What would it be like to be the main character — just once?

  Takahara Kenji asked himself that question every day.

  Today, he asked it again — somewhere between the first crowd's cheers and the crack of a bat.

  Kenji wasn’t even watching the game because he liked baseball.

  He watched it because this was what a main character’s entrance looked like.

  Cheers. Spotlight. History bending around one guy.

  He wondered—

  Would the world ever hold its breath for him?

  The cicadas were out in force, screaming like a backup choir for the fans. The sky was that bruised summer color — half gold, half indigo — and the whole world felt like it was holding its breath.

  Kenji wiped sweat from his neck.

  Even the bugs sounded like they were cheering for someone else’s story.

  At Shiroyama High, every student was glued to the intercom.

  The PA crackled.

  “Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. Runners on first and third… and number nine, Nathan Cole, steps up to bat.”

  The announcer’s voice trembled with excitement, the crackling speakers barely keeping up.

  “The score is tied, 5–5! If Cole gets even a base hit here, the Foxes walk it off. But if—”

  The announcer hesitated, the crowd holding its breath with him,

  “—if he sends this one flying, ladies and gentlemen, we are looking at a grand slam to the finals!”

  A wave of noise rippled through the stadium — gasps, cheers, frantic clapping.

  “That’s right! Nathan Cole is sitting at forty home runs this season — just one away from tying the legendary Shiroyama record set by none other than Takahara Shinji two years ago! What a moment this is!”

  The opposing pitcher stepped back onto the mound, visibly rattled. The camera zoomed in on him, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “A high-pressure situation for both teams! The Devils’ infield is tightening formation — no one wants to be the one who gives up the hit that decides it all! We are witnessing history in the making, folks!”

  Nathan tapped the bat twice against the plate, calm as a monk on a mountaintop.

  Kenji tightened his grip on his phone.

  Shinji used to tap his bat the same way.

  The crowd called it “the Takahara rhythm.”

  “Cole settles into his stance… focus unwavering… the whole stadium is silent!”

  A hush fell over twenty thousand people.

  “This could be it. This could be the moment that decides the entire tournament!”

  A murmur rippled through the stands.

  It was Summer Kōshien.

  The stage every high school player dreamed of.

  Shiroyama Foxes vs. Raijin Devils.

  Everything on the line.

  The pitcher wound up.

  The ball shot forward—

  And the field held its breath.

  “Will today be the day the Foxes see a—”

  CRACK.

  A sound like the sky splitting open.

  For a heartbeat, everything froze — the pitcher’s follow-through hanging mid-air, the catcher’s glove still extended, the crowd stuck between inhale and scream.

  Then the ball exploded off the bat.

  Not flew — exploded.

  A shockwave rippled through the air as if the stadium itself gasped. The ball rocketed upward, a white streak against the indigo sky, climbing higher and higher until it simply refused to come back down.

  A single comet racing toward heaven.

  Kenji felt something hot twist in his chest.

  Was this what it felt like to be the protagonist?

  To do one thing and have twenty thousand people lose their minds?

  He wanted that, desperately—

  more than he wanted air.

  The stadium erupted an instant later.

  People leapt to their feet. Drinks sloshed. Someone dropped their flag. Teachers hugged students. The Raijin Devils’ outfielders barely moved — they could only watch the ball disappear into the golden light like it was leaving the mortal world altogether.

  Kenji felt his breath hitch.

  not from awe, but from the sting of realization:

  Nathan had just tied Shinji’s record.

  His brother’s record.

  Something about that felt wrong.

  Like the world had rewritten a line in a script he hadn’t approved.

  “And that’s it!” the announcer shouted, voice breaking with excitement. “Shiroyama takes the win with a walk-off home run by none other than number nine — Nathan Cole!”

  The stands went feral. Teachers high-fived like teenagers. Confetti made from torn worksheets rained across the bleachers. Someone blasted the school anthem from a Bluetooth speaker — completely off-key, but nobody cared.

  Kenji just sat there, nails digging into his thigh.

  Everyone loved Nathan.

  Everyone remembered Shinji.

  Kenji?

  He wasn’t even a footnote yet.

  But that was temporary.

  He wasn’t destined to be a background mob character forever.

  But someday, he promised himself,

  They’ll cheer for me, too.

  Nathan Cole rounded the bases at a calm jog.

  With a fist pump and a giant grin.

  He could feel the storm of the crowd swelling behind him.

  His teammates mobbed him at home plate, chanting “MVP! MVP!” until the walls shook.

  Coach Nakamura finally shoved through, cap pulled low over his sweat-stained face.

  “Great job, all of you. Forty-one home runs this season, Nathan. You tied the record. Keep this up, and you’ll break Barry Bonds’ record next.” He sniffed. Coach couldn’t help but get emotional, “We are finally going to the finals.” he looked at the scoreboard, Shiroyama Foxes 9 and Raijin Devils 5.

  “Now hit the showers, boys — you smell like ass.”

