The merchant route was less a road and more a wide, muddy trail carved through the overgrown field grass.
Zanshin followed the faint directions given by the scout NPC, Elara, until he reached a stretch of the path near a cluster of jagged, moss-covered boulders. A low, guttural snorting sound immediately confirmed his location.
The Frenzied Boar was massive, easily standing waist-high. Its hide was dark, thick, and armored with hardened earth and matted hair.
Crucially, its shoulder and back were covered in defensive armor plating, leaving only the area Elara described—the base of the neck, where the spine met the ruff of the mane—exposed.
It looked formidable, a true Level 5 threat, especially for a Level 3 player wearing only a basic leather vest.
The Boar immediately registered Zanshin's presence. Its small, dark eyes fixed on him, and it lowered its massive head, scraping its tusks against the dirt in preparation for a charge.
Zanshin drew the Worn Steel Longsword. The added length and weight felt strangely comforting compared to the flimsy starter sword, yet it also magnified the slightest instability in his grip.
The cold steel felt like a serious commitment—a true weapon, a reminder of the price of failure.
He moved into a low stance, emphasizing agility over defense, preparing to rely on his high AGI stat to sidestep the incoming charge.
The Boar exploded forward.
Fast, Zanshin's mind registered instantly. The acceleration was surprising, a blur of brown and mud hurtling across the open field.
"He charges, that's his only move," Elara's voice echoed in his memory.
Zanshin waited until the last possible second, trusting his reflexes, which, unlike his commitment, were still intact.
He dropped his shoulder and pivoted sharply to the side, his high AGI 25 allowing him to clear the Boar's trajectory with mere inches to spare.
The monster missed him completely, sliding to a stop a few feet away.
As the Boar halted, its momentum shifted, and it dipped its head in a momentary, predictable recovery stance.
The weak point—the juncture of the neck and spine—flashed into Zanshin's vision, a dark, pulsing target.
His brain screamed the command: Vertical Square! This was the required vertical strike, initiated from a low stance to gain the necessary upward angle.
The movement was calculated, precise, and Zanshin's muscle memory knew exactly how to perform the complex motion to trigger the Skill Cue.
He felt the physical potential surge through his legs, coil in his core, and explode upward toward his right arm.
Then, the tremor hit.
It wasn't just a physical shake; it was an invisible wall of psychological dread.
The memory of the accident—the feeling of the blade connecting with Hayato's unprotected head—flashed violently behind his eyes.
A vertical strike, high commitment, maximum force.
The thought translated instantly into: You will shatter it. You will break him.
His elbow locked. His wrist buckled.
The powerful, rising arc of the Vertical Square aborted halfway.
Instead of the controlled, blue-flashing Skill Cue needed for the Critical hit, the Longsword swung wildly, scraping harmlessly across the Boar's armored shoulder plate.
— 0 —
The Boar didn't flinch.
It snapped its head back up, tusks dripping with mud, and delivered a retaliatory headbutt that was surprisingly fast.
Impact!
Zanshin couldn't dodge in time.
The heavy bone of the Boar's snout clipped his chest.
The force was enough to knock the air out of him, and he stumbled back, dropping low.
[HP -10]
A notification immediately flashed red in his peripheral vision.
[Status Effect: Poison (Low Grade)]
Poison, his mind processed grimly.
The low-grade poison immediately began to drain his health, a slow, creeping erosion that would quickly become deadly if the fight continued.
"Never try to fight while poisoned—the shake will get you." Lina's warning hammered home.
He scrambled back several paces as the Boar began its second charge run.
Zanshin reached into his inventory, pulled out the clear vial, and swallowed the Antidote instantly.
The effect was immediate: the red poison icon vanished, and the unpleasant tingling sensation stopped.
He was clean, but he had already used his single insurance policy on a missed attack.
The Boar charged again.
This time, Zanshin was ready, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against the leather vest.
He dodged the charge with the same practiced ease.
The high AGI felt like a cheat code; his body knew the movement, it was just the Worn Steel Longsword that refused to obey his command.
The Boar entered its recovery stance. The weak point opened again.
Zanshin raised the sword.
Commit.
He saw the orange glow of the Skill Cue in his mind's eye—the perfect speed, the perfect angle.
He knew precisely the kinetic energy required to override the tremor and force the System Assist to activate.
He thrust upward, trying to maintain the tight, vertical path.
The tip of the Longsword was perfectly aligned with the weak point.
But halfway through the swing, the psychological failsafe triggered again.
It wasn't a lack of strength; it was an overwhelming need to slow down, to stop the impact.
