The Gold of the Kunie

by Mamare Touno

  He then began to go on raids.

  The required teamwork grew harder and harder, but William didn’t let himself fall behind. Little by little, the number of players he could make small talk with increased. Once he tried connecting with them, he found they were all good-natured people.

  The second secret: Strangely, on nights when they’d had fun talking about stupid stuff, their win rate rose. He learned that dumb, pointless stories had a mysterious power that brought victory to their efforts.

  William learned more and more.

  Some of his friends were in good shape, and some were in bad shape. Condition was important. He started taking an interest in how other people lived. Some of his friends played enthusiastically, and some were low-energy. His friends had all sorts of worries. Of course they did. He realized, belatedly, that everyone else was just like he was. Then he started to understand what they wanted. It was simple: They all wanted to go on raids and win.

  Who should get recovered this time? Which enemy should they concentrate their attacks on? Should they press forward with their attack, or call in substitutes and build their strength back up? Should they go all out, or keep it to about 70 percent?

  Even if they disagreed on what they needed to do in order to win, each of them wished for the best. It just wasn’t going well, that was all. They went along resolving those little mistakes and disagreements, one by one. Finally, they won, and even though it was a small victory, William’s group was over the moon.

  The third secret had been a little painful for William.

  He’d learned to ask the people around him questions, and to be open-minded.

  It had happened only after his friends had learned to put up with William’s short temper, but he’d managed to learn a little. After he’d learned it, he was able to understand that it was necessary.

  Many raid guilds were short-lived. Twenty or more members fought harsh battles, winning or losing, over and over. If they were lucky, they could get treasure every time, but even if they were victorious on a raid, there was no guarantee they’d get the fantasy-class items they wanted. Naturally, dissatisfied members cropped up, and strained relationships and calculations about individual interest appeared. In a situation like that, most raid guilds didn’t even last half a year before disappearing.

  Before Silver Sword had destroyed itself with the strife that always accompanied raid guilds, the people in question had learned enough tolerance to be able to talk with each other. William learned to trust the people around him and speak frankly, and the guild members learned that, although their leader might be short-tempered, he wasn’t malicious. For a raid guild, this was a very fortunate thing.

  William did sometimes wish he’d picked up on that secret a bit earlier, but on the other hand, it was a secret he’d managed to learn precisely because he’d wanted to protect this guild.

  By the time William understood the secret to spending time with others, Silver Sword had begun to develop a reputation as an up-and-coming raid guild.

  “So I know now, too… You feel like that was it, don’t you? Game Over. It didn’t work. You feel like this is the genuine end. It might be. It might be, but…”

  For that reason, William understood.

  He knew how pitch-black everyone’s feelings were right now.

  He knew that, with their precious raids taken from them, they were watching him and feeling like abused dogs. Even if he felt so pitiful he couldn’t look at his friends, he knew.

  “When I came to this world, I’m not gonna lie: I was happy. That must’ve been true for you guys, too, at least a little. I bet nobody here was one hundred percent against the idea, right? I mean, this is Elder Tales. The world we threw ourselves into like idiots. The world of the raids we’re better at than anybody. I thought, ‘This could work.’ But more than that, more than anything, I was glad I was with you. You’re just like you were in the game, see. Me, too, but anyway. I guess that doesn’t matter. As long as we can go on raids together, I’m good. There’s nobody in this world who’ll make fun of us, either.”

  William sniffled.

  The veteran field commander, the elf sniper with the byname “Mithril Eyes,” was no more.

  “Still, that’s why even if we lose, we can’t run. Listen! Maybe we can’t win. Yeah, we probably can’t. In fact, we’re almost certain to lose. But that’s no good; there are some things we absolutely should just not admit. And anyway, if we go home like that, what are we going to do? If you take this away from us, what do we have left?—we played Elder Tales so hard we scared other people away! These past two years were solid Elder Tales for me. It’s all I thought about, morning to night. I ate, slept, and bathed just so I could do this. I even studied for Elder Tales. If you want to call me a washed-up loser, do it. I’m such a hardcore gamer no one wants to be around me. I’m such a social misfit that I can be psyched beyond belief, all night, over a single rare item. I played this thing for keeps… So I can’t cut and run just because a second or third raid boss showed up. Hell, even if I ran, where would I go?! After I ran, you think I could make fun of games and live like that? Like I could make friends if I stopped raiding? Should I laugh a little and say, ‘Boy was that a big fat waste of time…’?! Up yours. To hell with that.”

  It was all mixed up.

  Were they supposed to stand their ground and just keep dying? How many more times would they have to feel like that?

  They’d been able to suck it up and get through it because they’d had a hope of victory, but that hope was gone now.

  What you’re doing is just a game, even if the world’s changed; it’s just a game, you people are parasites, completely worthless, and you can’t even win at that game— How were they supposed to face a reality like that?

