The tail end of the second day of proceedings arrived, and with it came a renewed purpose… subject to revised parameters. Where there had once been five, there were now nineteen, split into three cohorts under the respective commands of Caenor, Cantabile, and Seki. Where stealth had once been the priority, it was now little more than an afterthought, with efficiency and cooperation now paramount in their plans. And where their enemies had once been ostensibly unaware of their movements, they were now lying in wait, ready for any attack.

This would be no assassination or clandestine mission. This was, for all intents and purposes, a full-blown siege.

The new members were taken to a nearby training ground so they could spar briefly and have their player-versus-player fighting abilities assessed – all were deemed to be above average, which, considering the lofty levels of even the most undecorated lay member within the Knights' ranks, was a promising sign. Beni in particular showed why Uzala relied on him to take care of the others in Team C, and of the original Bloodwatch, only Caenor and Altorius could best him with anything approaching relative ease. Sub-leaders were then assigned to each group: Seki was to watch over the Team C helpers with Beni, and Cantabile – with Altorius beside her, as always – took charge of a good chunk of those from Team B, leaving Caenor to supervise Kirito, Silica, Wing, and a couple of others whom Caenor had known from his own Team B days.

As the afternoon drew to a close and the sunlight began to recede, Caenor called all of them back into his office to prepare them for what lay ahead. He gave them essentially the same pep talk as yesterday, with a few tweaks and some omissions to make it a little more concise, as well as a quick parting statement tacked to the end.

"I hope I never have to call on any of you again," he said, "because that would mean we – the original group – failed in our goal to eradicate those that have stolen so much from us. But for tonight, we're all in this as one team. We'll thin Laughing Coffin's numbers and get Wing's brother back, and we'll do it together. After that, you can leave the rest to us, and go back to doing boss raids in peace. Sound good?"

A cheer roared out from amongst the crowd.

"You guys have ten minutes to stock up with everything you can get. Make sure you grab some antidotes – player killers like their poisons and paralysis effects – not to mention as many health pots and crystals as possible. Remember: you win as long as you live. We meet in the central plaza in ten."

The others filed out, leaving the original team, Kirito and Silica alone in the room to mull in the ensuing silence.

"So." Kirito clasped the pommel of his unsheathed sword, tapping it absent-mindedly as he spoke. "This is it, huh. All those hours and days spent training, hunting, raiding, scouting… all of it comes down to this for you guys. For us, now, as well," he said, gesturing to Silica, who emitted a half-grin in response.

Caenor nodded. "It's been a long road fraught with danger, yet the hardest is still yet to come. Without this one last push, all of our effort will have been for naught. I can't help but have my reservations, since none of our newfound reinforcements have ever actually killed someone before, and if they were to hesitate just for a split second and get themselves killed, I would rightly take the blame. But I have to trust them. We have to trust them. We…" He paused, wondering if he might be justified in saying something as callous as he was about to say. "We have no other choice. If only I had been more active in my recruitment, then we might not have to rely on…"

"Vice-commander," interjected Cantabile quietly. "Are we not good enough?"

Caenor looked up. In her eyes he saw – for what seemed like the first time – a genuine hurt, born of Caenor's careless words, coupled with a determination that she would prove herself the equal of anyone else he might have seen fit to bring into the fold.

"Of course you are. Sorry. I wasn't thinking straight." He stood and stared at each of them in turn, watching keenly as his own earnest gaze was reflected on their faces. "We won't have any more time to speak like this – maybe we will never have the chance again. So, all I have to say is…" He forced out a smile, and all of them reciprocated the expression. "It's been a pleasure – and honor – leading all of you. Despite our many differences and oftentimes petty squabbles, I wouldn't have had it any other way. I can only be proud to have called you my team."

He rapped the table in front of him, remembering the moment he had first set eyes on it, and on this office. It had barely been a matter of weeks past, yet the memories of the days since had dragged on and on, as though distorted by the shock and emotion he had experienced throughout, submerged in the recesses of his mind, waiting to be released into sweet relief once this ordeal was over. There had been no time to grieve, no time to mourn, no time to curse the agony that fate had bestowed upon him. There had been no time at all.

