[PREFACE]
Now for the unofficial record. Again following the given original character's perspective, with over 11k words of content. (2017.02.11 publication)
Song Selection: If you want music to accompany your reading experience, 'Stagnant' by Yoe Mase would suit the first scene. 'Elaina's Theme' by Tom Player is what Arken keeps tempo with after 'Aïe. Je ne sais pas'.
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GREETINGS. TEDIUM MACABRE
{2032.11.16, Tuesday}
{0645 Aincrad Standard Time}
{An Incarnating Radius, Floor 01}
{Northern Occident Forest}
The soldier swept his blade into the beast with nearly mechanical precision of movement, efficiently driving the centre of percussion into its exposed trachea. A crunch of cartilage and bone giving way to tempered steel followed, visibly stealing the creature's life, along with the sight of fluid carmine spraying out of high-pressure vessels onto myrtle-green grasses. He slid his weapon free from the wound as the body sank to the ground and speared its point into the medulla oblongata, ceasing misery.
To most, the remains would be a sickening view: a mostly-severed neck, a gaping wound in the base of the skull; both forelimbs quite unceremoniously shortened by a single stroke of sharpened steel; the abdomen split open from ribcage to pelvis, spewing intestines and blood. To the swordsman in grey, it was something he had seen a lifetime's worth of already; a sight he grew accustomed to when waging war with infernal chemicals and vicious projectiles. His meticulous work of cleaning the blade of his weapon for the fourth time this morning declared to those who watched – and he knew that they did, appalled and intrigued by him – that he was far more accustomed to such vile gore than any of them could ever be. That blatant disregard for the result of his efforts but half a minute earlier would as much shock any and all who observed him from the safety of the other world as the sight itself.
Of course, the icing on that cake was the fact that the mob he had just killed was a humanoid.
The bearish, bipedal Mirka were immense beings in terms of physical size, towering at least half a metre over the soldier and more than twice as broad at the shoulders as himself. Yet to assume they were lumbering brutes would be to die a moment later: they moved with sure swiftness like a rugby forward, able to evade attacks and counter in turn with skill. Their armour was only lightweight padded or cuir bouilli as far as he had seen – but, knowing their natural resilience, it mattered much less than their warriors' weapons. Those were wrought iron; though the elites' blades were laminated with shear steel edges.
Iron weaponry in and of itself put the Mirka at a distinct disadvantage in terms of weapon efficacy. Versus the technically superior monosteel of many human weapons and the pattern-welded steel of a number of others, their shorter and more ductile blades would deform quite quickly – though the laminated blades would hold their own. The longest swords that the bearlike monsters wielded were a metre overall, judging by the eight he had eliminated personally.
To those who stepped out, it would certainly help.
Arken, mulling over these thoughts, spent no time considering the fact that he had disembowelled and nearly decapitated a human-like creature.
Of course, there was no need to skin the beast when it wore armour – and carrying its cuir bouilli would add excessive weight. The leather would bring some profit, but he had no desire to further risk himself simply to gain more money. What he had taken from the «Grizzly Bear» that he killed earlier was more than enough to purchase those pieces of plate armour he had yet to own: couters and rerebraces for the elbows and upper arms, full cuisses for the thighs and whole greaves rather than shin-only schynbalds. He hunted by himself, traded by himself, trained by himself. Not a single thing he did was unnecessary.
Even the grey-blue cloak he wore was purpose-made; it came from the «Great Blue Bear» he had skinned on that first day. Its effect of blurring his outline, a large boon to his «Senses Index», made hunting notably easier, as animals – and people – couldn't easily place his size or shape. His smooth strides assisted the optical distortion, turning his figure into just a smudge on the vision. Natural oils in the fur kept out water and dirt, allowing the man to hunt in any weather without worry for its state.
—~~—
{0712}
Another, I see.
A «Mirka Bladesman» stood just outside his two-step reach, armed with twin swords of half-metre blade each. Unlike the bladesman he had fought last, this dual-wielder wore thick leather gloves and padded chausses as well as the boiled leather cuirass and iron spangenhelm with cheek plates that most Mirka wore.
Not the easiest fight I'll have. Wielding two weapons makes them far more aggressive.
He calmly adjusted his grip to half-sword the weapon, knowing he'd have to do his best to keep the vor if he wanted to effectively defeat the beast. His guard stayed high as he stepped off the line, trying to find which was the bladesman's primary hand and if the beast would favour one pattern. One with this much armour could be skilled enough for a unique combination preference. Or be a southpaw.
Both were quiet, gauging each other with a step's range between. Humanoid intelligence made for much more interesting fights. Especially foreign styles. Different nations had different preferences: the Italians flowed, the Spaniards calculated, the Germans exploded. Even the variations between locales and teachers were noticeable. Some too subtle for those not adept, others almost as blatant as different nations. Completely different species meant that things as common as the number of strikes in a combination might be more or less as a standard, or the preferences for the way a weapon was held could turn out unalike.
Twitching his left more, following my movements more accurately with it, so he's a south. Leading with right foot and heavier on it; prefers back foot flèche to front foot lunges. Gaze stays level, focus is open enough…
The soldier found weaknesses in his opponent's readiness, understood exactly what was needed for success. One pace counterclockwise, drop to a middle guard, flick point towards the solar plexus.
Just as the Mirka shifted its stance to act on a false opening, a gap in his guard that never truly existed, he moved.
Now.
There were good reasons behind why two and three-strike combinations were common – more strikes often turned out excessive, primarily. He knew those justifications and thus used such patterns of attack quite often.
His blade's point closed on the Mirka before it could advance on him, aiming for the centremost nerve cluster with a swift lunge. It was deflected to one side by the off-blade, with the primary lancing out to stab his lead hand. Instinct drove him to curl his wrist upwards, forcing the jab off its line, before directing him to arc the foible 'round to cut high across from his left – snaking around and above the head. He struck the base of the neck, driving his steel into the flesh that lay hidden under four millimetres of hardened leather.
The Mirka's armour tried its best to deflect and absorb the impact, but Arken's blade was of a design that effectively countered the function by biting into the cuir bouilli instead of slipping off. His arm muscles swung the greatsword with enough force to sever an unprotected neck, bursting blood vessels and crushing muscles with ease while violently jerking its head to the right. An observer would have heard the strangled cry of pain and seen the saliva flecked with blood that were forced from the beast's open mouth, though the soldier had never cared to notice.
Immediately, his opponent's health began dropping at an alarming rate – from a full 480 to 360 in not even a second – with the rather expected effect of severely impairing fine motor skill and all the other debilitations resulting from a «Crippling Blow». But it was clear at the same time that the gargantuan humanoid still had enough epinephrine of its own for a final desperate retaliation with both weapons.
Howling agony and outrage at its exsanguination, its iron weapons lashing out haphazardly, the «Mirka Bladesman» tried to reciprocate the damage that had been dealt by the man in grey, but was sorely unsuccessful. To end misery while out of reach, the soldier launched a throwing knife; sharp steel sank several centimetres into the right eyeball and the cerebrum behind – a «Critical» that sent it into shock and unconsciousness. It will be dead within a handful more seconds.
