Two minutes later, his name was unceremoniously, mercilessly crossed out on the monument. His cause of death: fell from a great height. I don’t want to think about what he experienced on that fall. Whether he reawoke in the real world or got brain-fried, as Kayaba claimed, was impossible to determine from within the game. But most players agreed that if it were that easy to escape, we’d all have been detached from the outside and rescued by now.
Still, there were others here and there who also succumbed to the temptation of such a simple conclusion. It was extremely difficult to fully appreciate the concept of death within SAO.
That still hasn’t changed. The visual effect of polygons breaking apart when HP reaches zero is just too close to the GAME OVER screen, a harmless phenomenon familiar to all gamers. The only way to fully understand death in SAO is to experience it for oneself. I have no doubt that the mental distance from our supposed mortality was a major contributing factor to the decline in population.
When the Army, the other minor guilds, and the wait-and-see types clogging the Town of Beginnings finally started tackling the game itself, we started losing people to the monsters.
Experience and instincts are necessary to win battles in SAO. The trick is to not try doing everything on your own—you have to “ride” the system’s automatic support.
Take a simple, single-handed uppercut slice. If you’ve learned the One-Handed Sword category and “Upward Slice” is equipped in your list of sword skills, all you need to do is perform the proper motion, and the system will move your body automatically. If you don’t have the skill equipped and try to mimic the movements on your own, the result will be so much slower and weaker that there’s no point even trying it. In essence, the knack to combat in SAO was a bit like pulling off combos in a fighting game.
Those who couldn’t get the grasp of the system just swung their swords back and forth lamely, scuffling against even the weakest boars and wolves, enemies that were easily defeated with the most basic of initial skills. And even if your health was dwindling and the fight was proving difficult, there was always the option of disengaging and retreating to avoid death…
Except that unlike fighting 2-D monsters on a simple TV screen, the incredible realism of SAO’s world brought forth a kind of primal fear in its players. In every encounter, you were faced with actual monsters bearing wicked fangs, ready to charge and kill.
Plenty of beta testers felt an initial panic when they first experienced the combat of SAO, but that was nothing compared to fighting with the specter of actual death overhead. When the grips of fear took over, players forgot even the most basic of skills or dodges, becoming helpless targets as their hit points were torn from them.
Suicide. Defeat in combat. The lines on the epitaph proliferated, unstoppable and uncaring.
When the number of dead topped two thousand in just the first month, the remaining population was plunged into black despair. If that mortality rate continued, we’d all have been dead within half a year. Clearing all hundred floors was just a pipe dream.
The thing about human beings is, we learn.
After just over a month, we had finally conquered the first floor of Aincrad. It took only ten days for the second to fall, and by then the death rate was plummeting. As survival tips spread throughout the population, people began to realize that as long as they earned experience and gained levels, the monsters weren’t so frightening after all.
Maybe we can beat this game. Maybe we can get back to the real world. Confidence and optimism dared to peek their heads out once again.
The top floor of Aincrad was impossibly far away, but that hope was enough to jump-start us into motion. The world began ticking away again.
It’s been two years. There are twenty-six floors left to conquer and six thousand survivors. Such is the present state of Aincrad.
5
My battle with the powerful lizardman lord in the seventy-fourth-floor labyrinth concluded, I traveled the route back, tracing distant memories in my head. At long last, the light of the exit came into sight, and I heaved a sigh of relief.
I cast aside the stuffy memories and rushed out of the corridor, breathing the fresh, crisp air deeply. Before me was a dark forest path, the sides overgrown. Behind me loomed the labyrinth, its mammoth spire stretching upward in the evening light to the bottom of the floor above.
Given that the objective of the game was to reach the top of the castle, the dungeons of this game took the form of massive towers rather than underground catacombs or caves. They still held fast to the basic tenets of a dungeon, though: more dangerous foes than you found elsewhere, winding corridors, and a terrible boss at the very end.
