The wind's roar quieted—as if someone had simply switched it off.
Ethan stood frozen, blinking slowly, trying to process what he'd just heard.
*English… I didn't imagine that, did I? Could this man also be from another world? No… silver pupils that shift to black? That doesn't happen in ordinary humans.*
Boris—dressed in dark clothes, eyes gleaming—stared at Ethan, waiting for a reply.
But the silence stretched too long, so he broke it himself:
"Do you understand other languages? I know some English. It's not common here, but it's useful sometimes."
Ethan's heart skipped a beat.
Familiar words in a strange forest—like a hand pulling him from drowning water.
*Another language… maybe Korean? Japanese? Chinese? No… he must be like me, right?*
Boris studied Ethan's unusual clothing as if analyzing him.
"By any chance, are you—"
They both spoke at once—then stopped, caught in an awkward pause.
A light silence fell, until Boris broke it again.
He smiled gently: "Go ahead. You first."
*A kind smile… like an old anime character I know.*
Ethan cleared his throat and asked hesitantly:
"Are you… from another world?"
Boris laughed—a warm, reassuring tone:
"Me? No. But your question gives you away. You're the one from another world, aren't you, Mr…?"
"Ah, yes—I am! And my name's Ethan. Just Ethan, please. Don't call me 'Mr.'" His voice was flustered, slightly nervous.
"Boris." He smiled again and gave a slight nod of greeting. "Pleasure to meet you."
He pulled out his gleaming knife and sliced through the ropes coiled around Ethan's feet with a clean motion that made them crumble like rotten thread.
"You're free now."
Ethan was awestruck as he stood, gripping Boris's outstretched hand for support.
He jumped to his feet, brushed off the dirt and grass clinging to his clothes, and exhaled like a child tasting air for the first time:
"Finally… freedom."
Boris examined his clothes—the bright red hoodie and unfamiliar pants.
"You haven't changed your outfit at all… you just arrived, right?"
"Exactly… Wait! Hold on—you say I'm from another world like it's normal? I really *am* from another world!" His voice rose in disbelief, eyes sparkling with hope.
Boris answered without a trace of confusion:
"In our world, we call those who come from other worlds MISFITS. They're not a myth. Throughout our history, about five hundred are known to have left a mark on history. The real number might be in the thousands—but those who actually shaped history are rare… Still, their existence is a fact."
Ethan hesitated where he stood, feeling this term would now be tied to him forever.
*MISFIT…? So that's what I am here?*
The sparkle in his eyes dimmed. *So I'm not special… just another MISFIT in this world's records.*
He let out a faint laugh—more like a sad sigh.
Boris raised an eyebrow in question. "Ethan? What's wrong?"
"Nothing… nothing at all. Just… thank you for saving me."
A brief sadness flickered across Boris's face before his calm smile returned.
"Don't exaggerate. It was just coincidence."
Ethan objected with a weak smile:
"No. You saved me. As we say back home: 'Even a blind squirrel finds a nut.'"
Boris frowned. "…What?"
"Haha… it means luck. Fate."
"Am I a squirrel?" Boris tilted his head, confused.
"No! I mean… ah, forget it. I just mean fate is something you make yourself."
Ethan suddenly smiled—a bright, radiant smile that lit up his weary face.
Boris froze for a moment, as if that smile had pulled a memory from his past.
A distant voice echoed in his ear:
*"Even a blind might find a grain one day, but fate... Fate is something you create with your own hands, don't wait for it."*
"Boris? Are you with me?" Ethan waved a hand in front of Boris's distant eyes.
Boris blinked quickly, dispelling the memory.
"I drifted off for a second. Don't worry." He smiled reflexively.
Then he asked: "So, how did you end up with those bandits?"
Ethan lowered his eyes and said painfully:
"Ah… after I arrived in this forest, I got lost for three days—then they were the first people I met."
"Terrible luck…"
"I know."
"But look on the bright side—you didn't die in the forest after three days. That's a miracle in itself." Boris patted his shoulder.
"Yeah… you're right!" Ethan's spirit returned.
After a pause, Boris said:
"I'm on my way to join a caravan. Come with me. After that, we'll decide what you'll do."
Boris turned to leave—but Ethan's trembling voice stopped him:
"Is there… any hope I could go back? To my home?"
Boris hesitated, then said:
"I don't know. But some legends tell of MISFITS who vanished. Some say they returned."
Ethan's eyes suddenly shone—warmth returned to his face, replacing the coldness of despair.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go! … Ah, but wait—what about the bandits' loot? And their campfire?"
Boris answered gently, knowingly:
"The loot isn't a problem—we'll come back for it later. As for the fire, we'll put it out. There's some water over there the bandits left behind—"
Ethan didn't hesitate. He rushed to the heavy water container and poured its contents over the burning flames.
The fire hissed and died, white steam vanishing into the cold air.
Ethan felt a strange sense of satisfaction—as if he'd closed a chapter of his short story here.
Boris approached with steady steps, his eyes tracking the fading smoke.
"Don't underestimate the responsibility sense of a former Scout," Ethan said proudly.