He stepped forward, his two-handed blade sheathed once more but still at hand, and crouched down before the collapsed body.
"Dormit in pace."
The words were few and brief, but they were all to be said. Removing the small blade from its wound, the man slung his sword over his shoulder and pulled out his cleaning kit to remove the gore from the knife before reapplying its coat of oil.
—~~~—
{1123}
"Oho. Nine in five days. Now you're making yourself even more well known around here."
"Mmn. Not that it's a purposeful attempt."
"Hey, at least they don't have any clue about your personal history. You're a ghost, not a celebrity."
"True. Thank you for your help with that."
"Aah, I didn't do anything."
"Doing nothing is still a decision. In this case, it's one I have to thank you for."
"You don't have to do that, really. I keep my best clients' secrets anyway."
"Are you sure you won't have some gift in return?"
"I'm fine, Grey-san."
That's a yes, then. But not right now.
This tea is much nicer than I thought it would be.
"You know the Mirka tech development, right?"
"Last I remember from the beta was bronze for the best, pattern-welded for the boss. Average ones had bronze and copper tools, mostly axes."
"They have more access to iron now. Laminated for the best, but wrought for the average."
"Ooh. That'll be nasty for the betas moving in from «Tolbana» now, those differing attack patterns. Still low on reach?"
"A full metre at most for their swords, overall. Usually eight or so centimetres wide."
"Much the same as before, luckily. Could be a whole lot worse."
"Mmh."
—~—
Stepping out of the boisterously crowded tavern in the heart of «Ratel», where being overheard was all but impossible, Arken let his hand rest on one of his small knives casually as he strode to the inn he had taken lodge in for the past two and a half days. Even with the lack of effect to one's health and the numbing of pain within «Safe Areas», it never hurt to be ready for threats. Knowing the current state of affairs with the Mirka, the town that he walked through now could suddenly be fallen upon by a mass of the huge beasts and be removed of its status as a «Safe Area». And because we know it has occurred before, in the «Closed Beta» on Floor 05, it is a matter of when.
Although his thoughts drifted elsewhere, he was still aware of his immediate surroundings. His feet subconsciously stepped where he would not interrupt others, adjusting his pace and path as the crowd shifted around him. Amidst the bustling clamour of thirty-odd thousand, he could pick out the words spoken by people across the street with his passive «Perception» Skill Modifier at work. Through the flow of people around him – mostly NPCs but still people – he could see the features of the patrolling guards walking towards him from twenty metres ahead. Inside his burgonet with its falling-buffe, he could feel his warm breath on the visor and, at the same time, ignored the scratch of the padded armour's rough seams on his skin.
It was little effort to listen into any conversation; he chose one that had just began quite obviously across the main way.
"Saru! Where's the pay? …Kuso, the contract hasn't changed again, has it?"
"Not exactly, no. Whole deal's off. Everything had to stop – boss' orders. Didn't even give us the standard half-day warning."
"Ueh? You're not messing with me, are you?"
"Nah, nah. I'm seriously flat out of work, running solely on yesterday's payments. Even my old foreman's gotta work out something, since he hasn't got anyone…"
Arken let his attention shift, knowing just how similar his «Perception» modifier was to a classic mechanic from a game series in the era of high-definition flat displays. It was highly effective for the purposes of observation, making inconspicuousness considerably easier than it would be otherwise. At the same time, the modifier was not without its drawbacks: with too intense a focus, the point of interest became the only thing one could properly sense – all else being near-totally numbed for better discernment. Which, in turn, meant the user either had to be constantly working with at least one other player or had to refrain from using the active component of the mod frequently, if at all.
Of course, I work without the active module and suffer neither any trouble nor disadvantage.
And, while I certainly can work with others such as the archer Sinon and longswordsman Kirito, I prefer to hunt and train by myself. The stance is accepted as normal by those as far across the Floor as myself, but I doubt it would sit well with too many others. Indeed, even as I say I would rather travel alone, the soldier in me quietly understands that a unified and disciplined cohort of fighters is best suited to efficiency in the completion of this… campaign. Nothing has more tangible dominance in warfaring than a highly skilled unit of considerable size, after all.
—~—
{1136}
His mind switched its focus once more as he entered the inn, analysing the layout and positioning of people and objects while the most efficient path was subconsciously taken from main door to staircase. Sensing no potential threats, the man in dull grey removed his burgonet before unshouldering his greatsword and climbing the steps leading to the second floor, where his room for the night lay. The inn-keep nodded a greeting as he passed, receiving a slight inclination of the head in return.
He had memorised the layout of the room, so it was no surprise to find it completely untouched beyond what he had moved before leaving. The tells were still as the soldier had left them – even the slip of cloth that hung so precariously off of the inside door handle, which Arken snatched from its fall for the next time he left. As the man in grey trod slowly over to the bed, he adjusted the placement of all his other tells to ensure that they would not set off while he was still in the room.
"All seven of them. Good."
An almost casual drop of his right hand with index and middle fingers extended brought him the user menu – a simplistic interface consisting almost entirely of faintly glowing white text without backdrop. After a few selections, his plate armour sections and cloak began to remove themselves, as if by invisible hands, before disappearing into the apparent nothingness of his inventory. He was left with his mail habergeon and chausses over the padded jacket and matched leggings that he wore underneath – a full plate harness without major gaps in it was more expensive than anything actually available on the «First Floor»; it would require weeks of forging for an armourer, if they were both able and willing.
The tunic of wrought iron links was removable without additional help, slipping off with a soft cascade of noise and a moment more than he needed to remove the chausses. Both padded garments were removed easily enough, leaving Arken in only sweat-slick linen undershorts. Bare muscles were put on display for none to see (what with the lack of indoor livestreaming), whipcords under tan skin tensing and relaxing in time with every movement.
His muscles had demanded that he grant them proper respite for the past hour – and it was only as he unceremoniously flopped onto the bed that they received it.
"Aïe. Ce que je ne ferais pas pour une douche."
Few people in the whole of the «Great Incarnating Radius» – let alone the town of «Ratel» – would have been able to understand his use of French, though they may have guessed at his desire for a proper shower due to his state: skin darkened by grime, hair dripping with sweat and everything reeking of body odour. He had long been passably adept in the language, as well as fluent in Japanese, due to a knack for learning foreign tongues that he had put aside in recent years.
For the next good while, Arken simply lay prone across his inn room's bed at a lazy angle, uncaring for anything but rest.
It's strange. I wanted people to see the mask presented to them and to accept it. So far, it appears that they have. Most of them.
Argo is a help with the minority that don't, even if she verbally denies it. Part of that comes from all the information of mine she knows (something that should worry me more than it does); another part is due to her quiet with others in regards to myself as a person.
