Tokyo's wealthy tended to make their homes in Takanawa or Azabu, and the Kurosaki family was no exception. Their detached villa looked almost modest beside the building that housed the family business. It was elegant rather than ostentatious. Japan hardly had the land for every rich family to build itself an aristocratic estate.
The real difference between the Kurosaki residence and Satoru's bachelor apartment was where the money had gone.
Take one step through the front door. At the Kurosakis', your foot landed on heated Vöhringer flooring from Baden-Württemberg. At Satoru's place, it landed on laminate the landlord had bought in bulk during an Amazon fall sale three years earlier.
Sit on the Kurosakis' living room sofa, and you would find yourself surrounded by warm, tasteful decor. A fragrant wooden cabinet stood against the wall, its spotless glass doors revealing rows of expensive wine. There was an '82 Château Lafite Rothschild, an excellent 1990 Bordeaux, and enough other vintages to make the air smell faintly of capitalism.
Sit on Satoru's sofa, and the first thing you had to do was shift your weight because the cushions had started to sag. Then you could admire the apartment's unmistakable postmodern lone-wolf aesthetic: bare white walls, no television, and a coffee table buried beneath snack wrappers, cold medicine, throat lozenges, colorful disposable lighters, and a glass ashtray.
The trash can stood within easy reach.
Take a deep breath at the Kurosaki residence, and you would catch a pleasant, clean fragrance. A housekeeping service came every three days.
At Satoru's apartment, you would smell nicotine. He cleaned once a week, but that did little against a man who generated trash, cigarette smoke, and empty bottles every day. Visit on cleaning day, and you would at least get the standard scent of air freshener.
Then came the matter of entertaining a guest.
The Kurosakis would bring out a tea set and brew a cup of Chinese Keemun black tea. Afterward, they might point out the antique jars and ornaments sent by business associates, explain their history at length, and offer a few thoughts on the Japanese economy.
If dinner approached, one phone call to the familiar three-star Kohaku would bring over one of the chef's apprentices to prepare an exquisite Japanese meal. Choosing a wine was even easier. They only had to take one from the cabinet.
Satoru's hospitality was more modest.
He would politely ask whether you smoked. If you said yes, he would offer you a soft-pack Yunyan. If you said no, he would put the cigarette in his own mouth. Ask whether he had anything menthol, and he would probably look at you with mild contempt.
Then he would enthusiastically invite you into his bedroom.
That sounded worse than it was. The room held a top-of-the-line desktop with three monitors and a collection of current consoles. You could play the latest AAA release, or go back to The King of Fighters '97 and Street Fighter.
If you wisely refused to challenge him in a two-player game, you could sit back and watch the former professional booster work. Ace Combat, Devil May Cry 8, Shining Soul, Blade of the Dark Sun, Immortal Realm Survival, it hardly mattered. Every match looked like a world championship final, and you had the best seat in the house.
Watching him last-hit, pull camps, and control the map was enough to raise goosebumps. Then came Boots of Travel, Hand of Midas, Dagon, Ethereal Blade, an orbital Sun Strike that seemed to lock on by itself, and Juggernaut charging through Omnislash with Mask of Madness, Refresher Orb, and Aghanim's Scepter before right-clicking his way to a Rampage.
By the time his opponent had reported him for cheating thirty-two times, you would have leaped out of your chair at his "basic plays" sixty-three times.
After Satoru told you to sit down for the sixty-third time, dinner would finally arrive.
He would head into the kitchen and put the skills he had learned in a Chinatown Sichuan restaurant to work, serving three filling dishes and a soup.
Over dinner, you could discuss whatever strange new game had appeared on Steam, listen to stories from his years as a booster, and play Dou Dizhu afterward. If you were a man, Satoru would not even object to tackling Memories Off 12 together.
If you stayed the night, he would give you the bedroom and sleep on the sofa. If you decided to leave, he would offer to drive you home in his Santana.
At that point, the difference between capitalism and simple living could hardly have been clearer. The gulf in quality of life was immense.