  The team howled, voices echoing down tile and steel.

  Kenji watched the commotion erupt across the field, the stadium shaking under the weight of screaming fans and flailing cheerleaders. Now that the game was finally, mercifully over, a wave of relief washed over him so hard his knees nearly buckled. He didn't realize when he even stood up.

  Thank God.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead like a man spared from execution.

  This was why he hated sports —

  too many pauses, too much waiting, and zero XP gain.

  If that inning had dragged even one pitch longer—if they’d gone into extra innings—he might’ve actually died. Not from excitement. Not from school spirit.

  But from sheer, mind-melting impatience.

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  He clenched his phone tighter.

  He had things to do. Important things.

  Life-or-death, world-saving things.

  There was a massive raid event happening tonight—one that only opened once every three months—and he absolutely, under no cosmic circumstances, was going to miss it. He wouldn’t forgive the universe. He wouldn’t forgive baseball. He certainly wouldn’t forgive Nathan.

  Extra innings?

  No.

  He refused.

  He physically could not handle sitting through the long, sweaty torture session that was high school baseball.

  Baseball?

  Please.

  Baseball was a filler arc.

  He wasn’t built for filler.

  He was built for plot-critical events, secret power awakenings,

  and late-night raid bosses that dropped legacy-tier loot.

  This—tonight—was the main story content.

  He shot a quick glare at the scoreboard, as if daring it to change its mind.

  “Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

  The moment the game officially ended, the Shiroyama Foxes stormed into the locker room like a conquering army, cleats clattering, helmets tossed, voices echoing off the tiles.

  “Did you see that pitch?!”

  “Bro, I swear my soul left my body in that last inning!”

  “Raijin’s pitcher looked like he was about to cry!”

  Someone slapped a locker so hard it rattled. Another threw his glove at the ceiling and nearly took out the fluorescent lights.

  Nathan stepped inside a few seconds later, calm as always, running a towel through his hair.

  “Dude,” a teammate groaned dramatically, collapsing onto a bench, “you’re not human. Forty-one home runs? Who even does that?”

  “Legends,” another answered. “Legends and Americans.”

  “I'm Canadian,” Nathan corrected.

  A chorus of laughter erupted.

  Coach Nakamura entered, clapping loudly. “Good work out there! Especially you, Cole. That swing was textbook.”

  “Textbook?” someone snorted. “It was divine intervention.”

  “Pretty sure the ball left the stadium,” another added. “It’s probably in orbit right now.”

  Nathan only shrugged, as if hitting a game-winning home run was equivalent to tying his shoes. “Just did what I could.”

  But Kenji — still lingering near the entrance, pretending he belonged — couldn’t stop staring. In the middle of all that chaos, Nathan seemed to glow differently, not like a sports prodigy.

  Like a protagonist.

  Kenji swallowed hard.

  Nathan didn’t just look like a protagonist—

  He looked like the kind of character the universe literally bent itself around.

  Meanwhile, Kenji was the person holding the camera in the background.

  “Man, if I had that guy’s talent…” a catcher muttered. “I’d have a girlfriend by now.”

  “Please,” someone else snorted. “He could start a religion with that swing.”

  Even the coach cracked a tired smile. “Shut it and hit the showers!”

  Water blasted. Steam rose. Someone sang terribly off-key.

  By the time jerseys started flying, and someone failed spectacularly to start a conga line, Nathan was already dressed, sneakers laced, halfway out the door.

  “Where’s our ace?” someone asked.

  They spotted him through the window.

  Outside, near the vending machines, a boy stood alone, hunched over his phone like it held the secrets of the universe.

  Takahara Kenji.

  Every school had one.

  Too intense about the wrong things.

  Always caught muttering to himself, quoting lines from anime and games.

  A chuuni, something whispered behind his back.

  Nathan approached.

  Kenji looked up, startled. His thumb fumbled at his phone before he shoved it into his pocket.

  “Oh—uh… I’ve been waiting. The raid starts soon.” He paused, then added with stiff seriousness, “I saved us a spot.”

  The locker room groaned behind them. Nathan only laughed — easy and genuine.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s with me.”

  They walked together toward the station.

  Inside, a few teammates watched from the window.

  “Why’s Nathan hanging out with him?” one asked.

  Another shrugged. “Don’t you know? That’s Takahara Shinji’s little brother. When Nathan moved to Japan, he was the new kid. Nobody talked to him. Except Takahara.”

  “Damn,” another muttered. “I was in the same class. I should’ve become his friend, then he wouldn’t have gotten sucked in by that loser.”

  “Forget about that! Let’s go party! The cheerleaders managed to get their hands on some sake!”

  The team cheered.

  “Did you see that home run?” Nathan asked as they stepped into the fading light. “I can’t believe that I am tied with Shinji's record.”

  Kenji couldn't help but adjust the strap of his worn backpack. Every time someone mentioned the name of his dead brother, Kenji could not help but feel uncomfortable.