Why, though? I've seen her sell all kinds of things without a second thought for it, even information on a few players. She indirectly told me that I'm on her 'best clients' list, though I've only used her services half a dozen times. I wasn't even in the «Closed Beta», not even an established contact with any kind of reliability or trustworthiness, yet she considered me a person to not sell information on for her own reasons.
I can't see a reason for her choices. It's not the greatest issue at hand, but I find the situation intriguing in its puzzling nature. Something to maintain my apparent sanity, you could say.
I wonder. How frequently does she take meetings? What does she consider as sellable information?
Why is her skill with information the way it is now?
'There was a time, I met a girl of a different kind… We ruled the world, I thought I'd never lose her out of sight. We were so young; I think of her now and then. I still hear the songs, reminding me of a friend…'
'All my actions, false or true, selfish motives I will use – we were born with knives in hand, trained to kill our fellow man; if we're not better than the rest, how will children do their best? Find your patience, find your truth: love is all we have to lose… have to lose… 'Cause I'm not able… No, I'm not able… I'm not able, on my own…'
Eventually, he roused from his half-hour or so power nap and rose from the slim bed. A cloth dampened by a waterskin cleaned some of the grime and sweat, refreshing tired muscles and washing away the lethargy following sleep.
—~~—
{1248}
He sat by a window close to the back right corner, far and near at the same time. People would come and go, but they never stayed near for any longer than needed – as if he was repellent. Yet, not in a disdainful way; he was a danger, not an object of derision. Even though he was not visibly armed and not physically imposing, he was kept well away from.
It's the icy expression, and the way he sits. Not a soldier's firm alertness, but a skilled combatant's comfortable vigilance. Always ready for a fight.
Equally sure of himself, Arken stepped further into the inn's taproom wearing all his armour – but not his cloak or his weapons, aside from the knives he hid on his person. The man in grey had already removed his helmet and gauntlets, letting them retreat to the «Quick-Access» node of his personal inventory with a gesture, and now chose himself a subtly secure position to sit: a squat table opposite the bar's far left corner, close enough to break for either door if in haste, distant enough to give the other man his space.
That overlong shock of auburn hair, those incisive grey eyes, thin mouth and smallish, sharp nose were not familiar in the sense of a single recalled individual. Instead, they stimulated memories of two different people the soldier knew as cunning, ruthless and rational people, yet constant allies. National armed forces bring many types of people together for the country's defence – and then balance each one out to highly beneficial effect.
It's going to be much, much more difficult to gather the right people here, though.
The man in grey ordered a simple buttered roll of bread and a cup of whatever tea they had. While waiting, he observed the coming and going that occurred about him: serving girls weaving between the tables with trays and tankards filled with large orders; the bartender mixing beverages strong and weak in both flavour and alcohol; patrons enjoying food, drink and banter; the cook baking foods of delicious scents. And that other man, the one that had quickly caught his eye, who wore a burnt-umber jack of plates over mail.
They never met gazes, but it was impossible for him to not have noticed Arken as soon as the soldier stepped into the room. Neither one moved to acknowledge or communicate with the other, yet each knew some of the other via observation.
His jack tells me he favours mobility yet still wants for good protection, his slim build does favour that. Mail chausses and good schynbalds say he has not forgotten his legs, though they could afford more if he could buy. His lack of extra garments – no cloak nor mantle nor any other outerwear – add that he cares not for those excesses, even if they can grant some boon as is the case with my own.
"Here's your tea and your bread roll, mister."
Ah. Black tea; good.
He accepted the cup with a nod, drinking deeply as the server walked away.
—~—
Some time passed, leaving the two men completely alone in the barroom – save the staff that were cleaning up and preparing for the next rush hour. Both took their time to finish the meals they had ordered, sedate in their enjoyment of the food and drink. First to finish his meal was the soldier, who then set his teacup down with a small clack. Now is as good a time as any for this. He moved to a seat near enough for him to speak at a reasonable volume for talking.
"Would you hold conversation with me?"
"Mn. That's one way of asking the question."
The man in grey simply waited for an answer, saying nothing further – but also retaining his perfectly unmoving half-smile.
"Sure. Why not. I'm Kemuri."
"Arken," he nodded. "Nice to meet you."
"So. You're slim, like me, but you've gone for plate armour. Why not choose something lighter, to focus on manoeuvrability and evasion?"
"I learned Italian Spadone for a while, as well as Kyūshin Ryū Jujutsu. Evasion and manoeuvrability are not the same with a blade almost as tall as the wielder is. Hence my use of a Dexterity-Strength combination, rather than anything else."
"Right. That makes sense."
"And you wear that coat of plates to stay agile and retain a majority of the function of your arms without sacrificing decent protection."
"Un. I use a backsword and dirk together, with a buckler on occasion."
"A clear damage focus. And you work alone, no?"
"Usually. Sometimes with a tank – he has plated mail with an arming sword and kite shield."
"For the odd dungeon run, I would guess."
"More or less, yeah."
The two had easily slipped into an analysis-based conversation: not amicable, nor hostile; no, simply neutral. It was a strange thing, not quite small talk. Before they could continue further, another person stepped inside the taproom.
"Oho~? Being friendly for once, Grey-san?"
—~—
A turn of his head to register her presence, a simple nod in acknowledgement.
"Argo."
She grinned at his greeting, then took a closer look at who he was with. "And you're talking with Kemuri-kun, of all people. Like minds, I guess."
"Not sure whether I should be flattered or insulted by that," the man in a coat of plates said.
The soldier nodded his shared sentiments. "Now, what brings you to speak with me again, so soon after our last meeting?"
"Just a bit of info to help that project of yours."
Arken paused. Another player with potential? "I did not expect you to return so soon, but if you believe the information is vital, I will take it now."
"Oh, it's not too important. But it's different, that's for sure."
Different? What kind of different? "Well. Apologies, Kemuri, but I have some pressing matters to attend to," the man in grey said as he stood up.
"Eh, it's fine," he waved off. "I know that good information is vital to keeping up with everything that goes on."
"I'll see you another time, then. Argo."
"Ah, so curt." Noting Arken's lack of reaction, she sighed and called to the backswordsman while she made her own exit: "Oh well. I'll see you another time, then, Kemuri-kun."
"Bye."
—~—
The man in grey opened the front door of the establishment once he had equipped his helmet and gauntlets again, leading directly onto the main street in the town. At the odd hour of the mid-afternoon that was their present, it was rather empty, with only a few NPCs out and about – mostly guardsmen. Enjoying the relative quiet, he strode easily for the town square and one of the locations he visited when meeting with Argo. He could make out the info-broker's footsteps about half a dozen metres behind, at a pace that would not overtake him. I might as well grant her an opportunity to talk more lightly.
Ever so gradually, he both shortened his strides and slowed his pace to let her catch up to him, as well as lowering the falling-buffe on his burgonet. She took a moment to realise that he was walking beside her with matching steps, but when she did, the petite young woman smiled at him cheekily.
