Baffled, I lifted my left hand and extended the index finger. Asuna reached out with her brown leather gloves and gripped my finger in two of hers.
“Um… what is this …?”
“If I do this, maybe your buff effect will be added to mine.”
That seemed stupid. “W-well, in that case … shouldn’t you hold my entire hand …?”
I felt an icy stare emanating from her hood.
“Since when were things like that between us?”
Since when were they like this?! I wanted to yell, but the blacksmith signaled that he had counted all of the materials and found them satisfactory, so I had to stay quiet and let her squeeze my fingertip, draining away all of my valuable good luck.
Asuna and I watched over the sign as Nezha the blacksmith turned and reached for a portable furnace set next to his work anvil. The number of ingots it could melt at once was very low, meaning he couldn’t create large polearms or suits of metal armor, but it did the job for a simple streetside business.
On the furnace’s pop-up menu, he switched it from creation mode to strengthening mode, then set the type of augmentation. Nezha then tossed Asuna’s materials into the furnace.
Four thin sheets of steel and twenty sharp stingers turned red and burst into flame in seconds, and soon after, the furnace began burning with a blue flame that signified the accuracy stat. All preparations complete, he removed the Wind Fleuret from its sheath and set it down within the brazier-shaped furnace.
The blue flames enveloped the slender blade, and the entire weapon was soon glowing azure.
Nezha quickly pulled the rapier out and laid it on top of the anvil, then gripped his hammer and held it high.
At that exact moment, something prickled the hairs on the back of my neck. It was the same sensation that I’d felt earlier that afternoon, when I decided to hold off on upgrading my Anneal Blade +6.
I opened my mouth, preparing to yell, “Stop!” But the blacksmith’s hammer had already made its first strike.
Clang! Clang! The rhythmic pounding echoed throughout the square, orange sparks flying from the anvil. Once the upgrade attempt had begun, there was no stopping it. Well, I could grab his hand and force him to stop, but that only guaranteed that it would end in failure. All I could do now was watch and pray for success.
There was no foundation for my panic; it was a manifestation of my inner worrywart, nothing more. All the materials had been invested, the blacksmith represented better odds than an NPC, and we had two players’ worth of luck bonus. We couldn’t possibly fail.
I held my breath and watched the hammer go up and down. Unlike with weapon creation, only ten strikes were necessary to upgrade a weapon. Six, seven—the hammer smacked the blue rapier at a steady pace. Eight, nine … ten.
The process complete, the rapier flashed brightly atop the anvil.
There’s no way it can fail, I repeated to myself, gritting my teeth.
The result was far, far worse than my bad premonition could possibly have signaled.
With a fragile, even beautiful tinkling, the Wind Fleuret +4 crumbled into dust from tip to hilt.
No one reacted for several seconds, from Asuna, the sword’s owner; to me, the emotional and luck bonus support; to Nezha the blacksmith, the one who had caused it to happen.
Perhaps if a single passerby had been watching, they might have broken the ice. But for now, all the three of us could do was stare emptily at the anvil. As the third party in this transaction, perhaps I was best suited to smooth over the situation, but my mind was occupied by one massive question, not to mention the sheer shock of what had transpired.
This is ridiculous!
The phrase echoed through my head over and over. All I could do was stare.
It was impossible. As far as I knew, there were only three negative outcomes of a weapon upgrade attempt in SAO: the materials disappeared and left the already-upgraded values where they were, the properties of the bonus got switched around, or the upgraded value decreased by one.
In the worst case scenario, Asuna’s Wind Fleuret +4 should have decreased to +3, and that was, at most, a 5-percent chance. Of course, 5 percent put it well within the bounds of possibility for an MMO… but it should never result in the weapon just completely disintegrating.
But there was no getting around the brutal truth that the glittering shards of silver scattered about the anvil had been, until a few seconds ago, Asuna’s precious sword.
