Ryuji Kurozawa
Coming to and pulling off my VR headset, I groan as the all-too-familiar, mind-numbing headache claws at my skull. Shangri-La Frontier—a game so intricately detailed it blurs the line between virtual and real—has completely consumed my life. More often than not, I stay logged in far longer than I should, totally absorbed by the experience.
That level of immersion comes at a cost. I forget to log out for food, water, or even just to rest my eyes. Hence the headaches—or at least, I can't think of any other reason I'd have them.
It's not my fault the time in-game and outside are hard to differentiate...
Rising from the comfort of my bed, I feel my head strain, resisting every movement with bolts of sharp pain. The dryness in my mouth becomes impossible to ignore, so I push through the haze and stagger toward the kitchen.
Moving entirely on instinct and muscle memory, I reach for a glass and flip the tap to cold, letting the water run for a few moments before filling it. Just before taking a sip, I pause to rinse the cup, tipping out the water before refilling it. No matter how clean the glass or how fresh the water, rinsing it first has always been a habit of mine.
Finally lifting the glass to my lips, the icy water kisses my mouth and flows softly down my throat like a divine blessing. Instantly, the ache begins to ease, the pressure in my skull dulling ever so slightly. The pain lurking behind my eyes softens, and bit by bit, I become more aware of myself—and everything around me.
"Much better," I murmur, satisfied, cradling the now half-empty glass in my hands.
Moving through my home, I stride toward the front door to check for any mail. I've been playing for quite a while—long enough to have likely missed a few letters. At the foot of the door lies a stack of papers, resting on the floor.
Groggily, I bend down and lift the stack, skimming through them one by one. As usual, it's mostly general advertising and spam—or so I thought. The last letter, however, was wrapped in older-looking paper, devoid of any markings that might hint at its contents.
"What's this?" I mutter aloud, double-checking to make sure the letter is addressed to me.
Finally, realising it truly is for me, I crack open the small wax seal on the front of the envelope.
Dear Ryuji,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. I am writing to you on behalf of your grandfather, who has requested your presence. It is his firm wish that you return soon to resume your training and fulfil your role as his successor.
Your grandfather believes that the time has come for you to take the next step in your development and to begin preparing to inherit his property, a responsibility that requires your utmost dedication and focus. He looks forward to seeing you carry on the legacy he has built, and trusts you will be ready to take on the weight of the responsibilities ahead.
Please make arrangements to visit as soon as possible, as your grandfather is eager to proceed with your training.
Yours sincerely,Sara Fujimoto, The Secretary.
"Oh…! Speaking of training, I need to get my sword repaired if I'm going to fight Wethermon..." I mutter, recalling how all the blacksmiths kept saying they "didn't have the ability" or whatever.
My gaze shifts toward my room as I start to wonder if Pencilgon might know any good blacksmiths. Placing the letter down gently I stride towards my bedroom and find myself holding the VR headset.
"Sorry Gramps but you're going to have to wait a bit for my response."
My grandfather's always been a kind man, though he can get a bit serious—and he's got these old-timey views that feel straight out of a samurai drama. Ever since I was a kid, he's been adamant that I learn Iaido, Kenjutsu, and Kendo, drilling me with training sessions multiple times a day.
It's a bit of a surprise that he wants me back already though… how much more training do I even need?
"I just hope Sara doesn't get in too much trouble."
When it comes to training, Grandfather is always dead serious. Hearing that he wants me back probably means he thinks I'm getting soft—but hey, I've got actual battle experience now… kind of. If you count Shangri-La Frontier, that is.
When I head back, I'm definitely going to give him a shock.
Pushing the topic aside I equip my VR headset and delve into the virtual world.
---
Arthur Pencilgon
The door to the Serpent's Apple creaked open. Oikatzo and Sunraku? This early? That couldn't be possible… but who else would come to such an out-of-the-way spot? Curiosity piqued, my gaze locked onto the doorway.
"Pencilgon?" a familiar voice called out.
To my surprise, a familiar Phantom stepped into the room.
"Kuro?" I blinked. "This is perfect—you're right on time for the discussion, and I didn't even DM you like I did the other two."
"Discussion?" he asked, clearly a little confused.
"Mhm, We're going to talk about our plan for the Wethermon raid."
"Oh! I actually wanted to talk with you about that?"
My eyes narrow slightly. "Trying to wiggle your way out of it?" I ask, eyeing him with suspicion.
"No, nothing of the sort!" he says quickly, waving his hands. "It's actually about my weapon."
Before I can ask what he means, the door swings open once again. Sunraku walks in with Emul on his shoulder followed by Oikatzo.
"A fine evening to you—" He pauses mid-step. "Kuro?"Seems like he wasn't expecting to see him here either.
We greet the two of them as they take their seats. I glance back at Kuro, giving him a subtle nod to continue what he was saying about his weapon.
"Well, you see… my main weapon is actually broken. I need to find a place that can repair it," he finally explains.
"Can't you just go to a blacksmith?" Oikatzo asks, clearly wondering why he hadn't already.
"I've tried," Kuro sighs. "I've been to countless blacksmiths, and they all say the same thing—they don't have the right skills or ability."
"Can we see the weapon?" Sunraku asks, speaking up.
"I mean sure."
The familiar blue system UI appears as Kuro begins to scour through his inventory, not long after he opened it a black sword, well too shattered fragments of a black sword, appear in his hand.
The katana's blade was shattered into two jagged fragments each resting in his hand. The steel, a deep, unyielding black, retains its imposing strength despite the visible damage. The two pieces, through broken still radiated an undeniable presence. The sharp edges, though chipped and uneven, hinted at the razor precision they once held.
He soon after placed the sword on the table for the lot of us to examine.
"Legacy weapon?" I question aloud, my curiosity piqued.