"Oho? What's this I'm seeing, Grey-kun? Wanting to spend time with a woman suddenly? It's not like you."
He snorted. "I thought you would appreciate a break, even if this is barely two minutes' regular walk. Every passing second is spent."
"So the soldier has a beating heart? I'm surprised."
"Oho, you wound me so gravely. A soldier cannot be alive without a beating heart. My own reminds me of its presence every time I fight."
"I wonder how many battles you've won."
The swordsman let a smile play at his lips. "That is for me to know and you to never find out."
"Is that a challenge?" she raised an eyebrow.
"With you, it is doubtless one – whether or not my answer is yes."
Argo laughed. "You would know, Grey-kun."
"Says the woman who has no qualms with the epithet of 'the Rat'," he smiled.
"Come on~" she drawled, "you know rats are cool."
"Yes, but I'd not be surprised if you were the only woman to have that view on this entire perpetually airborne landmass."
"Yeah, yeah, fine. Anyway, we're here to talk about important stuff, not idle around." They had arrived at the meeting place a moment earlier – a nook between the cobbler's and tailor's shops. The man in grey stood nearer to the main street, obstructing what view any passersby had of Argo.
"I know. So, who's on the radar?"
The espial info-broker paused for a second before she spoke, more quietly than before, "A man with the player name of Diavel. He's working with nine other people right now in his «Unit» and he knows how to manage them effectively and efficiently. His personal «Player Level» is far into 4 and his whole group is Level 3 or 4 as well."
"Equipment?" Arken interjected. I already find him intriguing. Only the most severely dedicated of people are at Level 5 presently, myself included. His entire nine-man squad is at 3 and 4; they're not far behind the first cut. Definitely part of the driving force, then.
"He uses a Type XII arming sword and a heater shield, wearing a brigandine with plate for his arms and legs plus a close helmet, five-one pattern mail underneath. Dualrole but damage focused, quick on his feet while making good use of his armour and shield to take blows."
"Interesting… But it sounds like you have more." I don't even bother wondering how she can find out the stats balances specific players have anymore. Her network of sources would make a government intelligence officer proud, at the least.
"Un. He was one of the beta testers who led the front lines to «Floor 10»."
"Oh? That is telling."
"Yeah. I remember his name from back then; he had the same combat role and stats build, though he was a blue-eyed bishie who had azure hair and acted like a knight."
A muted chuckle escaped him. "Trying to be the centre of attention, or just be a memorable face? Well, however it went, you already know that we should keep an eye on him."
"Yup. I was wondering how long he would take to get to this side of the Floor, and was happy to find that he's in «Tolbana» now. I'm pretty sure he's one of the people moving in on the «Labyrinth» today."
"I wonder how he'll handle the changes in how the Mirka fight. Iron blades are not like bronze ones."
"He was a skilled leader in the beta and I'm pretty sure he has yet to lose a member of his «Unit». He'll be able to roll with it."
"We'll have to wait and see."
"Un."
—~~~—
{1758}
Ten in five days, Argo. The soldier piques interest ever further…
More seriously, it feels like Kayaba is trying to determine what can be considered a decent opponent to me. The only time I've faced one of the same classification as another is that second bladesman form earlier. It's absurd at this point. Though, this could well be the system trying to balance my unexpected skill – outside of the «Expert Testers» that were known to be highly proficient with their weapons and some of the other «Closed Beta Testers», I don't think it expected another prodigiously capable fighter would enter into its world. Now that it has found otherwise, it's trying to compensate in the only way that it knows.
As a «Mirka Spearmaster», it held a spear of near 2 metres in its hands, the haft worn smooth – pine, most likely, given the forest – with a shear steel and wrought iron laminated head.
Laminated steel is all but expected of a 'master' type. More surprisingly, it apparently includes the effective use of mail armour; it will be much harder to deal lasting damage compared to others. It even has an aventail for its neck, as well as the cheek plates and nosepiece on its spangenhelm.
With its right hand leading, I can at least expect an orthodox opponent – but mastery should include ambidexterity, no? Thusly, I need to keep that probability in mind for compensation. The weapon, while well-used, certainly appears quite resilient; I will need a parry to drive the point into the ground if I want to break the weapon, though that effort is excessive. With its immense muscles being larger than the less skilled Mirka, the mail won't slow it down any more than what armour they normally wear. I expect bursts of speed to compensate for its size, primarily thrusts that take advantage of its much greater reach.
If I'm to defeat this one, I need to get close and use this weapon at half-sword to overwhelm their defence. Unless I can accurately throw a knife at this range to its face, which is terribly unlikely; I've spent several hundred hours with swords, not throwing blades.
"…Et voilà, Kayaba. Here's a good fight for you. Much more entertainment than that pack of nine wolves from ereyesterday."
They had faced each other without movement for an extended time, not even shifting closer or farther apart to provide a sense of progression or cause simple mistakes. But now the man in grey was ready to begin – and it was clear that his opponent was as well.
—~—
Swordsman and spearman closed suddenly, weapons arcing in attempts to speak death. An overhead cut to force the viper-quick spearhead to the ground parried and flowed into a swift counter, but did not keep the pole weapon immobile long enough for an advantage to be taken. In the same way that his opponent did, the soldier only used the Strike mechanic to enhance the speed of each attack and not to guide his blade in its path. Timing each movement was easier than one might expect, but nevertheless difficult to use effectively – the system must have incorporated this misuse of the mechanic as a part of the advanced combat features, for a mob to be using this technique.
One thrust of the spear flew for his right shoulder, beat off its line by a half-sword arc and countered with a false-edge cut to the neck. It passed over the Mirka's head, singing sharply as it sliced the air with incredible speed. As the spear whipped back to his own neck, his blade's hilt jerked upward in interception and forced the spearhead above his head. Not wasting an instant, the soldier snapped his blade out to strike the right hip, the first wound of the fight.
A dull clash of a tempered steel edge on links of wrought iron reached his ears, enhancing the cry of pain that accompanied his blow to the pelvis. In retaliation, the Mirka lashed out for his leading hand with furious pace – and met the minimal resistance of a flowing blue-grey cloak as Arken pivoted off the line to attack the side of its right knee. His weapon's foible struck the joint with immense force, jerking the leg as bones were displaced – including the kneecap, which tore from place audibly as his blade swept back to a middle hanging-point guard, waiting for the next move and closing off his own wide openings.
The spearmaster grimaced at the injury, but kept unexpectedly quiet as it turned to face him again. It was quick to adopt a guard that let the leg rest yet not sacrifice the quality of warding. I need to slip through, without plain strength or speed. This one is too skilled to miss a feint – ah, but a half-feint utilising their own effort to line up…
He swept the centre of percussion 'round in that half-feint as if to strike across at the lower neck, though truly aiming for the left temple. In expected fashion, the Mirka raised its spear's rear quarter in a rising parry – but the man in grey twisted his wrists ever so slightly, enough to angle the edge so the blade skimmed his opponent's deflection and carried on directly into the iron helmet at the point where it protected that weak point in the skull called the temple.