  “I…I’ve run before. I was confused, but I finally got it. It was in Akiba, at that first Round Table Council. Back then, I’d just gotten started in this world, and I wanted to go raiding so bad I couldn’t stand it. That’s why I didn’t join the RTC: so I could go on raids. That’s the truth. I’m not lying. But I also thought, ‘These people are doing something really dumb. What a waste of time. I’m surprised the pigs can keep that up when they’ve got no shot at winning.’ I made fun of them. I did something I hate so much I’d deck anyone who did it to me. It cracks me up. I know now. I ran. It looked like it wasn’t gonna work, so I just let it go right by me.”

  Even so, there were players who hadn’t run.

  That was something William idolized.

  The legendary band of players who’d been formidable opponents for the big guilds in tough raids, even though they weren’t a guild themselves.

  William had still been a new player, and hearing about their exploits had thrilled him.

  It had thrilled him so much that he’d resolved that someday, even if he was a loner, he’d get them to let him join that fantastic team.

  By the time William had gotten himself leveled up to 90, the group had disbanded. It struck William as an awful betrayal. They hadn’t waited for him. Not only that, but its members had gone back to playing solo and scattered, without forming a guild. Then what was the point of leaving those legends? he’d thought.

  “But Shiroe won. I thought that raid was pointless and impossible and they’d never win it, but he won it, and he made Akiba. It was the raid that made a town. I shouldn’t have laughed at that. —I thought he was an awesome raider, and a great commander.”

  There was a player who’d fought, without running.

  The high ranker he’d once looked up to really hadn’t been ordinary at all.

  “Because when that guy, Shiroe, got down on his knees and asked, I jumped at the chance. ‘Of course we don’t have a shot at winning. I’d expect nothing less. Machiavelli-with-Glasses brought this one in, so obviously we’re all gonna go through hell. You can tell the guy’s a damn pain-in-the-butt sadist just by looking at his face!’ But…I also thought that it would be fun. I thought it would be great if we coul
d win. Why? Because we’re hardcore raiders!”

  William could feel the heat gathering in the air. When he looked up, he saw the faces of his guild members. Their expressions held pain like his, pain they were unable to vent.

  They might be able to give it just one more try.

  The heat that dwelled inside them gave him that impression. William had set his comrades on fire.

  However, there was no sense of victory or achievement there. Instead, he felt stifling pressure and responsibility.

  William was a guild master, and he was about to lead his comrades into the jaws of death, an unwinnable battle. Neither Krusty nor Isaac would have made that decision. Although they were combat guilds, they’d been smart enough to understand the significance of the Round Table Council and give it their cooperation.

  I am a seriously dumb guild master.

  William’s lips were on the verge of trembling, and he bit them hard.

  As he tasted seeping iron, he scrabbled frantically for a plan.

  He wanted to win. He wanted to win more than he ever had before, but it wasn’t for his own glory. It was from the frenzied desire to give his comrades victory.

  5

  Shiroe’s consciousness returned in the way dawn gradually began to turn the world blue. Words filtered down to him, like light through water.

  It was a mutter like a scream.

  A man’s halting voice, protesting unfairness.

  William’s confession was quiet, but Shiroe never lost track of it as he regained consciousness. As if prompted by those words, he began thinking to himself.

  Shiroe tended to be isolated, and his normal state was monopolized by pondering, to the point where it was inseparable from his own orientation.

  The fact that there was a “self” he could question seemed to be proof that his mind was awake.

  The first thing he did was start to confirm the circumstances and examine future developments.

  Flatly rejecting the dizzying, drunken feeling and the bewilderment of resurrection, Shiroe began analyzing the raid capture and its peripherals without a moment’s delay.

  In the first fifteen seconds, he understood that these were seriously difficult circumstances. It would probably have been more accurate to call them impossible. Only twenty-four people could enter this zone, and it wasn’t possible to overthrow the enemy’s total forces with numbers like that.

  If it had been just Ruseato of the Seventh Garden, they could have won.

  His grasp of the monster’s distinguishing characteristics was complete, more or less. In Black Knight mode, Ruseato gave off single, powerful attacks, reflection of close-range damage, and ranged attacks. In White Knight mode, these switched to self-recovery and kin summoning.

  Almost all raid bosses had a variety of distinguishing features. They took special actions and went through transformations depending on elements such as time and remaining HP. It was safe to say that seeing through these features and putting together tactics was the foundation of defeating raid bosses.

  He’d finished studying these features for Ruseato of the Seventh Garden. That didn’t mean they’d be able to win right away, but he did feel they’d be able to win if they practiced a few more times. They wouldn’t have to suffer through hideous consequences like being wiped out in order to practice; even if the front line fell, they’d only have to retreat temporarily. He could say they had a shot at victory.

  However, when it came to the frost giant, Tartaulga of the Fourth Garden, and the fiery serpent, Ibra Habra of the Third Garden, things were different. They hadn’t even scouted those two yet. He didn’t know how far it was safe to use Tartaulga of the Fourth Prison and Ibra Habra of the Third Prison as reference, but it was likely that the two attacks that had annihilated Shiroe’s group had been ordinary ranged attacks. They were probably attacks with massive damage and recast times of anywhere between 50 and 150 seconds. They weren’t certain-kill attacks, and they weren’t “distinguishing features” they’d have to capture. He had absolutely no hope of conquering them.

