The protagonist isn't exactly the hero you'd expect—more of a default bystander than a shining star. No problem, though. This story's lead pours every ounce of social finesse into raw combat prowess. The catch? The more mundane the daily routine, the fewer chances they get to shine. Even in critical battles, opportunities to stand out are scarce. That's just how it's designed.
But don't worry! From here on, our hero will face trials and tribulations worthy of their title. Of course, even after tumbling through setbacks, there's no guarantee they'll seize the spotlight like a true protagonist.
Skills
Night Vision: Grants the ability to see through darkness. However, it doesn't counteract the Blind debuff.
Diving: Reduces movement restrictions underwater.
Keen Ears: Enables detection of faint sounds and whispers. Countered by the Presence Concealment skill.
Items
Claymore: A two-handed sword, beloved by warriors for its balance and ease of use. Its sharpness and weight are impeccable, marking its wielder as a skilled swordsman and a formidable foe.
Chain Whip: A crude weapon fashioned from chains. Though unrefined, its heavy links can inflict serious wounds on impact.
Double Iron Greatshield: A massive shield forged from two layered iron plates by an unknown smith. Sandwiched with cushioning material, it boasts exceptional defense but demands significant strength due to its weight.
Waking up feels heavy. Even in a virtual world, there's a kind of aimless irritation that clouds your mind the moment your eyes open—a fog that lingers without reason.
Before dawn, while the rest of ZOO's home base slumbers, I slip out and head to the ruins of the Black Iron Palace. The desolate, tomb-like grounds are perfect for killing time until the Northern Dungeon boss strategy meeting at noon.
It's 4:30 AM, according to the window display—a universal clock synchronized for all players, never off by a second. Seven and a half hours to burn. What a hassle.
"Might as well review the plan," I mutter. "Can't afford to screw this up."
Diavel, ever the organizer, prepared a detailed rundown for today's meeting. It goes like this:
Dyawolf opens with a greeting and chairs the Northern Dungeon boss strategy session.
Diavel takes the stage as the one who discovered the boss room, sharing key details.
Dyawolf announces that the Southern Dungeon's boss has already been defeated, suggesting that conquering the Northern boss could shift the game's status quo.
Just as unity starts to form, I barge in, stirring trouble by blaming beta testers. Dyawolf and Diavel shut me down, and I slink back to my seat like a scolded dog.
Finally, Diavel approaches me—solo, sulking, and sidelined—reconciling with me and Sinon to bring us back into the fold.
"Man, I sound like a total loser," I groan. "Can I even pull this off?"
Sure, I volunteered, but this role could shape how beta testers are treated moving forward. It's a big deal. My job is to play the loudmouthed fool convincingly—without anyone suspecting it's staged. Since we've been based in that abandoned village, no one would know the three of us are tight. Even if someone recognizes me, I can play it off as a mistake if I nail the act.
In SAO, Egil smoothed things over by vouching for beta testers' contributions. That rat-girl, Argo, played a huge part, compiling and freely distributing a guidebook that was like a lifeline for rookies. But in DBO—or rather, this dying city—there's no printing press. Handwriting each copy is the only option, and the time and cost make it impractical. Plus, Sinon's pointed out countless changes from the beta test in the Northern Dungeon. Beta knowledge feels more like a liability, lulling players into false confidence.
Still, that prior knowledge gave beta testers a head start, especially with critical survival info like stamina management. Even if we smooth things over today, resentment will eventually explode. In SAO, that guy sacrificed himself to keep it from spreading, but I'm no beta tester, nor do I have the noble self-sacrifice to play the martyr.
When it blows up, it blows up. Honestly, who'd be dumb enough to advertise they're a beta tester? The info's only useful in this starting area anyway. Maybe the anger will fizzle out on its own.
"Brainwork's not my thing," I say, leaning back against it. "I'll just do what I can, right, everyone?"