KRASH.
Bone shielded by skin, horsehair padding and iron was broken by the sudden, vicious impact. Fragments stuck into the very cerebrum they had been built to protect, less damaging than the whiplash but nevertheless dangerous. A startled, gasping shout escaped the spearman as it reacted to being struck with concussive force in the head, accompanied by a stumbling and reflexive attempt to recover its stance that strained the torn knee. Agony flooded the beast's brain, the «Crippling Blow» rendering it immobile for more than enough time to end the fight.
It is decided.
He lashed out with the pommel with force that shattered the humanoid's lower jaw, forcing a spray of blood and a distorted cry of pain from his opponent. Before any more sound could escape bloodied lips, the soldier brought the acute point of his greatsword 'round to bear and swiftly drove it into the palate of the «Mirka Spearmaster», piercing through both the temporal and occipital lobes to instantly kill the beast.
The «Critical» was so vicious that all four hundred ninety remaining health points fell from the meter in just a fifth of a second.
Done.
Ten in five days.
Not as arduous as expected, I think.
—~—
Breathing deeply to try and calm his swiftly beating heart – to little avail, aside from a hint of placebo – the soldier pulled his blade free of the bloodied wound and let it sink into the soft soil as he himself straightened up and set his gaze on a distant point of unfocus.
"… So, is this what you desired, Kayaba Akihiko? A level of realism that destroyed— no, quite utterly obliterated dismissals of Virtual Reality as anything less than real? Irrefutable proof that people truly lived in an Incarnating Radius such as this? A way to prove that each of the actions in worlds outside our home reality – places where we nonetheless exist – still have meaning for and impact upon us?"
The words were slow, deliberate.
He understood that people would be inexorably drawn to his duel – another one-versus-one battle between the grey greatswordsman and one of the Mirka – and that they would continue to be within his reach for a few moments more. While he was alone yet still a notable player, was his opening.
"If such was your intent, it is a success; for one classification it. The world here is real. Death in this place is ever-present. Every kind of morally wrong act is possible, even if unrecorded, while the morally sound are limited – albeit within expectations. Simultaneously, there is an audience to all of this that cannot disregard what they see. Infinitely more so than that ineptly named 'reality television', the actions and reactions, the intents and perceptions, the instincts and deliberations of each person here are unfiltered, honest."
Arken was, not that he knew, gazing directly at one of the livestream feed sources. Hazel eyes always were rather uncommon; they held more gazes to his own than were normally engaged with the screens displaying death as much because of their nature as their owner.
"Even if I have misjudged, the effects of this are undeniable. If sources serve rightly, well over nine thousand suicides have occurred since day one. Near ten percent of those who were first trapped here; more deaths than any one terrorist attack in over thirty-two years."
He blinked slowly, breathing through his nose; a measured pause.
"It is difficult to live here. Any more than survival is a dream at present. But people who don't choose to give up are most often quite good at that."
The edge of his mouth curled in an almost-smile.
"So far, I have endured ten days of what most would call hell. The determination I have will see me through the days that remain until that very last battle in this campaign, be they hundreds or even thousands, when the «Final Floor Boss» is surely defeated and we are free. That day will bring the sweet release from the grip of these chains and I will celebrate it with every other person freed."
This man in grey with his simple blades piqued the interest of those within the system of Cardinal. Intent on the finish, oh so fiercely. Why? For what reason? They did not know. One's own life was not enough for such strength, after all. Far too many examples had cemented that within themselves.
"To ensure the oath kept, I shall see the end."
—~~—
{2124}
Arken strode out of the «Occident Forest», visage impassive despite his weariness, with his two-hander slung over his back and sidesword in hand. The sky had grown dark hours ago, but he was used to working in similar poorly-lit conditions and barely noticed. Even the resultant increase in general mob aggression was met with an almost casual indifference; it had only been enough to draw out his knives and sidesword when fighting, increasing his rate of attack and making each encounter even more brief than in the day. Accompanied by the increase in experience derived from more dangerous opponents, he knew that he was able to gain as many points towards his «Player Level» in three hours as he had in a morning's five.
Not a minute later, he was walking about the outside of «Ratel», to find those people that had agreed with him on a meeting of sorts. They were just ten days in – and already there were several important factors to address regarding the way things worked. The soldier in grey already knew some of them: nearly five thousand beta testers, one thousand of them certified experts in armed Medieval and / or Renaissance combat; a simply alarming number of player suicides and what that entailed; an incredibly intricate subsystem for mob spawns and their various capabilities intermixed with surprising revisions to the post-beta release; and the enigmatic threat that was the Mirka.
He found the first easily enough – the man who went by the name of Thinker, a slim sabreur with intelligent eyes yet an uncertainty about him. Thinker was chief of the net gaming information site MMO Today and had been since its inception quite some years ago. To say that the umber-haired man was standing out would be no lie: he was quite literally standing a dozen metres out from the town's western gate, casting his gaze around for the others. A few metres closer to the gate was his second and co-founder, the silver haired Yulier, firm and yet of rather gentle voice. She was more tense, but subtly so; the tells being her grip on her weapons – a blacksnake whip and matching backsword – as well as eyes that flicked swiftly from point to point. Her own armour was more substantial, but not enough to impede upon her complete freedom of movement. Both wore forest-green jacks of plate and taupe padded chausses, likely accompanied by open-faced helmets that were hidden away within the quick-access nodes of their inventories.
"Ah, Arken." Thinker nodded as he noticed the soldier's cloak. "You're here early."
"Have you seen any of the others yet?" Yulier asked, forgoing a greeting of her own in her distracted state.
The man in grey shook his head. "I have been away from the town for the past few hours. Although, I should say that I would expect Argo here at the exact minute we agreed upon – no later, no earlier."
Both nodded their understanding. "Knowing her, that makes sense," the sabreur said.
At that, the soldier let a smile slip onto his face briefly, hidden behind his falling-buffe. Before he could muse further, though, another person arrived for the meeting.
"Hey there! Good to see you all still in one piece," the «Senior Expert Tester» Kaikaku called out. The man was distinctly recognisable: a few centimetres shorter than Arken, a touch broader and quite well-muscled. Under a shock of burgundy hair that brushed thick brows, his features were smoothly worn, as if he were older than he truly was. Warm chestnut eyes flicked almost casually between people – which, along with his openly amiable personality, belied his impressive skill with and knowledge of both Medieval and Renaissance weapons, especially polearms of any variation.
He wore a leather brigandine over hauberk for his torso, along with greaves over his mail chausses and a transitional Italian sallet with bellows visor. The partisan he wielded bore a haft longer than he was tall, with a broad, almost leaf-like blade that was common to the weapon type. As it was, the pole weapon was presently slung across his back, held by a rig that kept the head protected from ruination while maintaining ease of access.