Instead, there had only been the mind-numbing, teeth-grinding race towards the finish line, towards the pinprick of light at the end of the pitch-black tunnel. As for what lay beyond that, Caenor would have to wait and see. It was all he could do to prevent himself from shattering into a million pieces, joining Ferramo in whatever afterlife awaited them.

But there was no time for that, either. Death would have to wait its turn.

For now, he had a couple of close friends to avenge.

"Let's head out," he breathed.

The floors of Aincrad were myriad, multicolored, multi-faceted in their make, a kaleidoscope of rain and wind and forest, of snow and sand and sea. It was fitting, then, that the 42nd floor was a barren, gray, rocky wasteland, devoid of the merest hint of imagination, an empty and flat landscape that stretched on as far as the eye could see, with no crests or troughs to mar the parallel horizons of sky and earth. An apt abode for those who sought nothing from this game but that which they could seize with their own hands – and, Caenor hoped, an apt resting place for them too.

There was nowhere to hide. Once all of them had materialized in front of the teleport stone, there was naught but the march forwards into the monochrome, a silent yet purposeful trudge of united souls unsure of whether they would live to see the end of the day. The coordinates of their destination were known via their trusty list of hideouts locations, but they didn't need to consult that list to know where they needed to go. The yellow brick road led out into the wilderness, and all they had to do was follow it, arm-in-arm unto their potential demises.

He glanced over to his left, where Seki had her eyes fixed on the ground as she walked, squinting with each step as though forcing herself to take each dreadful stride forward, ignoring whatever pain or stiffness barraged her senses in response. He remembered seeing her in a similar state that fateful night, when their lives had been taken from them by the ones they now sought to subjugate. Her frantic doubts, her – in hindsight – legitimate concerns, the light draining from her eyes as her greatest fears were realized in brutal and visceral detail. Her demeanor, already meek and timid, now wracked by the desecration of what little dignity and integrity she had left to cling on to.

She had never been cut out for a game like this, where the stakes were far higher than that which anyone their age would typically be expected to confront. Whatever she had initially expected from Sword Art Online, those expectations had surely been demolished, destroyed by the cruel machinations of reality, and of the reaper who awaited them at the top of the floating castle. Until the game was cleared, which might take an untold number of years, given the pace at which they were progressing, she would simply have to live with the agony – though it wasn't as if the nightmares would end even with their release.

Yet she soldiered on. That was all Caenor needed to see.

Their eyes met, and he instinctively reached a hand out towards hers. With some hesitation, she reciprocated the gesture. Just as they were about to touch, a subdued but pointed cough nearby gave them pause.

"Save that for later," Cantabile muttered. "We're here."

The endless, flat, horizontal plane of gray had given way to a slope whose gradient grew steeper as it fell deeper into the recess, at the bottom of which was a wide, roughly-cut rock stairwell. It was somewhat reminiscent of the hideout on the 46th floor, another mere hole in the ground amidst an arid, uninhabited landscape, though this version had a much larger opening through which to enter. Once again, the ominous flickering of dim torchlight emanated from the depths, beckoning them forwards in an almost hypnotic manner.

They cast brief looks at each other.

"You guys ready?" Caenor asked quietly. The others nodded without a word.

And so began their descent into the mouth of hell.

"How nice of you to visit."

They were clustered together in the center of a massive rotunda, one that had been built entirely underground, leaving none of its domed roof protruding from the earth and marring the undisturbed topography above. It was a wide, dark, unwelcoming room decorated sparsely by torches, racks, shelves, and little else, and would have been utterly unremarkable save for the fact that the walls were lined with sneering, leering faces, each belonging to a member of the guild whose insignia was – like in all the other safehouses – emblazoned near the ceiling, grinning menacingly down at the latest prey to fall into the spider's web.

At the end of the room, farthest from the only door in and out of the rotunda, was a pile of crates, and atop it was sat the figure who had just spoken, every bit as insidious-looking and unpleasant as the others, but with an added air of arrogance that immediately evinced him to be the leader of their merry band of – by Caenor's quick estimate – around twenty-odd player killers.

