The streets buzzed with activity as Velrion—no longer just Ronan Winter, but the name that would forever tie him to his destiny—walked through the city. The crowd moved around him, but there was an air of tension, a palpable sense that something had shifted. People whispered, their eyes flickering over him, and he could feel it—the weight of their gazes, the heavy expectations they had for him. It wasn't long before someone recognized him.
"Hey... that's him! That's Velrion!"
The shout broke the rhythm of the street. Within moments, the crowd seemed to part, and the whispers grew louder. Faces appeared in windows, people leaning out to get a better look at the one they had only heard of in stories. The Borrowed. The one who had come to save them.
Velrion's stomach churned. He had only just begun to accept the weight of his true name, but now, facing the eyes of the world, the full magnitude of what he had become was crashing down on him. The people weren't just recognizing him—they were expecting him. Expecting him to be a hero, expecting him to do the impossible.
He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready for any of it.
Ronan had been living a life of quiet struggle, fighting his own demons, facing the monotony of survival in a world that had never offered him anything but hardship. But now? Now, he was thrust into the spotlight, a messiah of sorts, expected to defeat the Dark One and save a world that wasn't even his own.
The pressure was suffocating.
"Velrion!" a voice called, cutting through the crowd. A man, older than him, with a face etched in deep lines of worry and hope, pushed through the masses toward him. "We've heard about you. You're the one who can save us. The world is counting on you!"
Ronan's heart skipped a beat. The weight of the man's words felt like a thousand-pound stone pressing against his chest. The world is counting on you. It was a phrase he had heard in countless stories, in legends and myths. But now it was real. It was him they were counting on.
He had no idea how to save them. Hell, he barely understood what he was supposed to be doing in this world. He was just a boy from Earth, trying to survive. But now, he was Velrion, the Borrowed, the one who was supposed to have the answers.
The crowd grew louder, some cheering, others watching with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Ronan's hands trembled at his sides.
"Stop," he said quietly, but it was drowned out by the noise of the growing crowd. "Please, just stop."
But they didn't stop. Their faces were filled with hope—desperate hope—and Ronan couldn't bear to look at them. How could they believe in him when he didn't even believe in himself?
Without another word, he turned and walked away. The murmurs of the crowd followed him, the weight of their expectations pressing against his back.
Back in his apartment, the room felt colder than it had before. The walls seemed to close in on him, and his breath came out in shaky gasps. He was alone—thankfully alone—but the silence wasn't comforting. It was suffocating.
Ronan dropped onto the small, worn-out couch and buried his face in his hands. This wasn't what he had signed up for. He had never asked for this. He had never asked to be thrust into a war he didn't understand, to be given a name that came with such a heavy burden.
Velrion. The Borrowed.
The world was counting on him, but how could he be their savior when he had no idea what to do? The old man, the strange shopkeeper, and even the people in the streets—they all thought he had the answers. But he didn't. He was just a kid, a broken orphan who had only ever known struggle. How could he carry the fate of an entire world?
Ronan stood abruptly, pacing around the small space. His eyes fell on the book—the book that had started it all. The book that held the key to everything.
He picked it up, his fingers trembling as he flipped through its pages. The words seemed to mock him now. The Borrowed will save this world. But how? How could he save them when he didn't even know who he was?
His stomach growled, a reminder that his struggles weren't over. Even in this strange world, he still needed to eat, still needed money. He had no real skills, no resources, no one to turn to. All the things that had kept him grounded in the real world—his need for food, his search for survival—hadn't gone away just because he was some hero in another world.
Ronan slammed the book down on the table. The frustration, the confusion, the overwhelming pressure all built up until it threatened to consume him. He had no idea how to move forward. His true name, Velrion, felt more like a curse than a blessing. He wasn't sure if he was capable of carrying the weight of it.
He grabbed his jacket, storming out of the apartment. He didn't want to face the world, but he needed something—anything—to remind him that he was still Ronan Winter. He needed something familiar.
The streets were quiet now, the earlier buzz of the crowd replaced by the eerie stillness of nightfall. He wandered aimlessly, lost in his own thoughts, trying to escape the crushing pressure. The world was full of people—yet he felt so incredibly alone.
He made his way through the alleyways, his mind racing. Everything he had known—the small comforts, the safety of the world he had left behind—felt so far out of reach. How was he supposed to survive here? How was he supposed to live up to the expectations that everyone had of him?
Finally, he reached the corner where the old market once stood. He had come here before, a quiet part of the city where the vendors set up their stalls. Now, it was a ghost of its former self, dark and quiet, the flickering lights casting long shadows across the ground.
It was here, in this forgotten place, that the reality of his situation hit him. He was stuck between two worlds—one that he didn't belong to, and the other that he could never return to.
Ronan stopped walking and closed his eyes. He couldn't do this. He couldn't stay here. The pressure was too much, the expectations too heavy.
But then, something inside him snapped. No.
He wasn't going to stay here in this world that wanted to use him. He wasn't going to let the weight of his name drag him down. He would rather die fighting than live in a world where he didn't even know who he was.
He turned back toward the shadows, toward the alley where he had first crossed over into this world. No matter the cost, no matter what it took, he would find his way back. Even if it meant death. At least in the real world, he could face his challenges with a little dignity, even if he had to struggle for food and money.
He wasn't a hero. Not yet. But he wasn't going to let anyone decide that for him. He would find his own way—back to the world he knew, even if it meant leaving this one behind.