In return to his greeting, Thinker smiled, saying, "The same to you, Kai."
"Un. Word is that you've been busy," Yulier added, nodding her own welcome.
Arken simply inclined his helmeted head before Kaikaku replied. "You could put it that way. There's quite a lot that we need to deal with, after all."
"Why else would one of the ten «Senior Expert Testers» request for a quiet meeting of a handful of key players from me?" came an amused voice with unusual inflection.
Argo had now arrived, as exactly on time as was expected of her by the soldier: accurate to the half-minute. She wore her customary cloak and impish grin, standing by the grey swordsman's left side. Thinker stifled a yelp at her sudden arrival, while Yulier frowned slightly and Kaikaku chuckled. The man in grey let a smile grace his lips again – and even though his face was still hidden behind the lames of his falling-buffe visor, he saw her head shift as if to acknowledge him.
"Your timing, Argo, is exact as always," Kaikaku smiled. "And, yes, that is why I wanted this little gathering to happen."
Yulier frowned further. "But, why such an eclectic group? Arken is a solo player – and I've never even heard of Diavel or Lind, the two who aren't here yet. They're both «Unit Leaders», yes, but I don't know anything about them as people."
"Diavel and Lind are both Level 4, both in charge of ten-person «Units» and both arriving here from «Tolbana» after a brief excursion into the «First Floor Labyrinth» together. The only players at higher Levels are Arken and perhaps a dozen other solo players," Argo offered at a rapid pace.
"Six hundred Cor, for that information," the man in grey supplemented. "Only three of the five pieces were new to you, each one valued at two hundred forty Cor individually but marked down by no less than sixteen percent altogether."
The information broker laughed. "Grey-kun knows me too well. But yeah, six hundred Cor."
Thinker stared wide-eyed at Arken's interjection, while his second grumbled discontentedly as she paid the broker her dues.
"It's rude to stare, Thinker," Kaikaku smiled, pulling the sabreur from his dazed state.
"Aa, I was just— I, eh… Gomen-nasai" he stumbled through his apology.
"Grey-kun doesn't mind; he's used to worse~"
"Argo," the man in question almost sighed.
In return, the petite young woman pouted rather childishly, saying, "What's wrong with that?"
"Little enough to those with no sense for innuendo – a collective I am certain you do not belong to."
While Yulier suppressed her reaction and Kaikaku quite simply maintained his ever-present amicable smile, the sabreur held a rather puzzled frown for some moments. As Argo gave in to the soldier's silently disapproving body language, Thinker's expression altered dramatically thrice in a single second – shock, disgust and then composure – as he came upon the realisation.
"Fine. For now, I'll refrain," the info-broker ceded.
Arken smiled faintly and nodded, turning towards the bearing from which his «Perception» skill had discerned the approach of just two human-sized bipeds – the players coming from «Tolbana», one would think. Only Argo noticed what his shift in stance actually signified and thusly cast her own «Perception»-enhanced gaze in the direction he was facing; the others began another conversation without them.
Eventually, the two decided to pass on that the last members of the impromptu gathering were arriving with simultaneous declarations:
"They are in sight."
"They're here now."
The three glanced about until they noticed which direction both had their gazes fixed. By the time that Diavel and Lind were within earshot, three pairs of eyes had located the two men and begun initial assessments of them both, while two pairs compared previous encounters with each man's present state.
Diavel stood as tall as Kaikaku and was as slim as Kemuri, but his similarities with other people Arken knew ended there. His thick bangs were just long enough to brush his shoulders, while he kept the rest short, all of it that same blue-black the soldier had selected for his original avatar. The man's eyes were a strong azure, firmly determined even as he said his greetings. There was no doubt that he was a «Unit Leader» in anyone's mind.
Similar in build and a centimetre or so shorter, Lind had longer and thinner hair – a shade of brown like café latte – held in a low ponytail. His own eyes were a cold auburn, far more reserved and critical in appraisals. To the grey swordsman and the umber broker-spy, he appeared more a tactical fighter than leader.
Both wore canvas-shelled brigandines with silvery plate and mail, as if to reinforce their association, though that which Lind wore was dyed ultramarine to match his pulwar where Diavel wore cerulean in concert with the sword-silhouette device seen on his heater shield and his blade's scabbard.
"Evening, everyone," the knight in cerulean began. "Apologies for our late arrival."
"Not an issue, Diavel," Kaikaku calmly replied.
Lind nodded, letting his gaze cast over the others present quietly. He's not interested in the spotlight, it seems. Interesting.
"So, now that we're all gathered, shall we begin?" Thinker inquired, echoed by Yulier.
Affirmation came in its varied forms from each individual present. With that, the first of many meetings between prominent individuals began.
—~~—
{2159}
Nearly thirty minutes after the gathered had progressed beyond introductions, their discourse had grown rapid and intense; the debate with relation to the Mirka and what should be enacted to deal with said threat had reached an unrestrained degree of frenetics.
"We need to remove the problem as efficiently and effectively as possible, which me—"
"—won't work, we don't have the strength in numbers or prowess to even attempt the virtual reality equivalent of genocide here and yo—"
"—isn't enough of us to do anything aside from clearing, because there's too ma—"
"—me?! Didn't you listen when I said it was the only way for u—"
"—only way? You make me laugh; we can quite easily avoid them without any more effort than we exert during curr—"
"—there's more than enough active players across this entire «First Floor» to make it—"
"QUIET."
The collected people halted their verbal sparring with similar expressions of surprise. After some moments of confusion, five pairs of eyes settled on Arken after the realisation that his voice was that most startlingly projected, calm baritone which had pierced through their unnecessary din.
The grey soldier inclined his head. "Thank you." Seeing that they appeared to expect more, he added, "Now, wouldn't it be far more appropriate if this were undertaken in a civilised manner? This constant interruption is unnecessary and quite unhelpful to progressing this meeting beyond its third issue."
They remained silent, prompting the single person who hadn't been surprised – Argo, of course – to ask: "What, then, d'you think of them, Grey-kun?"
"My own perspective on the Mirka is that they are an unavoidable and prominent threat, requiring a fully-equipped and properly trained standing army with indomitable cohesion to most effectively rid ourselves of them. Lacking that, as we evidently are, the necessary solution is to ruin the structure of leadership – eliminate the «Floor Boss» and its immediate subordinates with subtlety. Follow that requirement for universal escape provided by the creator of this reality."
"Ninety thousand people would definitely fulfil the numbers for a standing army," the knight mused in quiet approval.
Argo frowned. "But, the actual effective number of combat ready players available presently is maybe two percent of said ninety thousand, with around eight percent of that number active on this side of the «First Floor»."
"Exactly why I have been thinking of how best we may adapt what is known of asymmetrical irregular warfare to this… campaign," the man in grey said.
"Asymmetrical?" Thinker was clearly puzzled.
"A form of warfare where the forces engaged in it consist of drastically differing numbers and / or tactics," Diavel supplied. "I can see why you have considered it, Arken. Acting as what is more or less a guerrilla unit is our best bet."