An even fight, then, assuming they kept their wits about them.

Clearing his throat, Caenor replied, "You must be the one who wrote the note."

"Good guess. You must be the big cheese. Wing's been telling me all about you," he said with a wink and a wave, causing Wing to jump and cower behind Caenor. "Still, I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to actually come, Vice-commander." He hopped off the crates and slapped the dust off his gray leather jacket, exposing his features to the torchlight. As he slipped out of the shadow and his face came into view, Caenor's jaw slackened in shock, his breath catching in his throat as he beheld the identity of the one who claimed to lead his mortal enemies.

He wondered whether his mind was playing a trick on him, whether the trauma submerged underneath the murky waters of vengeance and duty had risen to the surface, obfuscating his vision, clouding his reality. Yet even the most forceful of blinks would not dispel the illusion. Seeing his confusion, the man before him could not help but laugh.

"What's wrong?" said Max, ostensibly risen from the dead, and from the dreadful memories of his simultaneously recent and long-lost past. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"But…" Caenor stammered, his lips frozen in shock, "But I… killed…"

"Killed me?" Max emitted a disdainful chuckle. "As if I'd be that easy to take down. You don't survive as long as I do as a leader of a guild like this without knowing a few tricks here and there." He tapped his temple knowingly. "My little brother is the one you're thinking of. Slow and dimwitted he might've been, but I trusted him to at least finish the job. Looks like I was wrong to let that loose end go untied. Don't worry, though," he added with a sneer, "I was still the one who stuck it to that fatass friend of yours. Ferrari, I think his name was?"

"It's Ferramo." That caustic, careless jibe was all Caenor needed to snap back into the cold, unrelenting demeanor that had carried him this far. Now that he knew the source of his angst, his agony, had survived, what he needed to do had never been clearer. He slammed the button on his palm, thrusting the wrist-blade out at Max. "And you'll pay for sullying his name like that."

"Will I, now?" Max's leer grew wider. "By my reckoning, we outnumber you four or five to one. I won't have to do a thing, and you still wouldn't be able to touch me. I can't help but admire your stupidity in coming here with so few people, but I'm never one to waste an opportunity when it's presented to me." He spread his arms triumphantly. "You're done here, Vice-commander. Better to just throw down your weapons and let the inevitable happen."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." Caenor nodded at the others, and as they drew their own weapons, he turned to the entrance behind him and yelled, "Now!"

The door was flung open, and a stream of red and white flooded into the room, leaping onto the gathered members of Laughing Coffin, most of whom were caught unawares – and thus unarmed. Beni and his group led the charge, diving into the hapless player killers with wanton force and abandon, slashing and stabbing furiously at anyone not clad in the gleaming colors of the Knights of the Blood. Kirito, Silica and the others tailed close behind, the Black Swordsman in particular catching the eye as he danced through the massed ranks, his ebony blade a piercing void that drew gushes of glowing blood with the slightest touch. Silica, too, did not hold back, displaying with practiced ease the moves which she had imparted upon Caenor, weaving in and out of hurried attacks by those few enemies who had managed to gather their weapons, before launching a flurry of counters and sucker punches to which her opponents had no answer.

The strategy had been simple, yet surprisingly effective, perhaps far more so than Caenor himself had expected. The original Bloodwatch had entered the main room alone, leaving the others behind to wait on Caenor's cue. Having ensured that Laughing Coffin's guard had been lowered, all they needed was for their adversaries to underestimate their numbers. Which, knowing them, they were wont to do.

"But what if they're expecting a trap?" Cantabile, ever the sceptic, had asked as they put together the finishing touches to their plan.

"Don't worry," Caenor had reassured her. "They're cautious predators, but they're also voracious ones. With the size of the bait we're dangling in front of them, they won't hesitate to bite, even if it means they get bitten back."

"And what makes you so sure about that?" Cantabile pressed.

Truth be told, Caenor had no idea. He was now technically a player killer, yet he had never once even entertained the thought of exploiting the collective weaknesses of his comrades, in the same deranged, psychopathic way that those of Laughing Coffin and other orange guilds of their ilk might do. Be that as it may, in his many sleepless moments, he had diverted his thoughts towards understanding the great nemesis, putting himself in their shoes, envisioning what it would take for him to become one of them, and to discard his humanity in the process.