No answer, of course. It is a gravestone in the Black Iron Palace ruins, etched with every player's name and their status—alive or dead. Over 2,000 players have died in DBO in just a month and a half. A fifth of us, gone.
Within expectations, I suppose. I snort, alone without Diavel or Sinon. SAO lost 2,000 in two months, but the pace slowed after. This'll probably follow suit.
Illfang the Kobold Lord, SAO's first-floor boss. I never fought it myself. Back then, players averaged level 10. I'm level 12 now, so if this Kobold King matches SAO's, I've got a safety margin. But in DBO, "safe" is a fragile word. Is that decayed form a nod to the old Kobold King, or a trap to make us overconfident? Either way, my job's simple: fight and win.
The half-ruined plaza feels familiar. If DBO reuses SAO's assets, this is where players once gathered to challenge the Kobold Lord. Arriving just before noon, I see nearly 30 players—Dyawolf's expected turnout.
No familiar Returners, thankfully. Even SAO survivors vary in their starting pace. Maybe they lack the strength to be here, missed the meeting notice, or just ignored it. Pointless to speculate.
I scan the crowd with subtle glances, securing a seat near the center for my role. Most players are grouped, no solo stragglers. I sit a bit apart—not because I'm scared of awkward small talk, okay?
"Thanks for coming, everyone!" Dyawolf's voice booms as I sit, perfectly timed. He steps forward, sans Eagleeye, with the rest of ZOO behind him, launching the Northern Dungeon boss strategy meeting.
The timing's suspiciously perfect, but not unnatural. I spot Diavel's blue hair in the front row, but Sinon's nowhere in sight—until I catch her leaning against a pillar at the back, looking displeased. Maybe she's sour about me playing the beta-tester villain. We planned this without her, knowing she'd object as an open beta tester. I asked Diavel to convince her, but her expression suggests he failed.
"I'm Dyawolf!" he declares, voice clear and commanding. "My comrades are behind me. Thank you all for sparing your time! As announced, we've gathered DBO's top players to conquer the Northern Dungeon!"
His enthusiasm's a bit much, but it's effective. As a teacher, he knows how to rally a crowd—praising us, then stating the goal clearly. Textbook.
"It's been a month and a half since this death game began," he continues. "Over 2,000 players have died, and despair hangs heavy. That's understandable. But we, the top players, must show those whose spirits are breaking that hope remains! You've likely heard rumors: the Southern Dungeon's boss is down, felled by our hands!"
Some players murmur, unaware of the news, but most stay composed, their faces brightening slightly. The rumor's truth fuels their courage, and Dyawolf's heroic aura draws admiring glances. Spreading those rumors was a calculated move—more politician than teacher.
"And great news!" he adds. "Our ZOO allies, Diavel and Sinon, found the Northern Dungeon's boss room yesterday!"
The crowd stirs loudly now. Diavel, beckoned by Dyawolf, steps up, his expression oddly strained despite the virtual world's refined emotional rendering. Also, it's just the two of them credited—my name's omitted to avoid complicating the upcoming act. Fair enough.
"Thanks, Dyawolf," Diavel says, his smile gentle yet magnetic, contrasting Dyawolf's theatrics. "I'm Diavel, playing the knight, as you can see."
His poised stance screams future leader. Whether he and Dyawolf head the same guild or rival ones, I hope they push each other to grow. But then, whispers ripple through the crowd.
"Sinon? The GGO Sinon?"
"The Wildcat of Magic Bullets?"
"GGO's top sniper?"
"The one from the Death Gun incident?"
I glance at Sinon, who's practically fading into the shadows—Presence Concealment at work. Popular, huh? A clap rings out. Diavel and Dyawolf, in sync, demand silence without prior coordination—a leader's instinct.
"Sorry, but she's not some tame cat signing autographs," Diavel says with a playful wink, then sharpens his tone. "Make too much noise, and her sniper shot might find you."