Boris glanced at Ethan's smiling face—and without thinking, a quiet, gentle smile formed on his own lips, weighed down by unspoken memories.
The two walked side by side, stepping onto the damp soil of the dark forest, night sounds whispering around them…
Heading toward the caravan—where a new chapter, and a fate unknown to anyone, awaited.
***
Now, I feel embarrassed.
I never expected to meet what might be "the main character" like this…
Or maybe he's not the main character at all?
I don't know—but at least I'm grateful to him… deeply grateful.
We keep walking through the forest.
Boris walks as if the earth were paved with red carpet for him—confident but not arrogant, calm yet cautious.
The darkness is thick. The trees tower so high it feels like they're conspiring to crush me.
I stumble over every root and stone, while he walks without even glancing back.
"Umm… so, what are you doing in this forest, Boris?"
Then I realized—
Damn it! Didn't he just tell me he's with a caravan?! Now he'll think I'm a total idiot.
But he answered simply: "I'm on a journey."
A journey?! That's it?! This man speaks as if he's paid per word.
Is he laughing at me in his head right now?
I decided to use my secret weapon—as my mom always says:
*I'm a genius when it comes to cleverly disguised questions.*
"Ah, I mean… didn't you say you're with a caravan? So… what's your role with them? Are you a merchant or something?"
He replied calmly: "No, I don't work with them. I met them by chance and ended up traveling with them."
Hmm… intriguing… but not enough.
The protagonist joins a random caravan? Boring.
I expected something like "I'm on a secret mission to save the world" or "I'm the last heir to the royal family"…
But no—just a "journey." Not even a royal escort or a princess's guard…
The forest around me is terrifying—I feel like every tree has two eyes watching us.
But Boris? He walks like he's on a spring stroll.
Dude, even if a four-headed monster appears, I'll be the first to scream—and he'll be the first to yawn.
"Umm, Boris…" I said carefully, "that man—the bandit… Darmon, if I'm not mistaken… do you know him?"
He paused, then smiled lightly: "Something like that."
Oh—smile. Got it. Shut up. Don't ask more.
Thanks, Ethan—you're really great at reading social cues.
But curiosity is eating me alive.
The red energy Darmon used… the yellow energy Boris wielded… the strange rift… those expressionless figures who emerged from it…
Am I the only one who feels like we just stepped into a AAA RPG?
"Ah, sorry if I'm bothering you, but… I have one tiny question."
Boris looked at me. "What is it?"
"Who were those people who came out of that strange rift earlier?"
Boris stopped for a moment and said:
"They're the Request Guild—a guild that fulfills any request, as long as you pay enough."
*A guild that fulfills any request…*
Time to unleash my genius questions.
"That guild… the Request Guild… do they also deliver pizza?"
Boris didn't laugh. Maybe he doesn't even know what pizza is?
Good grief—my jokes probably died in him long ago.
So I pressed on:
"Or maybe… do they write love letters for you? Imagine paying them to compose a romantic poem on your behalf!"
Boris stopped, looked at me… then kept walking.
I'll take that as impressed silence.
Suddenly, he halted, turned to me, and said:
"Ethan, I have a request…"
I nodded instantly—I still felt that unnerving aura around him.
Boris tilted his head slightly, his silver irises piercing the darkness between us.
He whispered, "When we reach the caravan, don't mention the Request Guild. And not Darmun either—for now."
I answered immediately, without hesitation. "Of course! I won't tell anyone."
But curiosity was killing me. "But why?" I asked anyway, despite my hesitation.
I mean, I couldn't really tell anyone unless they spoke English—but still, curiosity was eating at me.
Boris exhaled through his nose, even though his expression remained unreadable.
He said, inclining his head toward the dim light of stars filtering through the trees,
"Because they'll ask questions. And right now, none of us needs that—neither us nor them. Trust me…"
Well… that was… deep.
Anyway, we kept walking as the first rays of dawn filtered through the trees.
The scary forest felt less terrifying, and Boris remained as calm as ever…
And me?
I'm just trying to look like I'm not thinking about food—or the possibility that I'm just a side character who'll die in the next chapter.
For a moment, I glanced at Boris beside me.
His copper-brown hair glinted faintly in the dim light, his long shawl fluttering behind him with every step—making him look like he'd stepped straight out of a famous manga cover.
And me?
Just an ordinary guy in a red sweatshirt.
If some unseen audience is watching us from afar, they'd definitely assume I'm just a side character destined to die to develop the hero's arc.
After all, I've officially found the "probable main character"—walking calmly, confident, never looking left or right.
And me? I walk like I'm dodging every branch that suddenly decides to become my mortal enemy.
"Umm, Boris…" I said softly.
He didn't answer.
Only the wind replied, playing with his elegant shawl.
Man, even the wind has chosen his side.
We continued walking as sunlight pierced the forest canopy, turning the gloom into a beautiful scene—though it still scared the hell out of me.
The deeper we went, the more I felt the forest watching us… or maybe just watching me.
Yet, despite everything, there was something comforting in this scene.
He walks as if he knows exactly where he's going.
And I… follow him, reassured—because "main characters" usually don't die.
***
After hours of walking, a faint light glimmered through the thick underbrush.