The answer had been simpler than he had anticipated. Far simpler. So much so, in fact, that the truth of his capacity for evil horrified him, further prolonging his insomnia during many a night. How could he, a victim of such madness, unleash that same madness upon others? But the more he gnawed at the truth of the brittleness of humanity, the more he saw the same deficiencies reflected within himself.

He would do whatever it took to survive, even if it meant committing the most heinous and unthinkable of acts, because he was weak. Too weak to protect Ferramo; too weak to save Seki from destruction. Too weak to lead a guild team without suffering Cantabile's admonishments. Too weak to help Wing and free her brother, whose fate remained unknown and beyond their grasp. Above all, too weak to see the poisoned breadcrumb trail that had been laid out for them, a jagged and meandering path that led to the here and now, where the battle raged around him, trapping him in a vortex of spinning steel and strident screams.

He looked over at Seki, who had thrown herself bodily into the storm, the twin heads of her silver axe puncturing flesh and bone as she let fly with what little she had left in the tank. Broken and battered she might be, but she still kept going. She was weak, but then so were the rest of them. The only differences between them and those they opposed were two: circumstance, and willpower. Circumstance could ill be changed on the best of days, but the determination to do something about it, and to do the right thing, was fully within one's own control. Seki, Cantabile, Altorius, Wing, Kirito, Silica, Beni, and all those that now fought here had made their choice.

It behooved Caenor, their self-anointed leader, to do the same.

Pointing at Max, whose expression – to Caenor's great satisfaction – no longer bore its erstwhile arrogance, he beckoned to the Bloodwatch. To those who were too flawed to change the world alone, yet nevertheless found value in the unity and camaraderie they had fostered, for however brief a time.

"With me!" he called.

As always, they duly followed.

Even with the advantage of surprise, the battle was far from done. Diminished as their numbers might be, Laughing Coffin remained a potent fighting force, as one might reasonably have contemplated for a guild that specialized in killing other players. Losing their concentration meant death all the same, whether that may be by the hands of one, or of a dozen.

As Caenor lunged towards Max, a broadsword materialized in his opponent's grasp and blocked the hit. He barely had time to react before Max's parry swiftly transitioned into a counter-attack, the blade swinging inches past his head as he ducked.

"What's wrong?" Max goaded as he lashed out wildly at Caenor, who had to summon every ounce of his training just to stay in the game – in both the proverbial and literal senses. "Didn't you come here to kill me? You'll have to do a lot better than that!"

Caenor continued ducking and weaving, withstanding blow after blow as he watched and waited, ignoring Max's efforts to taunt him into making a false move. Then, as Max lifted his sword upwards, Caenor saw his chance.

The broadsword came crashing down, and with Max's arms locked into their grip by the momentum of the weapon's weight, Caenor sidestepped the attack and darted swiftly into range. Within the blink of an eye, he was inches away from Max's stunned, wide-eyed face, wrist-blade at his throat, ready to strike.

This was it. The moment he had desired for so long. A chance to reclaim the sliver of peace he had been chasing. Channeling all his strength into his arm, he thrust his weapon forward, waiting for the impact that signified the end.

The impact came and went. But it did not appear where he expected it to.

"I'm sorry, Vice-commander," whispered a soft voice in his ear. "This was the only way I could guarantee my brother's safety."

Caenor looked down at his chest, where a sharp, icy prickling – eerily familiar, and equally unwelcome – was spreading through his ribs. From the silver plate that covered his torso protruded a spindly shard of steel, the silvery tip of a dagger whose make was not known to him.

Yet the identity of its owner could not be more clear.

"Wing… how…"

The dagger abruptly retracted from his flesh, and a flood of agony coursed through his veins, sending him keeling over and collapsing onto the ground in a heap. The physical pain, significant enough on its own, was multiplied by the shock of the betrayal, and combined with the recollections of the last time he had been stabbed in that exact same spot that came crashing back, it was all he could do to prevent himself from blanking out.