The seventy-fourth-floor labyrinth was 80 percent mapped out at this point. Within a few days, we’d find the boss’s lair, and a raiding party would be arranged. Even as a solo, I’d play a part in the battle.
Grimacing at my equal measures of anticipation and anxiety, I walked out of the doorway.
My current home is in Algade on the fiftieth floor, the de facto largest city in Aincrad. In terms of scale, the Town of Beginnings is bigger, but given that the Army controlled it entirely now, it was best to give that place a wide berth.
As I passed through the field, darkening with the onset of evening, I came to a forest of gnarled, ancient oaks. A thirty-minute walk would bring me to the residential area of the seventy-fourth floor, from which I could use the teleport gate to reach Algade instantly.
I could have used a teleportation item to return to Algade from any point in Aincrad, but they were pricey and best saved for emergencies. There was still time left before the light was fully gone, so I plunged into the forest, resisting the temptation to teleport and plop onto my bed immediately.
Outside of a few load-bearing structures, the outer edge of each floor of Aincrad was essentially open to the sky. The sunlight tilting through the distant opening set the trees aflame with a reddish glow. Thick mist flowing through the branches glinted eerily as it reflected the dying light. The raucous daytime birdcalls grew sparse, and the rustling of the breeze through the branches seemed to echo louder than before.
Despite knowing that I could handle the monsters in this area while half asleep, it was hard to repress an instinctual fear of this hour of darkening. It resembled the sensation of being lost on the way home at a young age, frozen with anxiety.
I didn’t dislike the feeling, however. I’d forgotten this kind of primal emotion back in the real world. And after all, wasn’t a solitary march across the wilderness without a soul in sight one of the great pleasures of an RPG?
A faint, unfamiliar cry broke me out of my nostalgic reverie. It was a single high note, brief and clear, like a leaf whistle. I stopped in my tracks, trying to discern the direction of the call. Unfamiliar sights and sounds in this world meant the advent of fortune—good or bad.
As a solo player, I’d put lots of work into my Search skill. It was designed to help you protect against ambushes, and as it rose in level, it enabled you to spot foes and players hidden in stealth mode. Pretty soon, the form of a monster came into view in the shadows of a large tree, about ten yards away.
It wasn’t very big. I could see gray-green fur suited to blending in with leaves and elongated ears longer than the animal’s body. By focusing my vision, I prompted the game to automatically target the monster for me, bringing up a yellow cursor and the target’s name.
When I saw the words that appeared, I held my breath. It was a Ragout Rabbit, an ultra-rare creature. It was certainly the first I’d ever seen. The fluffy little things lived in trees, weren’t particularly strong, nor rewarding in terms of experience points. Their value came from something else.
Silently, I slipped a narrow throwing pick out of my belt. My Throwing Knife skill was only active in a skill slot to round out the bunch, and my proficiency was modest. But I’d heard that the Ragout Rabbit had the highest escape speed of any monster yet discovered, so I didn’t think I could
actually get close enough to use my normal sword.
At least I had the opportunity for a first strike, given that the rabbit hadn’t noticed me yet. The pick in my right hand, I said a silent prayer and queued up the motion for the basic throwing knife skill, “Single Shot.”
My proficiency in Throwing Knives might have been weak, but the skill’s chances were adjusted based on my agility stat, which was through the roof. The pick flashed like lightning in my hand and shot into the shadows of the branches, leaving a momentary trail of light behind it. The instant I initiated the skill, the targeting cursor went from yellow to hostile red, bringing up the rabbit’s HP bar below.
As I watched the trail of the pick, I heard an even higher-pitched scream, and the HP bar immediately dropped to zero. When the sound effect of disintegrating polygons rang out, I clenched my fist in triumph.