"'Special forces' would be more appealing. Asymmetrical warfare is not the same as guerrilla warfare, after all."
"Hmn? What do you mean by that, Argo?" Yulier asked the info-broker.
She turned to the other woman with a slight smile. "For promotion, of course. Public relations. We'll be watched by the others stuck here, not just the audience that lies on the outside," the broker-spy answered. "Rather than the haphazard guerrillas fighting against the ruthless regime, we should be the lethal special operations unit that destroys the warfaring behemoth with a precisely crippling single strike."
"Liberation Force, or Freedom Alliance, would be better for our PR, I think, if we want to draw in more players. Reinforce that these people are doing this to liberate everyone from this living hell," added Diavel.
Yulier hummed. "And who would lead that force?"
Each person present contemplated the question. There were four «Unit Leaders» present – Thinker, Kaikaku, Diavel and Lind – but, thus far, Lind had not displayed any inclination toward leading over Diavel and Thinker was more of a strategist and interpersonal coordinator; he was not known for any swordsmanship of his own. Yet, the remaining two were comparatively suitable to the overarching leadership position for the whole of the warfaring force, both being skilled vanguard leaders during the «Closed Beta». Within seconds of the question being asked, it became evident which were the candidates on everyone's mind.
"I think Diavel would be most well-suited."
As a concession from Kaikaku, the decision seemed to be essentially confirmed. Nonetheless, there was some surprise found on most faces.
"Not you yourself? You are almost immediately recognisable, as a «Senior Expert Tester», and your leadership and combat skills are impressive, if the forums spoke true of the «Closed Beta»," Thinker inquired.
The partisan-wielder expressed his negative reply with one shake of his head. "That very fact in and of itself is as much a bane as a boon now. Many will see me as not having done enough to attempt the restoration of order to things on that initial day – and I don't see any valid reason to blame them. I, like most betas, simply made my way to one of the nearest settlements. Diavel here, however, gathered himself a «Unit» while he tried his best to bring some semblance of order to the unruly mess around the «First City». That success was leagues ahead of what I myself and most others who could impact the situation actually did."
"It was not so grand an effort, Kaikaku," the knight himself interjected. "Really, it was a simple method to quickly gather myself a group that I could easily grind with to a solid level before anything else. People mistook it for a grand action and I couldn't convince them otherwise. Lind can attest to that."
The thus-far silent pulwar-wielder nodded, "I was – and still am – his second-in command; while his voice definitely carries easily with a firmness that leads well, it wasn't the, quote, 'golden thunder' people were describing it as after he arrived at the fields around the «First City» that second day."
"Ah, I remember that, 'golden thunder'," Diavel let a chuckle escape him. "Sometimes people choose the strangest words. But, if you doubt that people will as easily follow you, Kaikaku, because of your prominence in the beta possibly bringing disgruntlement from some players, I will accept the leadership position requested of me."
"It's settled, then," the «Senior Expert Tester» confirmed with a nod. Agreement from every other individual present brought the topic to its full conclusion.
"Now," Argo began, "what of the «Closed Beta Testers» themselves?"
—~~—
{2214}
Never let it be said that Arken was fond of these lengthy "sessions of debate". He would not term them 'boring', no, but perhaps 'excessive' and 'sesquipedalian' would be apt descriptors. Even now, he was faced with yet more indecision; the gathered people – all highly capable and skilled in their lines of work – could not even partially agree on what should be done with regards to the thousands dead.
The predicament came as thus: aside from the nine thousand seven hundred eighty-one suicides in the past fourteen days or so, one thousand five hundred seventy-two deaths due to other causes had occurred. Eight hundred ninety-seven of those occurred in the past five days, including most of the nine hundred forty-odd «Closed Beta Tester» deaths. Of course, the reason was the Mirka, but the more under-informed would not know or care about that – all they would consider in their minds would begin as 'so many people… all dead' and end with 'the beta testers are to blame for every single one', respectively.
I feel the urge to laugh bitterly, scornfully at the mere thought of it. Yet, it is what the people here fear: the fickle crowd. As in far too many other scenarios, the uninformed are so quick to shift blame where it is far from due. One can hope for the assemblage to be suitably knowledgeable and appropriately sensible, but such hopes are so often dashed – common sense has never been common.
"How many non-betas do you expect to know who you are, Diavel?"
It was a question from Argo, who had alternated between not interjecting with unrelated comments (in keeping with her promise to Arken) and offering distracted quips to add to the conversation. All the while, the broker took in and directed the flow of her network with quiet mutterings as she worked, multitasking with a most uncanny ease. Now, though, it seemed she had decided that progress had stagnated to a point where it needed some decisive action on her part.
"Ueh?" the knight grunted, startled by the suddenly direct address. "Aah, I don't know for certain. But some of them have been quite vocal in decrying the beta testers, as I said before. Chances are that at least one rather disgruntled player will feel the need to say something against us."
"One person."
The others frowned. "You know, you aren't exactly scot-free, either, Argo. Any alteration to mechanics as they were back in the beta will have severe repercussions for the information you've included in your guidebook series," Thinker pointed out.
"Come on~" she flashed a smile, "don't you think I'm prepared for that? There's a good reason I'm keeping my best supplier of front-line information close. He's faced more Mirka walking through the west-side woods this week than most players managed to defeat during the «Closed Beta's» first boss fight."
Arken shifted to face Diavel, who stood beyond Lind to his right. "How many non-betas have you told about your being a «Closed Beta Tester» that aren't present?"
The man in cerulean paused. "Only two; my 3ICs." He glanced back at Argo. "And who is that 'best supplier'? I'd like to know his player name."
"That's gonna cost you some coin, Dia-kun," the broker smirked. "I don't give the names of my best so easily."
A sigh escaped the soldier upon seeing Argo's expression. "There's no need for that right now, Diavel. If you've only told two other people, why should you worry that anyone else recognises you? Of those forumites actively interested in the players of the «Closed Beta», only a handful entered the Special Release. They were as well-informed as non-betas could be, and as far from liabilities to you as reasonably possible." She is quick to monetise those types of questions. It grows excessive, nearly irritating, at times.
"It is a worry, though. I understand now that it is nothing to fret over, but it will still be with me until after we defeat the «First Floor Boss»."
Seeing the wry smile, Arken nodded. It is not hard to understand him. At the thought, he deftly removed the falling-buffe of his burgonet, understanding on his face. "That much, I cannot dispute. Better to hope for the best while prepared for the worst than to expect no more than what you are ready for."
The knight smiled. "Those are good words to keep in mind. Arigatō."
"You know to be strong through each struggle. But, remember to be yourself in the hours aside. Holding up under the pressure is never easy; don't forget to lighten your load."
—~~—
{2301}
Aïe. Je ne sais pas. C'est un grand débâcle.