Another mistake. Another failure. And this time, he might finally pay with his life for it.

What happened next, however, only made him wish that it were so.

Caenor's eyesight began to blur, but that did not stop him from watching with creeping horror as Max stepped over his prone, curled-up form and advanced on the others who had charged forward with him, towards the one person whose fall into darkness, and subsequent recovery into the light, had made it all worthwhile.

"Seki…" he croaked.

Somehow, through the unbearable din of the fight, a writhing mass of muffled echoes and distant screams, Seki heard his desperate plea and turned, her eyes widening, pupils dilating as she saw her last and only friend in this forsaken virtual realm lying helplessly on the floor, color draining simultaneously from his face and his health bar, ichor pooling on the floor around him, staining the muddy white on his robes crimson, trapped in the throes of impending death. Then, she saw Wing standing over him, stained dagger in hand, the proof of her final act of betrayal crystal clear even in the unrelenting chaos of the skirmish around them.

The final string that held her brittle sanity together, already frayed and worn by the ravages of her continuing desolation, was immediately snapped.

"Caenor...! No...! NO!"

She flung her axe upwards over her shoulder and charged blindly at Wing, swinging aimlessly at anything and anyone that came too close, the beige of her unseeing eyes bloodshot with wrath. Wing easily avoided her blows and backed away, though she did not retaliate, instead continuing to wear that same forlorn look she had always done, as though she had always known it would come to this, always anticipated in the back of her mind the day when she would have to turn her back on those who had held out their hands to her in her hour of need.

What, if anything, of what Wing had told them over the past days had been a lie? Or rather, what had been the truth? Caenor's body and mind were in far too much pain for him to think, and the fleeting question, a trifle in the grand futility of their current situation, was soon readily discarded.

Seki, uncaring, continued to rampage, her breathing guttural and ragged, her arms and legs evidently tiring, yet still fueled by unbridled adrenaline and untrammeled rage. Caenor had seen this phenomenon once before, in a dark, golem-infested cave far, far from here. He knew her vision – and any sound judgment remaining in her – was long gone, even if her eyes were ostensibly open. He knew he had to stop her, before she was forcibly stopped by someone else. He knew he had to stand up through the searing pain and embrace her, restore her to her senses, tell her that everything would be alright.

But his words could not reach her. And they never would.

Seki did not notice the sword that spliced through her abdomen. She did not see Caenor, the frost that had momentarily overtaken his senses now claiming him completely, paralyzing him, forcing him to witness the demise of the last person in this accursed game whom he had ever had a chance of loving. She did not see Max, her grinning assailant, nor the reason for her end.

In a brilliant, blinding burst of crimson polygons, Seki was gone.

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Caenor had never amounted to much.

In the real world, he'd been as average as they came. He had a small group of friends who he would occasionally hang out with at the mall after school, whittling the hours away at the arcade, enjoying the passage of youthful time. At home, a loving family awaited him every night, though his younger sister was at the sort of age where she was loath to truly show her affection for her brother. At school, he was right in the middle of the 50th percentile of his classmates – not great, but nowhere near terrible. A recommendation to the local college was just about set in stone, and beyond that a life of quiet normalcy and comfortable mundanity beckoned.

Then, on his 16th birthday, his parents had given him a very special, yet undeniably peculiar gift. "We thought you might enjoy this," they'd said. Upon unwrapping the present, he'd stared down at something that looked like a gray helmet, with a row of buttons and LED lights lining the sides. He'd seen the apparatus being advertised on TV and on the internet, but he never thought he'd get to actually have one of his own. He didn't particularly care for VR games, but he knew the headset his parents had just bought for him was expensive. The least he could do was thank them and give it a good go.

A game came pre-installed with the headset, an open world role-playing game called Sword Art Online. Not the most eye-catching of names, but it was what lay beneath the cover that mattered. And, as he placed the helmet on his head, booted into the game and flew through the great kaleidoscope that transported him into another world, he could not help but feel as though this game would herald the start of something new, something life-changing in its scope.

In hindsight, his intuitions proved to be correct, though only in the most unfortunate way imaginable.

