9 : 252 : 02 : 11 : 03

Less surprisingly, seeing as I’m the main character, I'm not dead yet. I open my eyes again and sit up with a gasp. There’s a dull pain in my back, but it’s not the kind of pain you should feel when an ogre gives you a pat, but more the kind you get when you sleep on bare rocks on a cold night. All my body parts are still intact and I’m not spilling my guts. In fact, I don’t seem to be hurt at all, unless you count the itty-bitty scrapes and bruises I got from falling.

Even in my clueless infant state, I feel it’s a little weird.

How come I survived such an obvious deathblow, when the others weren’t half as lucky?

I take a look around. Everything has gone quiet. There’s no movement. The typhoon has passed, the wind settled. The ground has dried a bit, so some time has to have passed since the previous scene. It doesn’t rain anymore, but the night sky remains dark and glum.

Eight bodies in gray uniforms lie sprawled on the slope, torn and bloody. Only a moment ago, they were running, fighting, being brave, being alive with such a passion, and now they’re only so much butchered meat and smell—indescribable.

But among those eight casualties are also the corpses of the two ogres, covered all over in staggering wounds. It turns out a pretty high percentage of my classmates survived their maiden battle, unexpectedly. Unexpectedly, I say, because here I’d assumed they were like me and not all that bright or gifted.

I followed them because I didn’t want to be alone and now I’m unmistakably alone.

Without the peer pressure, I get even less sure about this grand mission of ours. But I have no idea what else to do, and there’s a faint spark of hope alive deep in my flat bosom that I might still be able to catch up with the rest of the gang. I’m not dead. What happened was a bit embarrassing, but I haven’t failed anything! I can still earn my right to live.

Only one way forward.

I approach the mouth of the ominous ravine and pass between the steep stone walls. I have no idea what happened while I was out, but I can only assume the others went through here on the way to the groovy mountains. If only I can find my way there in time, they might take me out of this awful place and things will get better—or, so I want to believe.

Without anybody there to rush me, I take no more running steps. Having a near-death experience has made me wiser. I let fear guide me and proceed slow. I stop to listen at the slightest crack or rumble, to avoid running into another ambush. Like this, I sneak through the long ravine across the cliffs and come out to a view that takes my breath away.

Deep in the mountains’ embrace lies a verdant basin, or a valley, round as a witch’s cauldron. A slim path zigzags down a long scarp in front of me and swims into the sea of trees below. Following the trail with my eyes, I spy a cluster of distant buildings in the heart of the woods. I see oval domes stick through the foliage, half crumbled and eroded. Rundown towers with fractured pinnacles, and collapsed marble arcs. Only partially standing aqueducts, with no trace of water left in them, and more. A web of deteriorated, maybe once beautiful streets divides the city into tidy sectors, with a wider central lane straight across from west to east. That light, broken line goes all the way to the mountain standing on the eastern edge of the vale, and into the mountainside has been hacked the face of an enormous temple.

Despite how ancient and devastated it looks, the city's not deserted.

Little torches and bonfires twinkle here and there in the dark, as if there’s a big happy banquet on.

On a closer look, the festivities don’t seem too cheery, and not all the fires were lit to lift your spirits. Even over the distance, a hair-raising concerto reaches my ears. Faint battle cries, howls and roars of inhuman creatures, booms, cracks, bangs, and the bright clamor of steel.

I reckon that’s where my surviving companions have gone.

To fight. To kill. To die.

To win their right to exist.

I’m less than thrilled about going down there and jumping in. Fighting to death was sold to us as something glorious and gratifying, but by what I’ve seen of death so far, it fucking sucks. Am I somehow weird to think that way? Am I really defective, after all?

Somehow, the thought of being subpar annoys me, though I’m not even too sure what it means.

But I do know that a thing even worse than dying is being left in suspense.

Whatever will happen, I can't stay here and going back isn't an option.

So I gather myself and start down the slope towards the ruins and the mayhem, minding my step.

Along the path, I come across more corpses. More strange beasts I can’t recognize. Under armors of boiled leather and rusted iron plates, are bodies covered in raven feathers, and faces vaguely resembling crows or ibises with curved beaks and pitch-black button eyes. Each of the monsters is taller than an average man, with big bird feet and cruel-looking talons on each toe. But the birdmen have no wings. Instead they have arms like people and fingers with sharp claws, in which they grip scythe-like weapons, or spears, or staves, and won’t let go even in death. They didn’t go down without a fight. Among them are a few more dead recruits, their necks and guts slashed open, head crushed, or heart pierced through. But most of my comrades appear to have forced their way through.

So I need to pick up the pace.

What if all the others manage to become real warriors and leave, and I alone have to stay in this hideous place until the monsters get me?

I don’t want that. Anything but that!