"There's the camp…" Boris whispered—more to himself than to Ethan.
Ethan lifted his head and frowned as the remaining campfire's glow cut through the darkness.
Suddenly, Boris stopped and said to Ethan:
"Stay here for a bit. Don't come out until I tell you."
"Ah, understood!" Ethan replied as if he were in a military unit.
Boris stepped forward—and the moment he crossed the last line of trees, chaos revealed itself.
The rear wagons of the caravan were overturned and shattered—wheels buried in mud, goods scattered as if something had torn through them, leaving a trail of wreckage and gold.
The air hung heavy with the sharp scent of iron—no, the scent of fresh blood.
Eleven bodies from the caravan lay sprawled on the dirt, stretched out in cold stillness.
Women and children huddled around the corpses, crying in hushed, choked sobs.
Boris recognized some faces:
Saty, the young boy, writhed over his only grandfather, crying endlessly.
Mina clung to her mother—her mother's eyes filled with a mix of grief and accusation.
Boris stopped.
His heart didn't race—but a weight pulled his chest toward the earth, the kind of weight that never heals, no matter how many times you've seen death.
No matter how often he faced it, he still couldn't accept it.
He knelt on his knees, raised his palms, and whispered:
"God... Have mercy on them with Your vast compassion."
He covered his face with his hands.
"Boris…" The voice was weak but sharp, approaching.
Boris turned. It was Anton, standing before him—face pale, eyes hollow. No anger. No tears. Just bitter resignation.
They exchanged a long, silent look—as if each read the other's wounds.
Anton finally spoke, his voice hoarse:
"Just tell me… why? Why did you leave when the bandits attacked us?"
Boris didn't answer. He had no reply. Words collapsed inside him.
*Because I was angry… because I couldn't bear it… because I was wrong*—none of these would convince anyone… not even himself.
Anton kept staring—until suddenly, he was shoved aside. A hand seized Boris's collar and lifted him a few centimeters off the ground.
"You!!" Takashi shouted—Boris didn't know his name, but he knew he was Mina's brother.
Takashi's face burned with rage like fire, eyes blazing, tears streaming down:
"You left us when we needed you most! Because of you, my father died! And Zofia nearly got killed—if you'd been here—" His body shook as he jostled Boris.
Zofia stood at the edge of the chaos, with Imenata beside her, considering how to defuse the situation.
Inside Boris, silence reigned—and self-blame.
*He's right… It's my fault. If I hadn't let my anger control me… if I'd let Lia handle it… if I'd stayed with the caravan… this is all my fault.*
Suddenly, Sonia appeared, grabbing Takashi's arm and pleading through tears:
"Please stop! Aahm, Brother Boris didn't know—I'm sure of it!"
Takashi looked at her for a moment—he was about to say something, but held back.
Tamer stepped forward, ready to intervene—but another voice cut through the scene:
Jon.
He advanced, pulled Takashi away from Boris, and stood directly before him—his expression unreadable, hand on his sword, voice icy:
"You brat… I have questions. If you don't answer, I'll separate your head from your body—right here, right now."
All sounds faded. Even the children's cries seemed distant.
"Where exactly did you go in the middle of the night—and why? Answer."
His voice was angry but controlled—his single orange eye analyzing Boris.
All eyes locked onto Boris—either he'd clear his name now, or confirm he was a traitor.
Anton clenched his fists until his palms turned white.
Jon held his sword at Boris's neck.
Sonia wept silently, gripping the edge of Imenata's robe—Imenata stepped beside her with Zofia.
Tamer trembled with intense focus.
Takashi wrestled with grief and fury.
"I…" Boris paused, then took a deep breath.
"I have no excuse."
He lowered his head. His voice, though quiet, rang clear as a bell:
"I left you at the worst possible moment. It was my fault—and I'm not trying to justify it."
Takashi stepped forward, eyes reflecting deep pain—as if bleeding from within:
"My father… and everyone who died… if you'd been here, it wouldn't have come to this! And now you say you have no excuse?"
His voice was shattered, carrying all the pain in his heart.
Imenata placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to calm him—but her own eyes overflowed with tears.
Boris made no defense.
He didn't mention Darmon, or the threat he faced. Not a single word to lessen the blame.
He simply stood—bearing full responsibility—as if asking for punishment through his silence.
Jon raised his sword and lunged at Boris—nearly severing his neck.
Boris didn't move. Didn't raise a hand. Didn't close his eyes. He surrendered.
Then—suddenly…
"What?!" Leo leapt from nowhere, kicking the sword with powerful force—sending Jon's hand flying backward.
Shock flashed across Jon's face—and everyone else's.
Jon glared, shouting before recognizing Leo:
"If it isn't really you—!"
Leo stood before Boris, eyes blazing with fury at Jon, voice thunderous:
"You accuse him while he was saving your lives? You ungrateful wretches!"
"You?!" Everyone gasped—Jon's eyes widened.
They all remembered Leo—
The boy who saved them from the Bloody Wolves, who appeared like a shadow… and vanished.
Silence fell over them—a silence heralding the confrontation that would reveal the truth.