He had lived through the great shock of Akihiko Kayaba's announcement, trudged about the open fields that now served as his prison, and battled his way through the Labyrinths, ascending the floating castle monster by monster, boss by boss, floor by gruelling floor. He had made new companions, basked in the warmth of their company, and fought side by side with them countless times. At some points, he'd even managed to actually enjoy himself.

But the specter of their brutal reality had never left, and neither had the fear that accompanied it. The valley of death loomed large, and they were forced to walk through its shadow. None could forget the fact of their incarceration. None could escape the waking nightmare. There was but only one way to leave, and now, Caenor was about to discover what exactly that was.

Or so it would have proved, had he not just watched his friend being butchered by the man whom he had been mere millimeters away from killing.

His health bar continued to diminish, its color curdling into the red of the blood that leaked out of his chest, but he paid it no heed. An inexplicable yet undeniably powerful force overtook him, rushing through his limbs, spreading around his body like wildfire. With a guttural roar, he pushed himself off the ground and clenched his fist, unsheathing his wrist-blade as he slowly rediscovered his footing.

Max turned, broadsword still littered with the faint, glowing remnants of his latest prey. "You're still alive after that?" He snorted. "Gotta hand it to you, you're one tough customer. Won't bring her back, though," he added with an insouciant laugh.

"I don't need her back." Caenor pulled a potion out of his inventory and downed it, casting the glass bottle aside as he raised his weapon. "I just need you dead."

Without another word, he lunged forward and caught Max's blade with his own, slowly pushing him into the shifting crowd behind them, sparks flying with every blow, Caenor's rising desperation matched by Max's cruel calmness. With each strike, the cry of the one he had just failed to save rang in his ears; with each jab, he saw the shocked face of one who knew they were about to die, and was powerless to stop it.

He remembered the joyful smiles, the sanguine laughs, and a face of innocence that was unbearably incongruous with the heartless world around her. Like everyone else, Seki had feared what had increasingly seemed like the inevitable, yet amidst the turmoil she had always retained her natural cheer. Even after the violation, a heavy rock to throw atop the weight already crushing her chest, she had never lost that old impish charm, one to warm the hearts of those who saw it.

Of course, that wasn't to say she'd been little more than an air-headed, vacuous source of optimism – far from it. She knew as well as any other that the world might at any moment cave in around them, and it was all they could do to stem the tide of tribulations that rushed in to confront them. Caenor often recalled one of the conversations they'd had a few days before they had set foot on the 60th floor, back when everything was tolerable, if not going completely well.

"What would you do if one of Ferramo or I died?" Seki had asked him.

Caenor hadn't thought much of the question at the time, so he'd tried to play it off with a laugh. "That isn't the sort of question I really think about. Better to go day by day with these things."

"That's exactly why you have to think about it," Seki had insisted. "You never know if we might die tomorrow. Each day is as precious as the last. If you're not ready for death, it'll catch you when you least suspect it."

"What about you, then?" Caenor had responded, now somewhat irked by the abrupt morbidity of the topic. Yet what Seki said next had stuck in his mind, lingering at the back of his thoughts for all the days hence.

"Me? I think the answer is pretty clear," she had said, placing a hand on Caenor's shoulder as she did. "I'd do what you'd have wanted me to do."

"And what would that be?"

"Keep on keeping on," she'd replied with a mock flourish and a brief chuckle, before her face had fallen into an unusual solemnity. "Fight on for the two of you. Make sure there's someone left to carry the memories we shared over when we return to the real world, so that we can say all the time we spent didn't go to waste. Don't you agree?"

Of course Caenor agreed. That was the only reason he was still here, thrusting his wrist-blade at the one who had taken his two closest friends from him, caring little for the storm of battle that swirled around him. His mind's eye beheld a single goal: to carry on, as Seki had bid him do from beyond the veil.