I watched the entire series of events. Asuna removed the rapier from her waist and handed it to Nezha. He picked it up in his left hand and manipulated the portable furnace with his right, then pulled the sword from its scabbard and put it in the fire. Nothing in that sequence of events was out of the ordinary.
As we watched in silence, the scattered pieces around the furnace melted into the air. The weapon-damaging skills that some monsters used might melt, warp, or chip a blade but leave it in a repairable state. A weapon that had shattered into pieces represented the loss of all durability and was irretrievably gone. Asuna’s sword wasn’t just visibly destroyed—it had been deleted from the SAO server’s database entirely.
As the final fragment disappeared, it was Nezha the blacksmith who moved first.
He threw aside his hammer and bolted to his feet, bowing to the both of us over and over, his parted bowl cut waving in the air. He squeaked and wailed, trying to trap the screams in his throat.
“I … I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll return all of your money … I’m so, so sorry!”
Asuna couldn’t react to the repeated apologies. She just stood there, her eyes wide. I eventually stepped forward to speak.
“Look, um… before we talk about money, I want an explanation. I thought that weapon destruction wasn’t a possible failure state of upgrading in SAO. How did this happen?”
Nezha stopped bobbing his head and finally looked up. The angle of his hanging eyebrows was extreme, his round, honest face screwed up in agony. It was as though his face had been designed as an expression of pure apology. I felt extremely uncomfortable, but there was no way I could tell him that it was “all right.” Instead, I tried to keep my voice as calm as humanly possible.
“Listen … I played in the beta test, and I remember the player manual they put on the official website. It said there were three possible penalties for failure: lost materials, property alteration, and property downgrade. That’s a fact.”
As a publically outed “beater,” I had no desire to bring up the beta. But this was not the time for self-preservation. I stopped there and waited for his answer.
Nezha was no longer bowing and scraping, but his eyesight was fixed firmly downward as he spoke, his voice trembling.
“Um… I think that maybe … they added a fourth penalty type for the launch. This happened to me … once before. I’m sure the probability is very low, though…”
“… …”
I had no argument left. If Nezha’s claim was false, then he’d somehow just accomplished a destruction penalty that did not exist in the game. That was far more unlikely.
“… I see,” I murmured lifelessly. Nezha looked up and mumbled again.
“Um… I’m truly sorry. I don’t know how to repay you. I’d give you a replacement Wind Fleuret, but I don’t have any in stock. I’d hate to leave you without an option, so I can give you an Iron Rapier, if you don’t mind the downgrade …”
That wasn’t my choice to make. I looked to my left at the still-silent Asuna.
Her face was almost entirely hidden by the gray hood, but I could still make out her delicate chin moving side to side. I answered Nezha for her.
“No, thanks … We’ll make do on our own.”
With all due credit to Nezha’s offer, the Iron Rapier was sold as far back as the Town of Beginnings on the first floor, and wasn’t going to be very helpful up here. If he couldn’t give us a Wind Fleuret, the Guard’s Rapier that was one rank below it was the only thing that came close to a replac
ement.
Besides, the risks of failing in an augmentation attempt should fall upon the shoulders of the client, not the blacksmith carrying the job out. Nezha’s shop sign had a list of the success rates for various jobs at his current skill level. Being unlucky enough to hit the 5-percent chance—probably less than 1 percent for this worst of all outcomes—of failure was our problem, not his. Even Rufiol, he of the Anneal Blade +0 disaster this afternoon, had eventually given in and accepted his fate.
Nezha’s shoulders slumped even lower at my answer. He murmured, “I see. Well … at least let me return your fee …”
He moved his hand to start the transfer, but I cut him off. “It’s all right, you did your best. You don’t need to do this. There are some crafters who say it doesn’t matter how you do it as long as you hit the weapon enough times, so they just whack away …”
I didn’t mean anything by that, but for some reason, he shrunk his head even farther. His arms were held as close to his body as possible, trembling fiercely. Another apology shuddered out.
