while Johnny and Xaxa looked around at the darkness nervously.

“…Shit,” PoH swore, and drew back his right foot. He snapped his fingers, and his followers retreated several yards backward. Freed from the red estoc, Yolko and Caynz both fell unsteadily to their knees.

PoH held up his cleaver, pointed it straight at Kirito, and growled, “Black Swordsman. I swear that I will make you taste dirt. One day you will roll in an ocean of your precious friends’ blood, and then you will regret this.”

And with that, he spun the heavy cleaver nimbly in his fingertips and returned it to the holster at his side. The black leather poncho whirled around and he descended the hill, his two lackeys scrambling after him.

Johnny Black was especially quick in his pursuit, worried about the imminent approach of the front-line guilds, but Red-Eyed Xaxa, he of the ragged attire and estoc, turned back after a few steps, his skull mask’s eyes gleaming at Kirito.

“You think, you’re so cool. Next time, it’ll be me, chasing you, on a horse.”

“…You’d better practice, then. It’s not as easy as it looks,” Kirito replied.

Xaxa let out a hiss of breath, then vanished in pursuit of his companions.