I wade past the corpses littering the path, slightly worried they’ll jump back to life without warning. They don’t. Eventually I come down to the foot of the cliffs and follow the beaten path into the jungle. The wood seems abuzz with life. Toads croaking. Bugs screeching. Branches shaking, the grass shuffling and rustling. As I pass, a strange beast lets out a muffled roar in the shrubs by the path and I dash off with my heart in my throat. It doesn’t chase me.

What a nightmare.

As I get closer to the destination, the melody of war grows louder.

They’re not only fighting in the city, there’s scuffling going on here and there between the trees too. How can you even tell who’s an enemy and who’s a friend in all this anarchy and noise? My regret over ever coming here grows with each step, but I keep going anyway, and then come the edge of a larger clearing. There are shapes moving ahead. I duck and hide in the bushes before they can see me.

I hold my breath and peek past the straws and see a lone recruit battle more birdmen. The combatants are surrounded by corpses. There are a lot of dead monsters, and only a few human bodies among them. Could it be, the other recruits are pretty awesome?

Three of the monsters are still standing, and my colleague is left alone. But he shows no fear.

The guy’s got short black hair. Dark eyes. Kind of a looker. A goddamn Kirito. And the monsters are afraid of him. They have the advantage in numbers and they’re a lot bigger too, but they’re visibly reluctant to go closer. They shriek angrily at the guy, buff their feathers and shake their jagged spears, trying to look bigger. Like their clothes, their weapons are primitive and awkwardly put together, decorated with wood pearls and feathers. The kind of shit you craft in a jungle without access to anything better. Are they even combatants?

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The recruit has a short sword. Only a sword, but it’s a good sword. As the opponents size each other up, he discreetly moves to one of his fallen companions, kicks up a discarded scimitar by the corpse, and goes to approach the enemies with a weapon in both hands. I watch them without blinking, not even daring to breathe.

The foremost birdman charges.

The guy parries the spear tip aimed at his chest with the sword in his right hand. Like dancing, he pirouettes along the length of the pole and, with a reversed grip, plunges the scimitar through the monster’s feathery flank. The mortally wounded birdman lets out a sorrowful shriek at the sky. The guy leaves the scimitar buried in the flesh of his enemy, slices the back of its neck, and keeps going. He doesn’t spare the dead foe another look, his eyes already on the next target.

Hardly a blink later, the stone hammer in the monster’s hands comes bearing down on his brow. He’s faster. No, he baited it, leaning forward to present his head as a target, then to pull back in the last moment. The hammer hits the ground with a heavy thud, having missed its target by a hair. The guy steps on the long handle of the hammer, uses it as a stepping stone. He jumps high and forward and drives his sword into the birdman’s chest with all his mass. The creature staggers back to get away from him, but it’s no use. It falls dead onto its back, and he stands, draws out the blade smeared in black blood, and walks on.

The last birdman recognizes it’s outmatched.

It abandons the fight, spins back on its heels and dashes off towards the treeline, quick as a big chicken.

But the warrior isn’t going to let his prey go. He’s come here to kill. It’s his whole life, what he was born to do. He picks up a discarded spear from the ground, briefly weighs it in his grip, and throws it. Throws it, like he’s goddamn Zeus casting a bolt of thunder. The barbed spearhead rips through the birdman’s back. It never knows what hit it. With a feeble croak, it falls on its face in the grass and dark, skewered.

I watch it all from my hiding spot, my mouth agape with awe.

Is that how I’m supposed to be?

I look down at my little hands, my skinny fingers and thin wrists. No way. What he did just now is so far beyond me it’s not even funny. He’s in a different league altogether. That man, if anyone, has earned his right to live today.

Then a bright idea hits me. The first of many to come.

If only I stick together with a robust hero like that guy, if we work together, then I should be able to get through this nightmare with ease. See? Absolute genius. Thinking so, I leave my hiding spot, step out of the bushes, and go to approach the victorious swordsman on the clearing as he checks out the loot. The man yanks out the scimitar from the corpse of the slain monster. He takes a moment to compare it with the sword in his hand, trying to decide which is better. Then he notices me. An expression of unguarded surprise appears on his face.

“Hi.” I stop and extend a spontaneous greeting.

That instinctive action surprises even myself, and I feel my throat.

I’ve never used these vocal cords before, but I have a voice. I know words, language; I can talk, express myself. What a discovery! Deep down, I always knew I could, but it still feels a bit weird and new. Takes some getting used to. A million years of human evolution, done in one evening.

Time passes and we stare at each other in confusion, me and the guy.

The swordsman doesn’t return the greeting, he only looks at me weird, like he doesn’t understand what he sees. Then a look of determination is lit in his dark eyes. Before I can say anything else, he tightens his grip on the two swords and comes running at me.