Still...
Why did Satoru's apartment somehow sound more fun?
There was, however, one decisive advantage the Kurosaki residence possessed.
Your host there might be a lively, mischievous young heiress with a talent for trouble. At Satoru's apartment, your host would inevitably be a stubbled salaryman.
That was difficult to overcome.
Then again, perhaps even that difference meant little. The young heiress herself spent most of her time wondering how to invite herself over to Satoru's apartment for dinner.
Saki Kurosaki lay on the large, comfortable bed in her room. The house's central heating kept the temperature pleasant, so she wore only a soft, pale-yellow nightdress patterned with tiny flowers. Her naturally curly brown hair still carried a hint of the information broker she had once been in Aincrad.
The usually spirited Rat lay flat on her back and stared silently at the ceiling.
She was not hiding.
She was simply lost in thought.
Her phone rested beside her, the screen still open to their conversation.
"New Year's almost here. Dad asked if you're free. You could come over for dinner."
"Please thank Mr. Kurosaki, but I can't make it."
...
"ALO has a new event. The reward is a rare outfit. Want to farm it together?"
"I don't have time."
"It won't take long. I already planned everything. With our damage, we could finish most of it in one night."
"I can't spare the time. Ask someone else. Agil and the others, perhaps. I can also ask a friend from my old workshop to help you."
...
"I've been bored at home lately. Dad's busy with the company's year-end meetings. Could you take me somewhere?"
"I have too much to do. Try asking one of your classmates."
...
"I really want mapo tofu."
"I'll send you the name and address of the Chinese restaurant where I used to work."
"Yours tastes better."
"Sinon has learned how to make it. Hers is no different from mine."
"I don't want to bother her..."
"Sinon is kind. The two of you could become good friends. You should spend more time with people your own age and meet more companions."
"It's not that easy to find people you truly click with."
"You already know people from Aincrad. Kirito and the others are good people, and you could join their circle. You and Kirito go back a long way."
"Aren't you one of my old friends from Aincrad too...?"
The reply remained in the input box, unsent.
Nearly three years after Aincrad, Saki had gradually shed the childish look of Argo the Rat and grown into a graceful young woman. She was, after all, the daughter of a wealthy family. However often work had kept Hidemura away, he had always made sure she wanted for nothing.
The etiquette and arts instructors he had hired left her with a natural poise, though the effort to turn her into a perfectly refined young lady had stalled halfway. Saki preferred freedom.
That mix of careful upbringing and untamed personality only made her more charming. She could accompany her father to a formal reception and carry herself like a princess. The next day, she could paint whiskers on her cheeks, throw on a ragged cloak, and play a shameless merchant among a crowd of gaming nerds.
She was popular at school. Saki was clever enough to catch up on the classes she had missed during the SAO Incident and eventually reached the point where the work came easily. More boys in her year had feelings for her than she knew.
It was difficult not to like her. She was kind, well behaved, and never looked down on anyone. She could leave a formal reception one moment and sit in a dorm room eating instant noodles the next, her carefully applied Laneige No. 3 lipstick shining with broth and smelling faintly of the seasoning packet.
The sons of wealthy families admired her grace, her lively beauty, and the talent she showed in music and dance. Ordinary boys were just as happy to talk games with her and hear her laugh when one of them said something genuinely funny.
Her only limitation, if it could be called one, was that she was still growing into herself.
Saki Kurosaki was a wonderful girl.
But love was vague and unfair. The person you treasured might see nothing special in you. You could draw every eye in the room and even make him smile, only for four quiet words to shut you out.
You're not her.
That alone could be enough.
For three years, Saki had studied, grown, and tried to become someone better.
No matter how much she changed, however, Saki Kurosaki was still Saki Kurosaki.
Pazu loved Sheeta. It would not have mattered if Saki had been Heidi of the Alps, Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, or Chihiro from Spirited Away.
None of them were Sheeta.
It was a painfully simple truth.
Saki turned her head and looked over the last month of messages. By now, she could clearly read the emotion hidden beneath Satoru's replies.
