kscans

Chapter 234 - The Sword That Wishes, The Sword That Hopes, The One Awaited is Here, Part Five

—From the day I threw myself into this virtual world, I was different from everyone else.

When you're just starting out, it's a struggle to even stand and walk without feeling awkward. Running takes a lot of getting used to—that's how everyone but me was getting excited over their lack of freedom.

'I can't swing my sword the way I want,' 'I can't even beat a regular mob, let alone a boss'—the ones who could enjoy the pandemonium of the early days were also, everyone but me.

Without looking back, I ran, and ran, and ran, completely absorbed—it was only when I happened to glance behind me one day that I realized the world was divided into me and everyone else.

—Isn't she weird? That girl.

—Maybe she's using a bug or a glitch.

—Isn't it a cheat? If not, then what is it?

Faster than anyone who raised such voices, I contacted the運営 of 【Arcadia】.

'Is there something wrong with me?'

'Why am I so different from everyone else?'

'If it's a bug or something, could you please fix it?'

The answer to the countless inquiries that flooded in, including my own… I remember it word for word, without fail.

—The uniqueness of player 【Iris】 is entirely due to her own 'talent.'

—There are no bugs in the game, nor are there any means of cheating.

—Please understand that we have no intention of altering an individual's 'talent.'

It took a little while for the criticism and whispers to stop.

I don't think it was anyone's fault. My 'weirdness' was, even from my own perspective, nothing short of 'unfair.'

To expect everyone around me, who had this flaunted in their faces, to be the kind of person who could just accept that 'unfairness' would itself be abnormal.

As for the developer's statement, if this 'power' truly was nothing more than my 'talent,' then they couldn't possibly commit the ultimate taboo in game management: taking special measures for a single player.

So, if I had to answer the question of 'who was at fault,' then,

I suppose it was me—my 'luck'—that was bad.

Because I couldn't give up, I decided to prove it instead.

Looking forward, never looking down, I just kept swinging my sword—to show that this 'power,' labeled as 'talent,' was not a lie, but truly my own.

I believed that 'results' wouldn't be proof enough, so I tried to prove it simply by being who I was.

When I was needed, where I was needed, I showed them the image they wanted to see.

A month, then two, passed—and by the third month of running, around the time the title of 'Queen' was forced upon me, I had managed to turn the voices of criticism into cheers.

A major factor was likely the emergence of other title holders who were also far above the average player.

Individual differences due to 'talent' in the virtual world became widely accepted, and I received endless apologies, far outnumbering the criticisms I had been subjected to.

I could understand all of it. I held no grudges, nothing of the sort.

Because I, too, was jealous of 'everyone normal,' thinking they were the 'unfair' ones.

And so—the only thing I still couldn't understand was my own talent.

They say I'm special—I suppose so.

They say I'm the strongest—I suppose so.

They say no one can stand beside me—I suppose so.

"—"

The person who can walk with me,

"—, —!"

The person who can hold my hand,

"—…! —Ah!"

Beside me, no one even tries to catch up—

"—I caught up to you, dammit!"

—is what I was on the verge of giving up on.

"—…, …Hh…"

Every time our eyes meet, every time we take a step, every time our swords clash—like someone leaping up a staircase, his hand, which never gives up and relentlessly pursues me, grazes my fingertips.

Even when I strike him down, he doesn't stop.

Even when I knock him down, his fighting spirit doesn't die.

Even when I push him away, again and again—that childlike smile never leaves his face.

"—…Hh, ………No."

It's scary.

I don't think I can hold it in this time.

If it happens… and just like before—if he's different too.

…All this time, I was supposed to be looking for only results and facts, but,

"—……, …… of… you…?"

My racing heart desperately seeks reassurance, seeks words,

"—…will you… give me…?"

I block his unceasing blade as if desperately trying to catch it—

"—Will you be the one to stand beside me…!?"

What is this heat that trails down my cheeks?

Without understanding, I hurled the terribly faint, screaming question at 'him'—

"Hh—… From the beginning, you've been so… so… conflicted…!"

With his smile and the heat of battle still blazing, the young man,

"No, seriously…! I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart, but—I don't give a damn!"

—he shouted at the top of his lungs, and sent my 'sword,' which clung to his as if for dear life, flying.