“Huh…?”

I watch him approach and somehow, it doesn’t look like he wants to give me a hug. No. I’m unmistakably in mortal peril. I’ve learned to recognize that much. The guy’s swords sparkle with an eerie, red glow as he drives mana through them. Having built up sufficient momentum, he leaps up high in the air and raises the blades, poised to cleave me in two with all his might.

No matter how I look at it, I’m about to be killed. But—why? I don’t understand.

He’ll cut me down like those birdmen, like another monster, even though we’re supposed to be allies on the same mission. Though we share the same unbelievable origin story and are practically family. He doesn’t seem to care for having a sister. Stunned by the idea that I should be attacked by someone I thought would be my savior, I reflexively bring up my hands in front of me.

Of course, I know full well how badly human flesh works against steel. I’ve seen some unforgettable demonstrations in the past few hours. I know it, but my body moves without thinking, moved by the same intuition that had made me speak. I don’t think about how my skull is going to be split in two like a log in another half a second. All I can think about is how I don’t want to die.

I refuse to.

I deny it.

I reject it.

The sword cloaked in the red light comes down. It draws an intense, aesthetically pleasing curve through the night. I squeeze my eyes shut, and brace myself. But the pain of being chopped into pieces never comes. Instead, something very weird unfolds.

A bright, metallic sound of impact reverberates in my ears.

Like a big hammer striking a no less sizable anvil.

Startled by that unnatural sound, I open my eyes again. Out of nowhere, a spot of bluish light erupts between me and the guy. As if he’s hit a solid wall in mid-air, both his swords are knocked hard from his grip. The rebound of his own power flings his whole body back, and he lands a handsome distance away, rolling in the dirt.

In front of my outstretched hands spreads a thin, see-through film made up of dozens of small, conjoined hexagons that glow with a faint light. Like small panels of ice, glued together by a membrane of frost. Shocked by the view, I step back and lower my hands. The frost melts away at once, the tiles dissolve into nothing, and the wall is gone as soon as it appeared.

I’m left to stare at the guy groaning on the ground, my ears still ringing.

I should’ve died there, but somehow, I didn’t. Just like last time, with the ogre.

But the unexpected light show takes the backseat in my mind. More than that, I’m shaken by the betrayal of my brother-in-arms. The confusion doesn’t fit in my skull anymore, but spills out in an accusing question,

“What did you do that for——?”

The guy stares back at me, looking no less perplexed than I am. For a moment, he seems at a loss for words, but not because he regrets what he did. More like, he's confused I should even ask something so obvious, like the answer goes without saying. But I can’t see it and faced with my demanding frown, he eventually makes a nonchalant shrug and says,

“I just wanted to try something. And you looked easy.”

Hearing it, I stand like I just butted heads with a truck.

“What?”

Standing there, I'm hit by something of an epiphany then.

We may both be humans, and born in the same place, at the same time, and have the same duty, the same goal, fight the same enemies and for the same reasons, but that doesn’t mean we’re the same on the inside too.

Who’s an enemy, who’s a friend, who’s human, who’s not—none of that ever meant a squat to this guy. Not a damn thing. He got his hands on a new, nifty game and decided to make the most of it, while the fun lasts. Nothing more complicated than that. As such, he might be the ideal warrior our masters sought. But so what if he is? The admiration I felt for the guy just a second ago is gone in the next, replaced by heartfelt revulsion.

We’re not the same. Never will be. This guy’s something else, something—sinister.

While I stand there digesting the concept of cultural diversity, the recruit grabs his sword, rolls up from the ground, and takes off without another word. He vanishes into the shadows of the jungle, and I keep staring long after he’s long gone.

Then, I remember about the other thing and look down at my empty palms.

What was that just now? It was my doing, right, and not just a very weird coincidence?

I retrace the same motions and sensations from memory and hold out my hands.

“Ooh.”

Just like before, an intense tension wells up in me. The skin on my arms begins to glow and emit tiny sparks that bounce lightly off like fireflies. It’s beautiful, but also a little disturbing. The growing power makes me fear I’m going to blow up and I crouch, hug my sides, and hurry to suppress the feeling. Thankfully, the glowing stops right away, responding to my will.

What is happening to me? What is happening to us? Who am I? What am I?

There’s a very, very strange thing inside me, and written in the back of my mind are the basic instructions on its use. Now that I’ve done it once, I’m confident I can do it again whenever, wherever, as easily as I breathe.

I don’t want to admit it, but I’m slowly starting to understand what the sword hero was on about. Not that I still think we were anything alike, but I can at least see where he’s coming from. If you suddenly found out you had such an outrageous ability, the power to ensure nobody can ever screw with you again—just what else can you do with it? Where exactly were the limits?

Were there even any limits?

Only one way to find out.