The sword stuttered, losing momentum, and the Skill Cue failed to initiate. The blade hit the edge of the armor plating instead of the neck.
— 0 —
The Boar retaliated, faster this time. Zanshin managed to roll clear, avoiding the tusks, but his frustration was a burning, painful knot in his stomach.
I see the window! I know the movement! Why won't my body listen?
He was fighting two opponents: the Level 5 Boar, and the Level 100 guilt-monster in his own head.
Zanshin retreated to the boulder cluster, forcing the Boar to charge him across a wider distance.
He had to end this now, or the low-level hits and constant exertion would kill him.
He had one more chance to land a clean hit before his concentration broke.
He thought of Ryo, his face pale and sweating as he desperately tried to protect the group.
He thought of Hayabusa, his hand gripping Zanshin's wrist, forcing the Glaive forward for the killing blow, his final lesson being a command to move.
Don't focus on the shake.
Focus on the swing.
The Boar charged, a sound like a small, angry train.
Zanshin waited, his golden eyes locked not on the Boar's tusks, but on the small, critical space behind its head.
He dodged the charge, the movement fluid and perfect. The Boar stumbled into its recovery stance.
The weak point opened.
This time, Zanshin didn't think about the consequence of the strike.
He focused only on the geometry of the strike, on the geometry of his friends' sacrifice.
He visualized Hayabusa's hand on his wrist, not stopping him, but guiding him, forcing the path.
He didn't try to stop the tremor. He let it exist, a low hum of anxiety.
But he used the sheer, desperate willpower born of his oath to override the paralysis.
Commit!
The Worn Steel Longsword shot up in a sharp, blinding arc.
For a fraction of a second, the motion was perfect, clean, and entirely beyond his conscious physical control.
[Skill: Horizontal Slash]
A brilliant, explosive azure light erupted around the Longsword, marking a perfect Critical Cue.
The blade sliced through the armor plating where the mane met the spine.
A high-damage number, bright red and massive, exploded over the Boar's head.
— 135 CRITICAL —
The Boar shrieked, a sound of agony and surprise. Its massive body staggered, its hind legs momentarily giving way.
Zanshin didn't wait for the recovery. He pivoted instantly, drawing on the last reserves of his adrenaline and forcing a follow-up strike.
It was a sloppy swing, but his initial success had calmed the tremor enough for a second, immediate commitment.
[Skill: Vertical Slash]
A second, slightly weaker azure flash, hit the same wounded spot.
— 85 —
The Boar's entire body glowed orange for a moment, and then, with a heavy, sickening thud, its massive form collapsed onto the muddy trail.
It disintegrated into blue, shimmering polygons, leaving behind the small rewards: Col and a few common items.
Zanshin stood over the remnants of the mob, panting, the Worn Steel Longsword still vibrating with the latent energy of the failed tremor control.
The blade was shaking so hard now that the blue light of the surrounding world seemed to ripple through the steel. He couldn't stop it.
He collapsed onto one knee, the exertion too great to maintain his stance.
The exhaustion wasn't physical, though his muscles burned; it was a deep, crushing mental burnout.
For the duration of the fight, he had been running a desperate, violent override on his own central nervous system.
He had won by performing an act of pure mental self-harm.
The sound of the mob's death—that soft, digital shimmer—was not a sound of victory, but a reminder of the sacrifice required.
I am Level 4, he registered dully, watching the [LEVEL UP] notification fade.
I am stronger.
But I am broken.
He slowly sheathed the Longsword. The weight of the weapon, which had felt empowering moments before, now felt like a lead weight pressing down on his shoulder, a constant, tangible reminder of the violent nature of his skill.
He had successfully delivered the final blow—the blow he always feared—but only at the cost of his own immediate psychological stability.
He looked past the bloodied, flattened grass in the direction of the next main settlement, the promise of new quests and better gear.
The logical step was to press forward, capitalize on the Level Up, and push past Level 5.
He tried to raise his hand to open the map and plot the course, but his fingers cramped and refused to obey.
The thought of facing another mob requiring that same level of brutal, forced commitment—of overriding the mental failsafe again, maybe three or four times in a row—was paralyzing.
With agonizing effort, he collected the few Col and item drops, his movements slow and clumsy.
He wasn't walking toward the next stage of Aincrad.
He was walking back toward the quiet, anonymity, and temporary safety of the outpost.
The climb had truly begun, and he realized with chilling certainty that the enemy was not the Boar, but the iron wall he carried inside his own mind.
He turned his back on the merchant route and began the slow, heavy trudge back to the settlement.