Stepping out of the tavern, Ren immediately felt the stark contrast between the warm, albeit heavy, atmosphere inside and the dry, silent cold blanketing the outside.
A sudden night breeze slipped into the collar of his cloak, making him shiver slightly, uncertain whether it was from the cold or the hollow sensation quietly seeping into every thread of thought.
Beneath his feet, the cobblestone path remained just as familiar: pale gray bricks neatly aligned in rows, bathed in the soft yellow light of flickering magical lanterns trembling in the dark.
And yet, somehow… everything felt strangely unfamiliar, as though Ren were walking through a mirage conjured from someone else's memory.
The Town of Beginnings never truly slept, but tonight, it felt quieter than usual.
NPCs still moved silently through the streets, a few players spoke in hushed voices under the eaves of the inn, but no one really noticed him, the lone shadow walking aimlessly, with no clear destination in mind.
He realized that ever since returning to this place, just a few days after the battle with the first-floor boss, he had done almost nothing.
No training, no party forming, not even opening the map to search for a path forward. Just eating, sleeping, and wandering, like someone trying to run from themselves.
Before, he had believed that if he stayed with the frontliners, kept fighting, kept pushing forward through each floor until they beat the game and returned home, then everything would eventually make sense.
But now, Ren began to wonder: had he merely been using that "goal" to avoid asking a bigger question?
That... if the game ended, if everyone was brought back, would he truly have a "home" to return to?
Ren came to a stop in the middle of the road and looked up at the cold, starry sky, his gaze blank.
The night wind blew again, stronger this time, sweeping a few dry leaves from the artificial trees lining the roadside.
One leaf touched his foot and settled there, unmoving. He didn't stoop to pick it up, just stood still, as if hoping that, in a fleeting moment, another gust would come and carry it away… the way the world had once swept him away from everything he had called his past.
The victory on the first floor had been an unforgettable milestone in the history of everyone trapped in this death game.
It was the first time a Boss had truly been defeated, unlocking the gateway to the second floor, a clear sign that Aincrad could be conquered.
That this deadly world… still held hope. Many had risen to the challenge, fought side by side, and helped create that miracle.
But no matter how hard they smiled, no matter how they patted each other on the back in celebration, there would always be one thing that made that victory incomplete.
Because Diavel had died.
And a few other frontliners… would never return again.
That truth, no one could erase it.
Even if they pushed on quickly to the second floor, even if the next Boss was defeated just a week later without a single casualty, even if everyone called it the perfect victory...
...something still lingered quiet and raw, like a wound that never healed. For many, time would likely dull it. But for Ren, it wasn't that simple.
He still often thought about the look in Diavel's eyes before he fell.
About that moment… when Diavel, who had tried so hard to keep everyone's faith alive and lead them forward, collapsed from a blow no one had been able to stop.
About his firm but solitary cry, trying to pass on one last command… and the bitter silence that blanketed the entire formation when that name vanished from the screen. No final words. No chance for rescue.
And… something in the final glimmer of his sword had kept haunting Ren's thoughts.
Maybe it was helplessness. Maybe it was loss. Or worse, the fear that he too would be forgotten like that, a name erased, a memory fading in the frantic rush of the survivors.
When the second floor was conquered without casualties, everyone celebrated. Ren wasn't there.
He was glad when he heard the news. But deep in his chest, something still weighed heavy, like an echo that refused to fade.
Had he been stronger that day, faster, more decisive… would Diavel still be alive?
Ren didn't know. And that not knowing… was what tormented him the most.
He knew… he couldn't keep standing here, couldn't keep staying in place like this.
The emptiness inside, no matter how familiar, could never replace the feeling of truly living… even in a virtual world.
He needed to do something. Not because he wanted to. But because… he had to.
Truthfully, to be exact… if he didn't start earning money tomorrow, taking quests, hunting monsters, he wouldn't have anything to eat. That's all there was to it. No romance. No grandeur.
Just… hunger.