“… I’m sorry … !!”
After that painful, heart-rending apology, there was nothing more to say.
I took a step back, nodded to Asuna, and started to move her away.
It was only at this moment that I noticed that her hand, which had been pinching my index finger originally, was now fully gripping my palm.
I pulled the silent Asuna away from the blacksmith and out the northern entrance of the plaza. There were few NPC shops or restaurants along this stretch, only a number of buildings of unknown utility—perhaps they would be available as player homes after some later point in the game. At any rate, the street was nearly empty.
We walked on and on, the only points of interest the occasional signboard of an inn. There was no destination, not even a general direction. The cold grip of her hand on mine told me of how heavily the loss of her favorite sword was weighing on her, and the shock of its abrupt disappearance after a single upgrade attempt. But I had no idea how to react or console her. My meager life experience as a middle-school gamer left me unprepared for this. All I knew was that pulling my hand free and running away was the worst possible choice. I wanted to pray for the advent of some sudden salvation, but the good luck bonus icon below my HP bar was long gone.
First, let’s stop walking.
I noticed a wider space ahead with a bench and started off for it. After a few dozen steps, I stopped and awkwardly said, “L-look, here’s a bench.”
The voice inside my head screamed at me for being an idiot, but Asuna sensed my intentions and turned to sit down without a word. She was still holding my hand, so I automatically took a spot beside her.
After a few seconds, her fingers eased up and left my own to land on the wooden slats of the bench.
I had to say something, but the more I thought, the tighter my throat shrank. How could I be the same person who had stood before dozens of powerful warriors and proclaimed myself a beater? And not that just that. I was the one who had spoken first when I originally found Asuna deep within the first-floor labyrinth, wearing a much harder expression than she was now. Sure, it had been an emotionless admonishment about overkill, but there was no reason I could say something then and couldn’t now. None at all.
“… … … Um, so,” I finally began. Fortunately, the words seemed to form themselves after that point. “It’s a real shame about the Wind Fleuret. But once we reach the next town after Marome, they sell a weapon that’s even a bit better. It’s not cheap, of course … but we can manage it together. I’ll help you save up …”
If mana points existed in this world, it would have cost me every last one of mine to get those words out of my mouth. Asuna responded so quietly that I could barely hear her, even at this close range.
“… But …” The word melted into the night air as quickly as it had appeared. “But that sword… that sword was my only …”
Something in her voice, some emotional resonance, pulled my gaze directly to her face. Two clear drops ran down her cheeks, glowing with a pale light under her hood.
It wasn’t as though I’d never seen a girl crying up close. But the source of those tears was always my little sister Suguha, and almost all of the instances had occurred years ago, in my kindergarten and early grade-school years.
The last time I’d seen her cry was three months before I fell prisoner to SAO. She’d lost at the prefectural kendo tournament and cried in the corner of our backyard. I had no words to console her, only a bag from the convenience store with ice pops, the kind you sucked from a plastic wrapper. I broke one in two and stuck one of the halves in her hand.
In gaming terms, my proficiency in the Reacting to Crying Girls skill was barely above zero, if I’d even unlocked that skill in the first place. I had to compliment myself on even having the guts to stay there rather than run off.
On the other hand, an objective look showed me in a very pathetic light: frozen still and dumbfounded, watching the tears streak down Asuna’s cheeks one after the other. I ought to speak or move, but I had no ice pops in my inventory, and I wasn’t ready to speak to her when I wasn’t entirely sure what she was crying about.
I understood the shock of seeing her favorite weapon crumble to pieces before her eyes, of course. If my Anneal Blade suddenly vanished, I’d probably get tears in my eyes as well.
But in all honesty, I didn’t peg Asuna as the type to form a deep attachment to her weapon, to see it as an extension of herself and talk to it soothingly as she oiled it … That was my category, if anything.