He was the man who had broken open the cage of the death game and freed six thousand survivors. Yet he remained in a prison of his own, sitting in one corner and staring at an open door he refused to cross.
No.
That was not entirely fair.
He had tried.
The smiles she had seen over the past few years had been genuine. He truly had started moving toward the future. Somewhere along the way, however, he had turned around, returned to the ruins of his cell, and sat down again.
Perhaps it had taken Satoru three years to understand one simple truth.
Without that person in his future, he had no desire to keep fighting for it.
So he had gone back. He put on the brown coat, took up the black sword, and became Yurnero again.
Saki had watched the sword tournament in ALO. The moment she saw that figure dancing wildly through battle, she felt the Sword Saint walking out of her memories.
Now she was certain. His eyes, his manner, and the finality in his resolve told her everything.
He had become the old ghost of the Labyrinth again, wandering alone through its depths. A ghoul digging through the ruins of Aincrad for the bones of someone long gone.
Saki knew better than anyone how far his stubbornness could carry him.
Every reply on her phone was another quiet attempt to create distance and draw a line between them.
This was the second time.
The first had come when she confronted him over the Divine Dragon Alliance's guild supplies. He had rejected her then and continued alone.
She had done nothing and lost before she ever tried.
Saki still remembered the other girl. Golden-haired, always smiling gently, always waiting behind him in silence.
What were fate and destiny? After hearing their story, Saki thought she knew.
But how could anyone bring that girl back?
The world that had given birth to her had been destroyed by Satoru's own hand. There was no trace left, nothing to find.
Saki had only one real fear.
No one could bring him out this time. Until he achieved his goal, he would not leave on his own.
But what if he spent his entire life searching and never found her?
His obsession and sense of duty would become his prison.
Who could break open a cage inside the heart?
The key was already in his hand, but that hand was too busy gripping a sword.
A chill passed through Saki. She wrapped her arms around herself and gazed sadly through the window at the winter night.
...
"Are you going to read again today, Eiji?"
"Yeah. Is there a passage you'd like to hear, Yuna?"
Eiji gave her a faint smile and opened the casebook in his hands.
The white-haired, red-eyed avatar he had created hopped closer and pressed herself against him. His first instinct was to pull away, but he forced himself to remain still.
"'When Ryoma enters the field, no foe can stand against him.' What does that mean?"
"It's an assessment of a player," Eiji said.
"Was he that strong?"
"Yes. Back then, a nobody like me couldn't even hope to catch up to him. That's how strong he was."
His voice remained flat.
But now, Ryoma was only another prisoner.
No different from him.
Eiji looked at the girl inches away. She seemed like a dream made real, and every trace of the person she had been, her voice, her face, her smile, pressed against his nerves like a needle.
You were the same, Satoru.
The savior of six thousand people was every bit as trapped as Eiji.
...
The lights were off in Satoru's apartment.
He lit a cigarette in the darkness.
"You have exceeded your daily cigarette limit."
A mechanical female voice delivered the warning like a public announcement.
"I know."
Satoru glanced toward it.
"Let this one slide."
He smiled, though even he might not have known whether it was genuine.
"Sheeta."
Through his Augma, a blonde girl floated in the dark room before him, bathed in pale, moonlike light. Her translucent body looked less like a person than a portrait that had learned to move.
Her face remained blank.
She did not move or answer.
The earlier warning had been nothing more than a system command.
Satoru ate the meal he had cooked and washed it down with strong liquor.
"If you could eat, I'd cook all kinds of things for you."
He took another drink.
With cigarettes, alcohol, darkness, and the phantom beside him for company, he occasionally spoke without context. Without the Augma, he would have looked like a man talking to empty air.
"You have exceeded your daily alcohol limit."
At last, Sheeta answered him, but only with another canned warning.
Satoru glanced at her, smiled, and set down his glass.
That did not mean he was finished drinking.
He picked up the bottle of baijiu and took a long swallow straight from it.
...
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