Rustle rustle~
The bushes nearby stirred, leaves whispering softly against one another. Whether the sound came from the breeze threading its way through the foliage or from something else entirely, Ronan couldn't tell at first. But his senses sharpened. The easy calm that usually surrounded him vanished, replaced by alertness. His posture shifted slightly, muscles tensing in readiness as his eyes narrowed.
The forest, vast and dense, had thus far proven empty of human life. No travelers, no merchants, no wanderers, not even bandits. Just endless trees and the animals that called them home. But teeming it was—he'd already encountered strange and powerful beasts. Saber-toothed tigers, huge and silent, had stalked him through the underbrush. Griffins, regal and terrifying, had soared overhead. The world's ecosystem was clearly different from the one he had known before. Everything was just… more. Larger, stronger, more magical.
That was why he was certain. This was another world.
"…Coming out?"
His voice cut through the still air, neither loud nor threatening, but steady. He waited, eyes fixed on the rustling bushes. Nothing emerged.
Stillness returned.
He stood, brushing loose grass and bark off his clothes. They were simpler now, practical—garments suited to wandering. Without hesitation, he drew the longsword strapped to his side. He'd found it days ago, lodged inexplicably in a stone in a small cave, almost like something out of a fairy tale. The blade had no markings, no enchantments visible to his eye, but its quality was beyond doubt. Razor-sharp, perfectly balanced, and forged with craftsmanship that far exceeded anything he'd ever seen. Even holding it gave a strange sense of familiarity, like it belonged to him, though he knew it hadn't. Not originally.
He stepped cautiously toward the bushes, his grip firm, senses alert. A flicker of memory stopped him. Something he'd almost forgotten.
He activated his x-ray vision, eyes narrowing slightly as the world shifted. The foliage became transparent, revealing what hid behind it.
He saw a small girl. No—he looked again. A small girl with pointed ears, crouched low to the ground, holding a basket close to her chest.
—Pointed ears?
—An elf?
His brow furrowed. The connection was instant. In his past life, elves were always portrayed the same way in anime, in novels, in games: elegant, aloof, long-lived, and almost always identified by their pointed ears. Of course, goblins sometimes had pointed ears too—but he looked again, taking in her features.
There were no goblins this pretty.
He hesitated. The tension left his shoulders slightly, and he approached, no longer on edge. As he drew closer, his assumption proved correct.
…"An elf… lost while gathering herbs?" he murmured thoughtfully, eyes on the girl. "Such a shy one…" His voice was low, more to himself than anyone else. "Makes sense; long-lived races are often few in number, lacking social skills." He paused. "Or maybe she's afraid of humans?"
He examined her more closely. She was small—slender and delicate, probably no taller than five feet. Her skin was fair, almost porcelain-like, with a subtle rosy hue that gave her the appearance of a finely-crafted doll. She looked young, perhaps a teenager by human standards, but Ronan knew better. With elves, age was deceptive. For all he knew, she could be several decades older than he was.
He found, strangely, that he could understand her language—Elvish. Not due to any magical translation power, but rather something inherent to this body. His appearance remained unchanged, yet things had shifted when he'd arrived here. Knowledge he hadn't possessed before came naturally. As if Elvish, or whatever it was, was simply… common.
The girl, perhaps sensing his gaze, stirred. Her head remained low, eyes downcast. She didn't meet his eyes. Her grip on the basket tightened. Her shyness was clear—she looked ready to bolt at any moment. A part of her wanted to run, but something kept her still.
He could guess what it was.
The elders of her village had likely warned her to stay away from humans—especially human men. There were always stories like that in fantasy worlds, warnings passed down from generation to generation. She might not even know why the warning existed, but she obeyed nonetheless. Until now.
Ronan snapped out of his thoughts. He realized she might be hesitating, unsure what to do, perhaps fearing what would happen next. She had no way of knowing his intentions. He didn't know exactly what was running through her mind, but he could make a guess. Rather than press her or question her, he chose a more casual route.
He spoke calmly, voice even.
"I understand. You want me to help you get home, right?"
He waited a moment, then added, almost apologetically,
"Unfortunately, I'm new here too, and don't know the area well."
He paused, but continued anyway.
"But… never mind. Do you know which direction your home is? Or even a general area? I've been here long enough. I've finally met someone… or something…" he said with a dry chuckle, correcting himself. "Elf, what's your name?"
She moved at last. Slowly, she raised her head.
Her white hair, long and smooth, fluttered lightly in the forest breeze, catching the light as it swayed. Her features were delicate, and though her expression was blank, there was a subtle grace in her every motion. She seemed to weigh her decision carefully.
Then she spoke.
"Frieren."
Her voice was soft and flat, lacking inflection or emotion—like a quiet stream flowing through shaded rocks. There was a stillness to her, a calm that seemed detached from the world around her.
After a brief silence, perhaps gathering courage or simply adjusting to the reality of the encounter, she looked at him properly for the first time. Her eyes, pale and clear, focused on him. Then she spoke again, her tone curious, but still guarded.
"Human, what is your name?"