Moonlight, clear as white jade, poured straight through the carved openings in the windows, leaving blade-like white shadows across the gray floor.
High above the ground, at the tip of a tower that seemed to hang in the sky like a sacred relic, cold wind from the heavens swept across this open, unobstructed level. There, a White Knight in a cloak and hood as pure as daylight faced a boy.
A silent roar.
The white shadows of moonlight across the floor shattered.
The boy charged at the White Knight, each step falling in time with a heavy heartbeat.
The point of the spear-sword aimed straight for heart and lungs.
The gale howled. The pure white coat wrapped around the White Knight was stripped away, revealing the pitch-black, lightless demonic armor hidden beneath.
He looked like a devil pretending to be a saint, the false image of holiness washed clean away.
The instant the white cloak was torn off, sacred white became darkness.
Daylight wanes.
Demon King of the Dark Night.
He seemed to be a knight wrapped in noble blue-silver, but inside was an executioner black to the core.
The Black Knight reached out and blocked the boy's spear-sword with only the strength of his wrist. His other hand stayed on the two sheathed blades at his waist, as if the boy was not worth drawing them for.
The spear-sword trembled. Dragon-like force erupted from the boy's body. Pressing against the Black Knight's hard demonic armor, he drove him backward like a wild beast. Then he shoved the spear-sword into the Black Knight's chest and hurled him away with it, as if throwing a javelin.
The high hall shook. The Black Knight was pinned to the stone wall behind him by the spear-sword, cracks spreading like spiderwebs.
Frost-white cold erupted from the spear-sword buried in his chest. Ice crystals slowly formed around him. The chill seeped into every bent seam of the armor, gnawing at his heat and thoughts like a virus. It meant to freeze him there, paralyze him there. Then his defeat would be decided.
The Black Knight's left hand finally moved. He drew one of the two swords at his left hip, and a bright, razor-sharp line swept across.
The spear-sword was cut apart.
The ice he shattered burst outward, carrying cherry blossoms red as blood.
Through snow-dust and blood-red petals, the Black Knight charged toward the now-unarmed boy. But the boy's pale face twisted into a savage smile. He laughed wildly, as if grasping the moonlight that had just been shattered, and a white weapon appeared in his hand again.
He charged straight in, letting the snow and petals cut him apart.
The longsword in the Black Knight's hand suddenly snapped in two.
Time seemed to freeze.
The boy's weapon was only inches from the Black Knight's throat.
And then.
The Black Knight's hand touched the hilt of the remaining long blade at his waist.
He drew.
Countless invisible, razor-sharp blades poured madly from the gap in the scabbard. Deep-blue killing intent destroyed the boy's weapon as if it were nothing. The long blade left its sheath, like petrified spring thunder, like a flash of autumn water. Terrifying, almost tangible killing intent pierced through the boy's heart, brain, limbs, and bones.
The Black Knight let out a sorrowful shriek too. From the right hand gripping the sword, white light was being drawn endlessly into the sinister blade.
He and the boy were almost walking toward destruction together. One was being destroyed. The other was destroying himself.
But the Black Knight still faced forward.
With overwhelming resolve and astonishing will, he controlled it.
Breath.
Bend.
Lunge.
Stomp.
He cut once.
As if it had reached the ultimate.
Almost divine.
...
Satoru jerked awake with his head on the desk.
His upper body snapped back slightly, startled out of sleep. His eyes were still foggy. Slowly, with some effort, he made out the plain computer desktop in front of him. The screen had been glowing all night, the research materials he had opened still spread across it.
"..."
After more than ten seconds, he glanced at the time.
6:23 a.m.
He rubbed the corners of his eyes, helpless against the fatigue still tempting him back to sleep. Then he pushed himself up, stood, and stretched lightly. Sleeping bent over the desk had left his body stiff, and sitting for so long had made his backside sore.
He walked to the window and opened it. Outside was a faintly brightening sky. Birds called in the morning air, carrying a fresh coolness into the stuffy little room.
Satoru stood there without realizing it, staring for a while.
He looked blankly at the brightening sky, but what came to mind was the pale moon.
Maybe the bad sleep had done it. His mind felt unreal, a little unsteady, with a dull ache lingering in it.
He held his head, and in the process became aware of the greasy feeling in his hair. It had been days since he last washed it.
He left the bedroom, went into the kitchen, and opened the fridge to find something to drink. There was never anything like milk in there. Mostly coffee, energy drinks, and beer.
Looking at it, he could not help but sigh.
Coffee or an energy drink felt like too much right now.
So he reached in and took out a can of ice-cold beer, his brain giving no thought at all to whether morning plus cold beer was also too much.
The bitter, sharp liquid ran down his throat and into his stomach, making him shiver. It was already winter, after all.
Living alone as he did, Satoru had the rare thought that he should probably avoid catching a cold.
After all.
He went to the bathroom, set the beer aside, and washed his face.
If he caught a cold and his throat got inflamed, smoking would not be satisfying. That would be a real problem.
Looking up into the mirror, Satoru nodded in solemn agreement.
A single man whose mind had already gone rotten was not going to fuss over breakfast. Washing up counted as handling the morning. With the chilled beer in hand, Satoru returned to the computer he had left on all night, took out a pack of cigarettes, and expertly flicked one into his mouth.
As smoke spread and nicotine entered his system, his thoughts gradually cleared.
Spread across the desktop in front of him were rumors about Death Gun, which had recently started circulating through GGO.
Attacks inside the game had led to players dying in the real world. Put simply, Death Gun seemed to be capable of making that happen.
The earliest incident was when he fired from off-screen at XeXeeD during a livestream. After that, XeXeeD suddenly disconnected and never came back. Satoru did remember that. At the time, he had probably been talking with the intermediary who had come to see him.
The noteworthy part was that XeXeeD had not appeared again since. For someone who loved showing off that much, it did not make sense. Besides, he was one of the few professional GGO players. For him, logging in was work. Taking such a long break was strange.
There was only one possibility.
Satoru exhaled smoke.
He was probably really dead. There was no concrete information, so the news had likely been suppressed. Malicious VRMMO incidents had followed this technology from the very beginning. People needed the technology, but the technology was never exactly kind.
Thinking that, he gave a mocking little laugh.
"I see... a death game."
They really would go that far to recreate a stage like that.
He put on his headphones and listened to the audio that had been recorded by chance.
"...This is true power. Power that walks beside death. You fools who enjoy hunting without paying a price, burn this gun and my name into your hearts!"
"Death Gun!!"
Fools who hunt without paying a price...
Yes.
Those were words only an "orphan" of Aincrad could say.
After leaving that place, he could no longer enjoy games normally, carelessly. Kirito and the others could face the reborn but safe floating castle in ALO that way. Satoru and Death Gun could not.
Maybe he understood how Death Gun thought.
Both of us once used fear as wings.
We had tasted the dangerous, deadly, impossible-to-quit poison of a death game.
After you have tasted liquor strong enough to kill you, of course you will not reach for plain water again.
Players were basically no different from addicts. Games, at their core, were not so different from drugs either. Success came more easily. A sense of achievement came more easily. Effort was designed to be rewarded. The reward cycle was always short. Games were built to answer the fantasies humans wanted most.
All for entertainment.
You and I became addicts long ago.
Satoru closed his eyes.
"But I have to thank you."
For letting me feel that rush again.
Pain flashed suddenly through the nerves in his brain, and he grimaced, clutching his head.
Come to think of it, I was startled awake by a nightmare, wasn't I?
Still holding his head, he looked blankly out the window.
It had been short.
And yet he had forgotten the dream completely.