  In addition, those two would attack at the same time. That wasn’t all: It was even possible that other bosses in this zone would join the fray. No matter how you looked at it, they were done for. They had no prospect of victory whatsoever.

  Shiroe listened to the warning voice inside him: Don’t think about why it’s impossible. Think of solutions. The kind words were entirely correct, but they did make him feel like complaining that the demands were always too hard.

  In his mind, a row of blue cards sat before him, to his right. These were the conditions he had. His advantages or, in other words, his weapons: Silver Sword’s experience, his friends, support from the Round Table Council, the facts that had been made clear to him up until now, and information.

  Farther back on his right were the difficulties he had to overcome, in the shape of phantom cards. Ruseato, Tartaulga, Ibra Habra, and the other bosses they hadn’t seen yet. They’d nearly gotten through the dungeon area in this zone. Almost all the map was clear. The only things left were the three, or possibly four, bosses.

  He thought up several strategies, then sorted them based on the possibility of making them happen. The odds were so low they didn’t really merit discussion, but he tinkered with each strategy, seeing whether he could improve them. They really weren’t at a place where they could be put to practical use.

  The various reforms in this world were subject to individual limitations. For example, when developing a new dish, the level of the Chef dictated whether or not it would be possible to make it. In combat, this manifested as more severe personalization. Even if you had a lot of powerful weapons, their use was limited by their level. For example, even if he’d had a Gatling gun and trench mortar now, he’d barely have been able to make use of them. More than powerful weapons and spells, they needed to break through the circumstances.

  He knew he was asking the impossible, but right now, for Shiroe, the word retreat didn’t exist.

  Next, Shiroe began analyzing not their advantages but the difficulties they’d need to overcome, the weak points in their forces.

  There were special capture methods for most raid bosses. Even if they didn’t look like obvious shortcomings, it was possible for attacks that seemed powerful at first glance to have vulnerabilities.

  Feeling as if he’d just had a sudden flash of inspiration, Shiroe desperately followed the thin thread of his thoughts.

  Prisons or gardens, they were the guardians of something. Were they aware of their own roles, especially now that they had wills of their own? They’d cooperated in the battle a short while ago, and when he wondered why reinforcements hadn’t made an appearance until Ruseato of the Seventh Garden was obviously losing, he thought the key to a breakthrough might be there. However, he couldn’t deny that there were some naïve hopes in there as well.

  Temporarily discarding those fond hopes, Shiroe set about constructing and selecting a more realistic capture method. Even after several dozen attempts, though, he hadn’t managed to come up with a strategy that seemed any more reliable.

  The fantasy that was almost a fault seemed to have the best chance of success.

  There was no way to calculate the actual odds, but it seemed to be worth betting on.

  “Hey, Shiro. You awake?”

  “—Yeah.”

  Naotsugu had spoken, leaning in to look at him.

  Shiroe sat up, stretching his stiff back, and found himself on a marble bier with a blanket spread over it. There was no telling what the square stone had been originally, but apparently he’d been asleep on top of it.

  Naotsugu had been leaning over that stone to look at him, but when Shiroe adjusted his glasses, he seemed relieved. Shiroe turned away, looking back at the open space.

  Tetora sat nearby, cross-legged. The two of them were the only ones near him.

  He could hear William’s thin voice. It was a high voice, trembling but proud; a voice you’d never have imagined belon
ged to the commander of one of the leading combat guilds on the server. And yet, it couldn’t have been more appropriate.

  The whole time his eyes had been closed, Shiroe had listened to those words.

  He’d listened to the many sobbing voices as well, and the groans that cursed their helplessness.

  As a result, Shiroe nodded again. “Yeah.”

  In the hall, as they watched, the members of Silver Sword slowly got to their feet. They were gazing at their guild master. This probably wasn’t something Shiroe and the other non–Silver Sword members were to hear, and for that, Shiroe was grateful to Naotsugu, who must have read the atmosphere and then carried his body to this corner, away from the crowd. At the same time, however, Shiroe needed William’s words. The person standing there was just like Shiroe at sixteen.

  Elder Tales had caused him a lot of pain.

  Being labeled by strangers. Having judgments made about him based solely on what he could do. Never really being seen.

  Still, at the same time, it had given him gifts that were much greater.

  Captain Nyanta, Nurukan, Aihie. They were all good friends. Kanami had taught him what easygoing meant. He’d learned self-control from Kazuhiko, and the strength known as trust from Naotsugu.

  As he watched Silver Sword from a distance, Shiroe thought they were a good guild. He also thought William was an excellent guild master. The idea that they had all gone through “that” made his chest feel tight. What if it had been him? He probably would have gotten back up, but he didn’t know if he would have been able to encourage his companions with words that genuine.

  When Minori and Touya were heartbroken, what could he tell them? What could he do for Isuzu and Rudy? He didn’t feel as if there was anything.

  He recalled Akatsuki, but in his mind, the small Assassin had just looked angry.