Satoru sat on a small, uneven rock. The jagged edges dug into him uncomfortably, but he paid it no mind. Beneath the faint starlight of night, he focused intently on the task in his hands.
The cool night breeze stirred his bangs, and his serious black eyes carried a sharp, thoughtful gleam.
Sure enough, you couldn't judge this fantasy-style world using ordinary logic. Take cigarettes, for example. They weren't uniformly identical like copy-pasted products, no consistent length or thickness, no cotton filters at the end. Even the wrapping paper bore intricate patterns.
He manipulated the interface step by step, his precision almost like Michelangelo sculpting David or painting Genesis.
Under his calm gaze, a handful of familiar-smelling herbs slowly fused with a sheet of yellowed paper under the system's all-encompassing white light. It was like witnessing the very light of creation itself.
Then the glow faded.
And what rested in his hand at last.
Was the key that had overcome countless hardships to unlock the door to his happiness.
"Ha…" he exhaled softly, filled with emotion.
With practiced ease, he placed it between his lips and tilted his head slightly, gazing up at the star-filled sky at a perfect fifteen-degree angle.
No matter where you were, the night sky never seemed to change.
Whether in Kyoto or Tokyo. Whether clouds gathered or the sky stretched clear and endless.
Even here, in Aincrad, it was the same.
Humans, in the end, never really move forward.
At that moment, his mind brimmed with the thoughts of great philosophers.
Just like a good drink calls for the right setting, smoking requires the right mood to truly savor nicotine.
Another gentle breeze, carrying a faint floral scent, brushed past him, lifting his hair and clothes. Beneath the night sky, the wandering swordsman frowned slightly.
Perfect.
Perfect.
He let out another long, wistful sigh.
Then he took a drag.
"…"
Damn it. He forgot to light it.
He slapped his thigh and instinctively reached for his waist pouch. But all he felt was leather. The cheap plastic lighter he once carried was gone.
His body stiffened.
"Where the hell am I supposed to get fire?"
Sure, he could grab some from a campfire right now. But what about later? Would he always have a convenient source of fire on hand?
His face turned pale, like a gambler who had just lost everything.
There was no despair greater than forgetting your paper or your lighter.
Satoru shot to his feet, looking around in panic like a lost child. All his earlier composure vanished without a trace. His breathing grew heavy, and the thought of having a cigarette in his mouth but being unable to smoke it made his eyes burn with restless frustration.
He dashed off like a starving wolf.
Though his posture looked more like a ghoul.
…
Perhaps to accommodate nighttime combat, the moonlight in this world was bright and clear. Its bluish glow illuminated the ground fully. Not as bright as day, but far from pitch darkness.
Deep in the eastern part of the camp lay a small lake. Its water was usable, not just decorative. Passing the tents, one would suddenly be greeted by this quiet scene. But with few trees or plants around, the mirror-like lake felt somewhat lonely.
Only a single slender sapling stood there, rooted in a small patch of grass.
And beside it.
A gravestone.
Standing before it was the female warrior, her leather armor removed, replaced with only a thin, gauzy garment draped lightly over her body. The Dark Elf gathered her gently swaying hair and leaned slightly forward, gazing at the grave.
Her dark violet hair seemed to absorb the moonlight, giving off a faint glow.
More than the beauty of the scene, one couldn't help but wonder if she felt cold.
Kizmel stood there in silence.
Until she sensed someone approaching and turned her head.
"Hm? Yurnero?"
Her voice carried a hint of surprise.
"It's so late. Is something wrong?"
Fortunately, Kizmel, the one holding what felt like the key to his salvation, wasn't frightened by what she saw.
"Kiz… Kizmel… lend me a light."
"Huh?"
…
"Phew…"
The ember flickered, sometimes dim, sometimes bright. Satoru held the cigarette between his fingers, his eyes once again clear and profound, reflecting the world's fleeting vanity. Like a poet struck by emotion, he let out a quiet sigh as pale smoke rose and dissolved into the moonlight.
"What are you doing here?"
He took a drag. Somehow, his whole demeanor had changed. Now he looked like a weary traveler who had seen it all.
It was probably impossible for artificial intelligence to understand this transformation.
After all, just moments ago, he had been kneeling on the ground, begging her to use that so-called "lingering essence of great magic" to spark a tiny flame. He had been overflowing with gratitude, taking an eager drag.
And now, he stood by the lake, composed and world-weary.
After asking his question, Satoru flicked the ash from his cigarette with practiced ease.
"If it's only tobacco, it shouldn't have the power to alter someone's personality or soul," Kizmel said thoughtfully.
"That's what it means to be a man," Satoru replied with a carefree chuckle.
"But you do look very happy."
Of course he was. He was practically ready to float into the sky.
"By the way, Sheeta doesn't seem to be in the tent," Satoru said.
"She went to bathe. She needs proper rest tonight, since tomorrow will be exhausting. You should go as well."
"But isn't Sheeta bathing right now?"
"That's fine. The bathing tent can accommodate about two people."
"??"
Satoru scratched his head.
"So you Dark Elves. No, Lyusulan. Have a mixed bathing custom?"
