Zanshin returned to the small, unnamed settlement along the outer perimeter of the Town of Beginnings, the Worn Steel Longsword feeling like an anchor dragging on his resolve.
The euphoria of the Level Up was completely absent.
All that remained was a profound, bone-deep exhaustion.
His clothes were damp with sweat and smeared with mud from the encounter, and his hands, though no longer violently shaking, retained a fine, anxious tremor that wouldn't abate.
He walked past the few scattered players still lingering in the outpost—most of them low-level, hesitant people looking for easy fetch quests.
They didn't notice him; he was just another Level 4, slightly scruffier than most, but utterly unmemorable. That was precisely the point.
He headed directly to the communal notice board where he had accepted the quest.
The Scout Elara, the same wiry NPC who had given him the details, was standing nearby, sharpening the blade of her curved dagger with cold precision.
Zanshin opened his quest menu and formally completed the
SUBJUGATION QUEST: THE MAD FRENZY.
[Quest Completed: THE MAD FRENZY]
| Reward | 1,000 Col + 50 EXP Granted |
A pleasant chime signaled the successful transfer of funds. 1,000 Col instantly appeared in his wallet, bringing his total back up to 1,400 Col.
Elara paused her sharpening, her eyes flicking up to him. She didn't offer praise, only clinical observation.
"You're still standing," she stated, her voice flat. "And you didn't leave the poison running through your system. Smart. Did you get it clean?"
"Two strikes. A Vertical Square and a Horizontal Slash," Zanshin replied, his voice rough.
"The critical hit landed on the second attempt after the Antidote."
Elara tilted her head slightly. "Second attempt. That's inefficient. The Boar's recovery window is tight. You wasted valuable health and stamina on the first miss. Most who fail the first cue either die from the follow-up or panic and use too many potions."
"I used the Antidote immediately," Zanshin admitted, the admission feeling like a small defeat.
He had used his expensive insurance policy on a failure caused entirely by his own mental block.
Elara resumed sharpening.
"The mind is your shield, Swordsman. If you hesitate in your thrust, you give the monster time to recover. And the System Assist won't activate if your body is arguing with your brain about where the strike should land. Go rest. You're Level 4 now, but you fought like a Level 2 with a good sword."
The NPC's words were brutal, direct, and completely accurate. She hadn't said 'You almost killed yourself,' but 'You are inefficient.' In this new world of death, inefficiency was the same thing as a death sentence.
Zanshin nodded curtly. "Understood. Thank you for the data."
He walked away from the board and found a quiet table in the corner of the general goods store, pulling up his inventory and status menus.
His stats were still solid for his level, but the psychological cost of the fight was unsustainable.
He had achieved the Vertical Square only by overriding his body's panic with sheer desperation, focusing on the geometry of the sword path rather than the impact of the blow.
That kind of mental brute-forcing was exhausting and unreliable.
Two failures. One antidote. One successful cue achieved through a panic override.
The path to the next town—the second major settlement of Aincrad—was likely crawling with Level 5 and Level 6 mobs, requiring not one or two, but a consistent chain of flawless Skill Cues.
He knew if he tried the trek now, the sustained pressure would break his concentration, and the tremor would return, locking his blade when he needed it most.
I cannot move forward until the Vertical Square is automatic.
He looked at his Col: 1,400.
He spent 600 Col immediately on five more Healing Potions and two more Antidotes. He was left with 800 Col.
He also assigned his new Level 4 skill point entirely to STR, bringing his Strength to 16, hoping the small increase in physical power would make overriding the tremor slightly easier.
His focus now shifted from macro-progression (leveling) to micro-perfection (training the cue).
He needed to turn the Vertical Square from a moment of forced willpower into an unthinking reflex, a physical language that superseded the psychological block.
He left the settlement and headed back toward the quieter edges of the starting field—not where the Frenzied Boar had been, but a secluded, grassy area far from any immediate mob spawns. He needed silence, not combat.
He drew the Worn Steel Longsword. The sun was setting, casting long, dark shadows across the field.
Zanshin began the loop.
He moved into the low stance, breathing deeply, letting the silence settle around him. He focused on the moment of the charge, the pivot, and the resulting window—all simulated, all in his mind.
Then, the swing.
He forced the Vertical Square movement, thrusting the sword up and forward, mimicking the exact kinetic speed and trajectory needed for the System Assist.
Swoosh.
The blade cut the air.
He immediately analyzed the result. Was the weight distribution correct? Was the upward angle consistent?
Did the tremor intervene?
The first ten repetitions were clean, but hollow.
They were just physical movements, lacking the necessary force and commitment.
On the eleventh attempt, he tried to inject the necessary mental commitment—the violent focus required to break the mob's defenses.
You must destroy this target.
Instantly, his right wrist froze, the tremor spiking.
The swing buckled, and the blade dipped sharply to the right.
Failure. He felt the sickening return of the guilt.
He forced himself to stop, lowering the sword.
He didn't scream or rage. He simply took a slow, agonizing breath, feeling the muscle tension in his shoulders—the physical manifestation of his psychological paralysis.
He raised the sword and started again.
Repetition 12.
Swoosh. Clean, but too slow.
Repetition 13. He sped up. Clang. The tremor forced the blade to wobble at the peak of the arc.
He trained for hours. The moon rose, bathing the field in pale silver light. Zanshin was a lone silhouette in the grass, executing the same move, hundreds of times.
Vertical Square. Horizontal Slash. Vertical Slash.
The pattern was mechanical, obsessive. He ignored the aching in his arms, the hunger in his stomach, and the exhaustion clouding his vision.
He focused only on the path of the blade, trying to carve the Skill Cue so deeply into his muscle memory that his body would execute it before his brain could register the moral implications of the strike.
He was not training to fight the Level 5 Boar; he was training to fight the Level 100 ghost of his past.
By the time the first faint light of dawn touched the field, Zanshin was slumped against the wall of the settlement, utterly spent.
He had successfully performed the Vertical Square with the perfect, clean blue flash of the System Assist only four times in the last three hours of dedicated practice.
It was a terrible ratio, but it was progress.
I am not ready for the journey.
He resolved to stay exactly where he was, utilizing the local, low-level mobs for simple EXP, and dedicating the next few days entirely to this brutal, repetitive training loop.
The climb up Aincrad would wait. He first had to climb over the psychological wall he had built around himself.
He had to make the sword an extension of his will, not his fear.