I called up my menu and switched to the inventory, my fingers fumbling. There it was, right at the top of the new items list: “Ragout Rabbit meat.” An absolute gold mine, worth at least six figures on the open market. It was valuable enough to buy me the highest-class custom-made weapons with change to spare. The reason was simple: Out of all the limitless ingredients in the game, it had the very highest flavor rating.
Eating was about the only pleasure to be found in the world of SAO. Most of the available food seemed to be in a rustic European style—simple breads and soups. The tiny minority of crafters who chose to utilize the cooking skill could create other dishes in order to expand our options, but given how few of those cooks there actually were, and the surprising difficulty of obtaining good cooking ingredients, nearly all the players in the game were perpetually starving for quality food.
Count me among them. I didn’t mind the soup and black bread at my favorite NPC restaurant, but it was hard to resist the craving to sink my teeth into a hot, juicy piece of meat. A soft moan left my lips as I stared at the name of the item.
It was incredibly unlikely that I’d ever find another top-ranked food ingredient like this again. I desperately wanted to eat it for myself, but the finer the item, the higher the skill rank required to cook it. I’d have to ask a master chef to do it for me.
I’d be lying if I claimed that I didn’t know anyone who fit the bill, but tracking that person down would be a pain, and I’d been needing a new set of armor, so I made up my mind to sell the meat for col.
Closing the status screen was a painful act of will. I engaged my Search skill to scan the surroundings. Chances that any thieving players would be hanging out in the deadly frontier looking to make a score were absurdly slim, but when you’re sitting on an S-rank gold mine, you tend to err on the side of caution.
I opened the pouch on my waist to rummage for a teleportation crystal to return straight to Algade, operating under the assumption that I could buy all the crystals I wanted with the money I’d make selling the meat.
The crystal was elongated and eight-sided, sparkling deep blue. With the absence of any kind of magic spells in SAO, the few magical items to be found all took the form of these crystals. The blue ones were for teleporting, the pink ones for healing, the green for curing poison—it was all pretty self-explanatory. They worked instantaneously, but given the price, it made more sense to simply retreat from battle and use a cheap potion if you needed to regain HP.
Telling myself that this was a worthy emergency, I gripped the blue fragment and shouted, “Teleport: Algade!”
A beautiful chiming like the ringing of many bells sounded, and the little crystal crumbled in my hand. A blue light enveloped my body, the sights and sounds of the forest vanishing. The light pulsed brighter, then disappeared, and the transition was complete. The rustling of leaves had been replaced with clanging blacksmith mallets and the lively roar of many voices.
I was at the teleport gate in the center of Algade.
The enormous metal gate towered over the rest of the city square, at least sixteen feet tall. The interior space beneath the frame shimmered like a mirage, and people streamed through the gate in a steady flow, teleporting to and from other cities in Aincrad.
Four wide avenues stretched out from the central square with countless tiny shops crammed into the margins. For those seeking solace after a hard day of adventure, there were carts selling food and pubs full of lively chatter.
If there was one word to sum up the city of Algade, it was chaos.
There were no singular large structures such as in the Town of Beginnings, but rather a vast space crisscrossed with cramped alleys, suspicious workshops selling unknown wares, and sketchy taverns that promised a way in but probably not out.
This wasn’t just hyperbole—players told horror stories of getting lost in the byzantine alleys of Algade for several days at a time. I’d set up residence in this city almost a year ago, and I still didn’t know half the streets in it. Even the NPCs of Algade didn’t seem to fit into the standard roles, and any human players who spent too much time here developed an eccentricity or two during their stay.
But for all that, I liked the vibe. It was often the case that sipping oddly scented tea in my favorite back-back-back-alley establishment was the only moment of tranquility I had in a day. I couldn’t deny that part of the attraction came from Algade’s nostalgic resemblance to the notable electronics district I liked to visit back in the real world.