"If they are companions, being open with one another only brings their hearts closer together. You two are close, aren't you?" Kizmel said.
"That's… a completely different issue. Besides, I already fought her once. I can more or less imagine how serious the consequences would be."
"I see. A connection through swords and hearts… that brings back memories. I used to be like that with her as well." Kizmel smiled faintly.
Following her gaze, Satoru looked toward the elven-style gravestone entwined with roots and vines. Tiny words were carved into its surface.
"Tilnel."
Kizmel fell silent for a moment.
"She was my twin sister. She lost her life in a battle on the lower floor last month."
"Ah… I'm sorry." Satoru lowered his head.
Making her speak of it again with her own mouth had to hurt. It was like all those times people casually asked about his family, and all he could do was smile as if it didn't matter and say there was no one left.
Time could dull grief, but when it resurfaced, it was still a sharp thorn.
"You could say she was unlucky. She wasn't a warrior, but a healer. She was with the rear unit, yet she was attacked by the Forest Elf falconers… In truth, she probably had a chance to escape. But knowing her, she likely refused to abandon the wounded and missed the chance to retreat."
"She was the kind of person whose kindness exceeded what she could bear."
Kizmel spoke slowly, then drifted into silence.
After that, she lifted the small waterskin at her side, pulled out the stopper, and tipped her head back for a drink. A little of the pale blue liquid slipped from the corner of her mouth and traced a thin line down her neck.
"This is Moon Tear Grass wine, her favorite. It was supposed to be a surprise for her."
And instead, it had become a solitary drink for mourning.
Satoru smoked in silence.
Then he saw Kizmel hold the waterskin out to him, and he blinked in surprise.
"Are you sure?"
"Because you're here too, watching over her."
Satoru accepted it without ceremony. His manner was just a little rougher than Kizmel's. The liquid slid down his throat with a slight heaviness. There was a faint sweetness and tartness to it, but only after it passed did the burn of alcohol rise up.
Probably around twenty or thirty proof.
Still, it tasted better than the drinks he used to have with those smiling members of society.
Lowering the waterskin, Satoru let out a breath.
"That's surprising. You don't look like the type who would drain it in one go," Kizmel said with a small teasing smile.
"Because it tastes good."
That seemed to please her. Kizmel smiled in satisfaction.
Satoru smiled too, then pulled out another rolled cigarette. He removed the one that still had some left and used its ember to light the new one.
"We also have warriors in our camp who rely heavily on it, but seeing someone as lean as you smoking, honestly, it overturns my first impression a little."
"It's nothing. I just haven't smoked in a long time. Besides, whether it's healthy or not doesn't really matter. In this wor…" Satoru stopped halfway.
"Hmm?"
"It's nothing. Don't worry about it."
Silently, he put the new cigarette between his lips.
Kizmel was not the type to press further. She turned her eyes back to the gravestone.
"While I was fighting that Forest Elf, I had already thought that I might go join her. But I couldn't let the key fall into their hands, so I had already decided to use a secret technique that costs my life… but before I could, you appeared."
"…"
"This kind of sad topic shouldn't go on any longer." Before Satoru could answer, Kizmel cut herself off and found another subject to shift to. "By the way, Yurnero, can you tell me what smoking tastes like?"
"That's hard to say." Satoru gave a bitter smile. "If I had to force an answer, it doesn't really taste like much. Some tobacco smells a little fragrant, but that varies from person to person. More than anything, it's just that feeling of fullness when your lungs fill up. Even though it's obviously self-destructive and harms your body."
Right. It wastes money, and it's unhealthy.
So why had he picked up the habit in the first place?
He felt that simulated fullness in his chest.
Back then, in that tiny house, he had coughed from his father's secondhand smoke too.
It was all blurry now.
That first time he smoked.
It had been on the way home. Back to the house that had already become a place with only him left in it.
Rejected by work, rejected by society, seventeen-year-old him had happened to notice a discarded cigarette butt by the roadside, one that still had half left.
For no real reason, he remembered how his room had once been full of his father's secondhand smoke, and the way that interviewer in his twenties or thirties had sat there with a cigarette in his mouth. A wave of sadness and oppression made him pick it up. He bought a lighter at a convenience store, and in a park at sunset.
He tried lighting it and took a drag.
His young lungs filled with bluish smoke, and he coughed violently until his eyes turned red.
But he forced himself to finish it.
After that… he learned. Then he got used to it.
"…"
Satoru shook his head, throwing aside those broken fragments of memory.
"It's not a good thing. You really don't need to try it."
Seriously. Having thoughts like this in front of an NPC.
"Is that so."
He looked at Kizmel when she answered softly, then froze.
Those agate-colored eyes, darker even than her hair, were slightly damp.
"…"
That resonant, lingering sorrow. Pure and cold as ice.
For an instant, he thought of that researcher, the creator of this world.
But that was impossible.
Because this sorrow belonged only to her.
No… only to she herself.
"Let's go back. We still have a road ahead of us."
After saying that quietly, Kizmel turned and left.
Silently, Satoru looked at the calm lake through the pale haze of cigarette smoke.