Ren had burned through all the Cor he had left over the past two weeks. Slowly, sluggishly, and meaninglessly.
He had done nothing. No battles. No training. No conversations. No effort.
He just kept living… as if time alone would heal everything. As if, by simply waiting long enough, all the pain would fade, and every inner conflict would disappear.
But time… doesn't heal anything.
It only wears things down.
Gently, and cruelly, like the cold wind creeping through the collar, making the body shiver bit by bit… until you no longer have the strength to resist.
In this world... or any other, nothing comes unless you take it.
Food, money, experience… or even the chance to survive.
If you don't step forward, if you don't lift your sword and act...then in the end, you'll just be another name erased from the player list.
He looked down at his hands. The high-quality leather gloves were scratched, even stained with a bit of dust from the last battle he could remember.
"Time to go," he muttered, voice so soft even he could barely hear it. No one answered. But that no longer mattered.
Ren tightened his grip.
Took one step into the darkness at the end of the road.
Even if it was slow. Even if it was alone... at least it was still a step.
And that… was better than standing still.
.......
Ren didn't know… truly didn't know why he ended up following Copper and his group into the dungeon beneath the Town of Beginnings.
He didn't speak a word, didn't act enthusiastic, and didn't give any valid reason to anyone.
He just… followed. Quietly. Like a shadow.
Perhaps… it was because he didn't want to see more players being dragged under.
Crushed, broken, and ground down by a spinning wheel of something… they didn't understand at all. Just like he had been, once.
Or… maybe it was something vaguer. A faint compulsion whispered from the back of his mind.
A silent fracture growing wider in his chest, murmuring incomprehensible words into his ear each night.
"Don't turn away. Not yet."
Ren's eyes never left Copper, from the moment they left the plaza to when the group finally reached the dungeon's entrance, where artificial mist veiled the old stone path winding down into the earth.
It wasn't because he doubted him… but because he was afraid. Not of Copper...but of himself.Afraid that he would believe again.
The way Copper walked, spoke, reassured others… it was the same. Too similar.
Enough to stir up memories long buried beneath blood and screams.
Ren took a deep breath.
The tunnel air was damp and reeked of rust, pulling him back toward a part of his memory he most wanted to reject.
But no matter how much he wanted to escape the past… he kept moving. Because maybe this time, if it repeated, he would be the one standing in the way of it.
The dungeon's entrance hadn't changed. The slick, damp stone stairs still led deep into the earth, where light was swallowed by darkness and cold seeped into the bones.
But unlike before, when this place had been a death maze where one wrong step meant never returning… now, it was far less dangerous.
Not because the dungeon changed, but because people had claimed it.
Dozens of player groups came and went daily.
Footsteps, shouts, the clash of steel, and the glow from weapons had slowly eroded the dungeon's original darkness.
Monsters no longer had time to repopulate. They were wiped out as soon as they emerged from the first shadowy corner.
The corridors that once reeked of death had become the worn paths of hunters.
Ren walked silently among Copper's group, eyes still darting quickly through every crevice.
Mossy brick walls, old dried bloodstains, fragments of broken equipment left from previous fights.
Everything still recalled what had once happened here.
The memories didn't lie with the monsters, they lay in the panicked retreating footsteps, the strangled cries lost in the maze's gloom.
Most of the first-floor dungeon monsters now were only marginally stronger than the field mobs, some sewer frogs with slick, mucus-covered skin, small but sharp claws, capable of leaping far and moving fast in tight spaces.
New players easily panicked from blind-spot attacks and got disoriented.
But for players of Ren's level, they weren't much of a threat anymore.
He could cut through them one by one alone.
But if they came in large enough numbers, swarming and pressing into every narrow angle... then even the smallest mistake could draw blood in streams.
Numbers... were always the problem.
Ren tightened his grip on his sword, hearing the soft scrape of the sheath against his belt.He didn't fear the monsters.
What truly unsettled him were the people walking ahead of him and the one leading them… Copper.
He wouldn't let this man carry out whatever plan he had in mind…