Asuna seemed like the opposite case. She would see a sword as simply one element of battle power out of several. If she looted a slightly stronger sword from a dead monster, she’d toss aside the one she’d been using without a second thought. The first time I met her, she had a bundle of starting rapiers that she’d bought in town, throwing each one away when it was no longer of any use.
It had only been a week since then. What had changed Asuna’s way of thinking 180 degrees in just seven days?
… No.
No matter the reason, there was no use wondering about it now. She was shedding tears over her partner, the blade she’d used for seven whole days. I could understand her sorrow. What else was there to think about?
“… It’s a real shame,” I murmured. Asuna’s back shivered. She seemed even more doll-like than ever.
“But listen,” I continued. “I know this might sound cold, but if you want to keep fighting on the front lines to help beat this damn game, you’re going to have to keep getting new equipment. Even if that had worked, your Wind Fleuret would be useless by the end of the third floor. I’ll have to replace my own Anneal Blade at the first town on the fourth floor. That’s just what MMOs—what RPGs are like.”
I had no idea if this was actually comforting her, but it was the best I could do.
Asuna did not react for several moments after I finished speaking. Finally, a few weak words trickled out from her hood.
“I … I can’t take that.” Her right hand clenched lightly atop her leather skirt. “I always thought my sword was just a tool … a bunch of polygonal data. I thought that only my skill and determination mattered here. But the first time I tried out that Wind Fleuret you chose for me … I’m ashamed to admit I was blown away. It was as light as a feather and seemed to home in right on the spot I wanted to hit … as if the sword was helping me, out of its own will …”
Her cheeks trembled, and a fleeting smile crossed her lips. For some reason, this seemed like the most beautiful expression I had seen Asuna make yet.
“I thought, I’ll be fine as long as I have her. I’d have her by my side forever. I told myself, even if the upgrading fails, I’ll never get rid of her. I’d take great care of her, for all the swords I wasted before this … I promised…”
Fresh tears dripped onto her skirt and vanished. When things disappeared in this world, they left no trace behind. Swords, monsters … even players. r />
Asuna quietly shook her head and whispered, her voice barely audible.
“If what you say is true, and I have to keep switching to new weapons … then I don’t want to go upward. I feel so bad. We fight together, survive together … I can’t bear just throwing it away …”
Something in Asuna’s words brought back a memory of an entirely different scene.
A child’s bicycle with a black frame. Twenty-inch tires, a six-gear shifter. I picked it out for myself on the day I entered elementary school. I treasured that junior mountain bike more than any child would. I put air in the tires once a week. If it rained, I wiped it off and oiled the moving parts. Perhaps borrowing Dad’s bike care chemicals to waterproof the frame was going a bit overboard.
Thanks to all of that, the bike was still sparkling like new after three years, but that was the root of my predicament. Once I outgrew the bike, my parents said they would buy me a new one with twenty-four inch wheels. But rather than allowing me to keep my precious first bike in storage, they said I had to give it away to a younger boy in the neighborhood.
I was in third grade at the time, and I fought back like I’d never fought before. I claimed that I’d rather not have a new bike at all. I even asked the fellow at the neighborhood bike shop to store it away in secret for me.
Instead, he told me that he’d transfer the soul of my machine to the new bike. Before my stunned eyes, he took out a hexagonal wrench and removed the bolt from the right crank. This bolt was the most important out of all of them, he claimed. So as long as he stuck that on the new bike, its soul would come over with it.
Today, it was obviously a bunch of baloney meant to quiet a child, but that first bolt and another one from my second bike were currently sitting in the saddlebag of my twenty-six-incher.
With this past experience in mind, I told Asuna, “There’s a way to keep a sword’s soul with you when the time comes to say goodbye.”
“… Huh…?”
She raised her head just a bit. I held up two fingers.
“Two ways, in fact. For one, you can melt down your inferior sword into ingots, then use them as the base for a new sword. The other way is to just keep your old sword in storage. There are downsides to both cases, but I think there’s merit to them.”