  But he pushed aside the uncomfortable feeling and said, “Yeah. It got us out just in time. Raid starts in ten.”

  Nathan smiled. “Perfect.”

  A glowing digital billboard hovered over the station — Everfall Expansion: The Windless Divide.

  Kenji’s eyes lit up, and he jogged forward. “We’ll be first on the server.”

  “Kenji—wait up!” Nathan called, but it was too late. Kenji was already speed-walking with the deranged commitment of a man chasing a limited-time event.

  The station entrance loomed ahead, the LED sign flickering:

  Next Train — 1 minute 12 seconds.

  Kenji froze mid-stride.

  Then—

  “OH HELL NO.”

  He grabbed Nathan’s sleeve and bolted.

  “Kenji—?!” Nathan stumbled forward. “What are you—?”

  “We cannot miss this train!” Kenji yelled, voice cracking with sacred urgency. “If we get on the next one, we’ll lose our early-entry queue position! Do you understand?! We’ll be in the casual player bracket!”

  “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t exist,” Nathan muttered, but he ran anyway.

  They sprinted through the station gate like two fugitives escaping a crime scene. Students exiting the convenience store barely dodged them; an elderly man hissed as they skidded past; a vending machine rattled when Kenji bumped it with his backpack. A wave of hot ramen air from the platform kiosk washed over them.

  The train doors beeped.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Kenji shrieked internally.

  “NO—NOT LIKE THIS—”

  They dove.

  Nathan slid in like he was stealing home plate. Kenji hopped through the doors sideways, backpack hitting the frame with a hollow thunk just as the doors snapped shut behind them.

  Kenji braced his hands on his knees, panting. “We… made it… protagonist timing…”

  Nathan wiped his forehead. “You act like missing one train would kill you.”

  Kenji pointed to the Everfall billboard outside the window, eyes wide.

  “It would kill my soul.”

  Nathan laughed—then someone gasped sharply nearby.

  “Is that Nathan from the Shiroyama Foxes?!”

  Kenji’s heart stopped.

  They swarmed him.

  “Going to the afterparty?” one asked, wide-eyed.

  “If you are,” another giggled, “we might tag along.”

  Nathan hesitated.

  Kenji stepped forward. “He can’t. We’ve got plans.”

  His voice was too firm, too serious — like he was announcing the start of a war.

  “We have a world to save.”

  The girls blinked. One laughed nervously. Another whispered, “weirdo.”

  The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.

  Kenji felt his soul leave his body, then slowly crawl back in.

  Why did he say it like that?

  Why did he always say things like that?

  Protagonists never bomb their social checks this hard… right?

  Kenji’s confidence cracked. He shifted awkwardly, wishing he could rewind the last ten seconds.

  Nathan stepped in smoothly.

  “He’s right. VRMMORPG. One of humanity’s greatest inventions.” He gave a crooked smile. “Canadian-goose and The_Real_MC. Add us.”

  The girls lit up instantly. “I will! My little brother plays too!”

  They waved and hurried off, still giggling — but not at Nathan.

  Kenji stayed quiet until the train arrived.

  “What’s wrong?” Nathan asked.

  Kenji stared at his shoes. “…Your harem route’s going strong.”

  Nathan laughed. “Yours will come.”

  Kenji nodded, pretending he believed it because Nathan believed it.

  But deep down, he wasn’t waiting for romance.

  He was waiting for the universe to finally notice him.

  Any day now… any minute…

  Kenji tried to sound cool.

  “I’m the main character. Just waiting for the plot to kick in.”

  Nathan laughed again. “Then I’d better stick around for the prologue.”

  Rain began to fall — light at first, then heavier — like the sky had finally given up holding it in.

  The two of them ran side by side, shoes slapping puddles, weaving through the downpour with the urgency of people who believed their quest couldn’t wait. Kenji held his jacket over his head like a cape, his backpack thudding with each stride.

  His grin only widened.

  The harder it rained, the bigger it got.

  “Stupid girls,” he muttered, breath fogging. “They don’t get it. This world’s just side content.”

  “What was that?” Nathan called.

  “Nothing,” Kenji said quickly, brushing water from his face.

  At the end of the block, his house came into view — a pale blue box with trimmed hedges and a wind chime that jingled in the storm. Kenji pointed at it with dramatic conviction, like a general presenting a fortress.

  “Home base. Tonight, destiny awaits.”

  Nathan grinned. “Then let’s log in together. The world needs some heroes to save the day, and that's going to be us.”

  Kenji bolted up the steps, already half-lost in excitement.

  Nathan lingered at the gate, watching him disappear inside.

  That was the thing about Kenji:

  No matter how many times the world laughed at him, ignored him, stepped over him — he bounced back. He never stopped believing. Never stopped being himself.

  Nathan admired that.

  He cracked his knuckles, smile widening.

  “Well then… let’s see if this world is ready for us.”