He stood in the middle of the room, devoid of any garb barring his undershorts. At this hour, the only light came from the slow-burning candle stood on the small table in one corner of the room, casting shadows that emphasised just how sharp his features were. The man known as Arken gazed without focus through the squarish window in the wall, which faced onto one of the major streets of «Ratel». If his audience could see into his room, they would have either shied from or stared at him, because of the way steel flashed like lightning in the candlelight.
As if to swift music that only he could hear, the soldier arced his great blade continuously about himself with lethal speed, interrupting his own movements at jarring moments – as if the actions were made with nothing more than a thin PVC pipe and not five-thirds of a metre of steel, despite a mass nearing two and a half kilograms. He never took a step forward or backward, thanks to the size of the room, but his swordsmanship made the most of what he was given, as if the room were instead a position to be held against numerous others. To that end, if one could imagine a group of armed assailants stood in opposition to him, his movements would make far more sense. A sudden cut downward to intercept one's lashing polearm, flowing into a low false-edge slash for another's legs as their longsword's thrust failed to reach, the follow-through interrupted swiftly by a flick of the foible up to deflect a kriegsmesser and an arc overhead to harshly arrest the progress of an axe whose wielder barely avoided being cleaved in counter. Despite perhaps half a dozen of these theoretical enemies, each viper-quick strike kept them from figuratively advancing.
Even though common logic would imply the disparity of numbers meant that the single man would eventually be worn out before the many, this man with his sword, 'Joe', was not a fighter that kept to convention. As a soldier, he had an endurance that outclassed most every type of person aside from equally skilled athletes. At the same time, as a swordsman, he had skill and strength in his arms to have his 'performance' continue beyond a quarter-hour. He had beyond three thousand hours of training in combat with such immense blades, along with yet more hours dedicated to those unarmed martial arts he had all but mastered beforehand. To be straightforward, the man – whether one knew him as 'Joe', Arken, Grey, or Soldier – was not average in his physical ability by any measure of human averages. He was not exceptional, but was certainly bodily strong enough to not have needed prior physical training before he entered the Australian Army.
The man never liked comparing himself to anything, but he was a keen hunter to sharp eyes and a lean direwolf to less combat-savvy viewers. It was all without importance to him, whatever the case. The only titles he respected were definitive.
—~—
A sharp pattern of knocks on his room's door brought the blade to a startling halt, followed by a series of gestures that brought a light tunic and trousers from his quick-access sub-inventory to cover himself, for the sake of decency. The blade simply sat on his shoulder, as ever.
"You may enter."
In stepped Argo; the only other person who knew that pattern, of course. The broker-spy wore her umber cloak with hood drawn up, even as their clocks displayed a time closing on midnight. As he expected, she didn't begin to speak until after she had latched the pine door behind herself – but, then, she also lowered the hood that obscured the majority of her face at any time. To say he didn't expect the latter action would be blithely laconic; he stood in place, unmoving as if stunned, for a number of heartbeats before the silence between them was broken.
"Hey… I'm here to, ah, ask you… something."
What he himself had yet to realise was the fact that sweat, a very real part of this «Realized World», held most of the properties that it was known for in their home reality, including the qualities that let it adhere skin to cloth and to turn pale fabrics at least slightly translucent. Of course, it meant that Argo was faced with the details of his musculature often hidden by all the armour he wore, leaving little enough to the imagination. Now, the best information dealer and investigative spy of Aincrad was not new to seeing men's physiques, but it had been a good while since she last saw someone with lean, purpose-built muscle like his own. Thus her uncharacteristic hesitation.
In return, she hadn't considered that he had yet to see her whole face; the whiskers marking both cheeks were often hidden by the shadows of her hood. Aside from that, she was not what someone would consider lacking by any means in the area of physical attractiveness either, rather, 'impishly cute' as someone more adept at putting it in words would decide most suitable, and he was one to appreciate beauty in whatever form it held when it crossed his path, using that reserved and subtle manner with which he approached most social interactions. So, the man took several moments to respond to her statement.
She's…
…well, expecting a response. "Mmh. Something?"
"I need an item." Straight to business.
"Tool or equipment?"
"Tools, plural, make that. The «Dancer's Blades»."
"Location?"
"«Archer's Peak», northernmost apex in the «Breaker Ridge»." That one?
"I know the one. Follow the «Diamantina River» to its source, situated nearer to the «Labyrinth» than not."
"Yup. There should be a cave on the western face, leading to the items in question."
"Is it essential in any sense?"
"Of course. From what I've picked up, these «Dancer's Blades» aren't exactly normal by the European-inspired standard around here. Given what the town NPCs say they can do to an opponent, I'm thinking they aren't knives, but claw-style weapons. And I'd like to use them."
"Bhagunakha, they are in India, or the shuko of the ninja. Nasty things, but no better for defence than bare hands."
"I'm a third-dan karateka and a first-degree black belt in hapkido; it won't be a problem for me. I'm not trying to fight at the front, anyway."
A contemplative silence, his face unmoving as if paused during a film. "I'll meet you at the north end of the town square at zero five four five."
"Nice and early for seventy-eight kilometres."
"Unless you'd rather arrive well into the nighttime, that is," he replied.
"Maybe that'll make it more fun?"
"I'm sure we will face enough of that regardless."
"Eh, since Cardinal is targeting you for whatever reason, I guess that'll be the case."
"Thank you for your concern in regards to the anomaly. Truly, I appreciate it."
"Aah, your sarcasm is scathing as ever."
~][~][~
[POSTFACE]
~ Plated mail [also mail-and-plate or splinted mail] is neither plate nor conventional mail, instead armour consisting of small plates interconnected via mail-like links. It was often used as heavier armour in conjunction with sections of regular mail before full plate came to be.
~ Argo's claws are, put simply, utterly vicious weapons. Bhagunakha (literally "tiger's claws") were known to rip flesh to shreds quite easily, used both in duels to death and 'death wrestling' in India; some variants included a bichuwa ('scorpion knife') blade attached to one end. Shuko were the ninja equivalent, used to assist in climbing walls and trees as well as combat, where they covered most of the palm [seen in some later variants of bhagunakha as well].
[Tekagi-shuko were the combat-focused variant of shuko with longer blades, much like the claws of James 'Logan' Howlett.]
~ Introducing Diavel. As well as Lind, Thinker and Yulier. Agil, Klein, Kibaou and others will make their entrances later.
~ A synonymous phrase to this chapter's title would be 'grotesque monotony'.
– Song lyric excerpts are from Swedish House Mafia's 'Don't You Worry Child' featuring John Martin and NEEDTOBREATHE's 'Able', respectively the second verse and bridge / ending of each.
– Next chapter will be from multiple points of view, both original and canon, given that it will consist of reactions to the events by members of the audience to this series of events.
– Successive chapter will be from a canon perspective, possibly containing the First Floor Boss Fight (after so long). No promises, but it could happen.
[Notable Changes:]
2017.03
• The Senior Expert Tester who makes an appearance is now known as Kaikaku.