Yet even in his white-hot, all-consuming anger, Caenor was only human. The movement of his limbs was beginning to slow; his focus, dulled by the throbbing pain that gnawed at his chest, was slipping from his grasp. All this was apparent to Max, who, having waited patiently for Caenor to waste his energy, immediately leapt into the offensive, pinning the tired and enervated Caenor back with a relentless stream of swings and slashes, each thunderous point of contact sending shockwaves reverberating through Caenor's arms. If his will didn't break first, then his wrist certainly would. Inch by inch, step by step, Caenor felt himself being pushed towards the wall behind him, from where there would be no escape.

In the corner of his vision, he momentarily spotted Cantabile and Altorius fighting side-by-side, surrounded by a veritable crowd of player killers. The same scene was being played out all around the room – by now it was evident that their numerical advantage had long since been wiped out. If this went on, Caenor would have no teammates left to worry about, assuming he currently had the capacity to worry about them at all.

The only way they might survive was if some great upheaval were to happen. And there would be no greater upheaval than cutting off the head of the engorged serpent, the one who now came ever closer to battering Caenor into permanent submission.

"What's wrong, Vice-commander?" came the now-familiar taunt. "You'll die at this rate, you know? You don't want that, do you?"

And then it clicked. What Caenor needed to do at that moment. How he might secure their victory. The sole question that remained was whether he was ready to give everything he had for that slender chance at success.

It was by no means a course of action his former, innocent, untainted self would have taken. But he was not that person anymore – he had long since ceased to be so. The shadow deep within had consumed his psyche fully, dragging his feet forward unto oblivion, whispering sweet, vengeful nothings into his ear, inundating his head with dreadful notions of destruction, of brutality, and reminding him always of the ethereal blade of ice that was permanently embedded into his soul. It lurked amidst the dense forest of his thoughts, constantly seeking out their next prey, their next victim. It was voracious, always hungering, and he knew now it would never be satiated no matter how many lives it savored, including his own. He knew now that the torture would not end even when Laughing Coffin did – especially since Seki and Ferramo would never again be there when he needed them most to pull him back out of the murk.

There was only one way out of this madness. He would have to take with him the monsters, both inside and outside himself, to the only place where he knew none would willingly follow.

Max's broadsword glinted in the ochre torchlight. On its silvery surface, Caenor saw his own reflection – but not just his own. Two figures materialized behind him, a pair of instantly recognizable silhouettes. Hallucination or not, he knew they were counting on him to make these final moments matter.

"This one's for you," he murmured.

The broadsword's blade fell from the sky. Caenor moved his own wrist-blade aside, allowing it to reach its intended destination.

The tip of the steel punctured his armor, piercing through skin and bone, yet at that moment Caenor felt no pain. He knew he could not afford to, and his body responded in kind. All he knew now was what he had to do next.

Charging forward through the broadsword, letting the cold steel rend his flesh asunder, he swiveled his arm upwards and caught Max squarely in the throat with his weapon. Leaning towards Max's horrified, gasping features, he grabbed his hated adversary's head and pulled it close to his mouth.

"You're coming with me," he whispered into Max's ear.

With another thrust of the wrist-blade into his throat, Max's defeat was complete, and so too was Caenor's triumph. All the blood spilled, all the hours spent preparing and training, had led up to this very moment, one that would alter the fate of the Aincrad community at large in an understated yet unquestionably essential way.

But Caenor, its grand architect, would not be there to see it.

Instead, a blinding white pulse of light would suddenly fill his view. From within it, two familiar faces would emerge, reaching out to him, calling him forwards into the glow.

"Come on," they would say. "You deserve some rest."

And Caenor, finally at peace, would be more than happy to go.

Two silent clouds of glinting red vapor scattered about the air, dissipating and disappearing into the night, following the lead of so many of their fellow brethren before them. Unheralded and unsung, theirs was a tale to be told by none but those who had witnessed them – including a certain indigo-haired girl who, upon realizing what had just transpired, could only shake her head in disbelief even as she continued to fight.

"You idiot," Cantabile muttered, the tiniest of tears pooling at the edges of her eyes.