I decided to take care of business before returning to my hideout and set off for a familiar item merchant. After several minutes of weaving through the crowds on the western boulevard, I reached the shop. It had all the hallmarks of a player-run establishment: a cramped interior that could fit no more than five people, a chaotic jumble of merchandise on display, and racks full of weapons, tools, and food. The proprietor was in the midst of a deal right out front.
There are two main methods of selling items in the game. One is to sell to an NPC—in other words, to the system itself. There’s no danger of being ripped off, but you’re only going to get one fixed price for your goods, and the prices are automatically set to be lower than the market purchase value to prevent inflation.
The other method is dealing directly with another player. It’s possible to get a much better price for your wares this way, but first you have to actually find someone to buy them, then you have to deal with finicky buyers, people who come back wanting a refund, or plain old scam artists. This is where traders making a living in the secondhand market come in.
Of course, that’s not the only reason they exist.
As with item crafters, merchants have to fill the majority of their skill slots with non-combat skills, but they still have to venture out into the wilderness. Merchants need items to sell and crafters need ingredients, which means farming monsters for goods is necessary. As you might imagine, battle is a lot tougher when you aren’t playing a traditional warrior class. There is nothing glamorous or enjoyable about fighting as a merchant.
This all means that their class identity is rooted in a pure and admirable desire to assist those adventurers who are working their damnedest on the front lines to beat the game. I held a deep and secret admiration for merchants and crafters.
…But the shopkeeper I stared at now was about as far from the definition of self-sacrificing as anyone could be.
“You got yourself a deal! Five hundred col for twenty Dusklizard hides!”
Agil the pawnbroker swung his burly arm, whacking his victim, a weak-willed spearman, on the shoulder. He popped open the trading window and entered the gold amount on his side without waiting for an answer.
The seller still appeared hesitant, but with a powerful glare from Agil’s imposing face—not only was he a merchant, he was also an excellent ax warrior—the man quickly transferred his materials to the trade window and hit the accept button.
“Thanks for your business! Come again!” Agil boomed a laugh as he slapped his mark’s back one last time. Dusklizard hide was a valuable crafting ingredient in making armor. Five hundred col seemed to be a steal for that
many of them, but I held my tongue and watched the spearman trudge away. I told myself that he’d just learned a valuable lesson: Never let your guard down around a secondhand buyer.
“Another day making a living ripping off honest folks, Agil?”
The bald head craned around to see who’d called to him, and Agil beamed.
“Good to see you, Kirito. Stock it cheap; sell it cheap: That’s my motto,” he lied without a trace of irony.
“Not sure about the latter part, but whatever. Got some more stuff to sell you.”
“You’re a regular, Kirito. You know I won’t do you wrong. Let’s see…” He trailed off, leaning over to peer at my trade window.
Our avatars within Sword Art Online were accurate re-creations of our faces and bodies, thanks to the NerveGear’s scanners and the initial calibration process. But I had to admit that I hadn’t seen anyone who appeared to fit the role they played quite like Agil did.
He stood nearly six feet tall, with a hefty frame of muscle and fat, topped off by a face like a wrestling heel, practically carved out of a boulder. The one customizable option we had was hairstyle, and he chose to go as bald as a cue ball. He was as imposing as any barbarian foe to be found in the game.
But when a grin cracked his face, that craggy scowl became lovable and comforting. He appeared to be in his late twenties, but it was impossible to guess what he did back in the real world. It was an unspoken rule that no one in SAO discussed the other side.
When Agil saw the contents of the trade window, the eyes under his thick brows grew wide.
“Wait a second, that’s an S-rank item, man. Ragout Rabbit meat…never actually seen one for myself. You aren’t that hard up for cash, are you? You thought about eating it yourself?”
“I have. But it’s hard to find folks with a cooking skill high enough to handle this sort of—”
Someone poked my shoulder from behind.
“Kirito.”
It was a woman’s voice. There weren’t many female players who would call my name. In this situation, there was only one. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Instead, I quickly grabbed the hand over my shoulder and spoke as I swiveled around.