Following the death of Vice-commander Caenor and a dozen other members of the Knights of the Blood at the hands of Laughing Coffin, the well-renowned clearing guild finally decided it was time to take a stand. Uniting with several other major guilds and gathering together the best players in the realm, they formed a coalition whose sole objective was to eliminate the threat of the player killer once and for all – a group that included Kirito, the infamous Black Swordsman, who had been present at Caenor's death and now volunteered to lead the effort in his late friend's name. The diplomatic route was attempted one last time, but when the messengers they sent did not return, they rallied their forces and set about ridding the floating castle of its foulest and most odious stench.

Before long, all that remained was the red guild's secret headquarters, whose location remained frustratingly unknown to them. That is, until a certain former spy for Laughing Coffin and member of the Knights of the Blood revealed her identity and, claiming to have been racked with guilt over her treachery, offered to tell them the headquarters' coordinates. Thusly did the coalition set out for one final march into the dark, hoping to bring the light into the places it previously could not reach.

Of course, Laughing Coffin being Laughing Coffin, they were well prepared for any eventuality. The battle was long-drawn and grueling, with thirty players all told from both sides dying in the skirmish. The coalition eventually emerged victorious, with those few player killers that survived being arrested and teleported into the prison buried deep inside the Black Iron Palace – all except for one, the figurehead of the organization and mastermind behind all its heinous activities, whose whereabouts ultimately remained unknown. Satisfied that the hindrance to their work had been largely eliminated, the group of players returned to their guilds, picking up their roles as clearers once again. Thanks to their newfound freedom, the entire game was completed within the year, and the players were restored to a now simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar reality.

As they awoke in the hospitals where they had been interred, they were tended to by nurses and doctors who, though unfailingly kind in their demeanors and generous in their offerings, were not entirely sure how to act around this cohort of "survivors". They were ostensibly battle-hardened veterans, but they were also mostly children. Only time would tell what might become of them.

One thing was certain, though: the memories they made in the game would stay with them for the rest of their days. Whether that was for better or worse would remain to be seen.

The door slid open, and a nurse walked into the room, holding a tray containing bowls of soft, mushy food. Given that her patients had not eaten anything solid in the past few years, it was important to allow their jaws and stomachs to get used to the change bit by bit. For now, they ate porridge, soup, and the like – in a couple of days, they would slowly make the change to meals that offered a little more chewing resistance.

She looked up and, to her surprise, found two people in the room. One of them was the patient she was in charge of taking care of, a petite, frail-looking, dark-haired teenage girl whose features were as sharp as her tongue, even after having not spoken a word for such a lengthy period of time. The other was someone from several rooms down, a thin, weary man in his thirties whose mostly black crown was punctured by strands of gray. Both of them were sat on the bed, staring quietly at the window, watching the world outside the glass go by. As the nurse approached, the girl turned around and nodded at her.

"Just leave the tray on the desk," she said. "Thank you."

"Not a problem. Just tell me if you need anything else." The nurse reached over and patted the man's shoulder. "Sir, would you like to have lunch here as well?"

The man turned and looked up at her, but did not respond.

"Don't worry about him," the girl added curtly. "Just leave us alone. Thanks."

"As you wish. Again, if you need anything-"

"We'll be fine." The two of them returned to gazing out at the landscape, taking in a view they might scarcely have imagined they would see again.

The nurse didn't particularly mind the girl's terse manner – she was there to help people, not make friends – but it always made the job that much easier if she could get through to her patients, or get to know them on a somewhat personal level. She was there to look after them, and if she didn't know what they needed or didn't need, she could only try her best to guess.

Yet as she made to leave the room and snuck one last glance behind her, she saw something that warmed her considerably. The girl had rested her head on the man's shoulders, her short bangs falling over his neck, and her slender fingers were placed atop the man's rugged hand. Whatever had happened to the two of them in Sword Art Online, their love for each other had evidently transcended the virtual boundary, carrying over into the real world.

That was the beauty of such a game, after all – it was a mockery of reality that laid every player's strengths and weaknesses bare for all to see. Yet that only meant that the bonds forged inside the game remained as strong as ever beyond it – at least, for those fortunate enough to have made it out.

With a knowing smile, the nurse closed the door behind them, leaving them to bask in the warmth of each other's company, and of the early afternoon sunlight pooling gently into the room.

~END~