The decision, in the end, wasn't complicated.
Not because I felt a surge of courage or some grand purpose. Not because I suddenly believed in the humans' chances to build something worthwhile. No—my choice was built on familiarity. On a quiet, bitter instinct that said: better the devil you know than the chaos you don't. Lydia's vision sounded noble, maybe even beautiful. A united society of all races, no borders, no hierarchy—just people helping each other survive. Yeah. That kind of thing looked great on paper. But Earth had cured me of believing in pretty speeches.
Humans, at least, were predictable. Self-serving, aggressive, painfully prideful—but I understood them. The elves and dwarves had thousands of years of culture I didn't get. The orcs barely spoke. And Lydia's mixed faction? A cocktail of uncertainty, optimism, and instability. It wasn't about who I liked more. It was about who I could stomach walking beside when shit inevitably hit the fan.
So I went with the humans. Not because I believed in them—just because I couldn't see myself fitting anywhere else.
The first day on the move felt like a slow-motion disaster. Most of us were running on fumes, both physical and mental. Some pushed forward like they were on a mission. Others dragged their feet, still stunned, heads full of what we'd seen. There was no real plan, no proper direction—just the vague consensus that we had to go somewhere. The land around us offered no help. Endless grasslands rolled outward in every direction. To the east, a distant wall of forest. To the south and west, low hills and mountains. It was stunning in a detached, surreal way—like we were walking through a painting we didn't belong in.
No roads. No signs. No stars we recognized. Just us and the sky.
It took maybe an hour before someone finally asked, "Uh… does anyone actually know where we're going?"
A pause. Heads turned. No one spoke.
Then, eventually, someone muttered, "West?"
"Why west?"
"I don't know. Feels right."
That was it. The great post-Earth migration, based entirely on vibes.
By noon, the tension of hunger settled over the group like a blanket of dread. Those who had been lucky—or paranoid—enough to grab snacks before the teleportation had long since emptied their pockets. A few wandered the grasslands for something edible. One girl insisted berries with a certain shade of blue were always safe. Someone else pointed out that we were in another world and probably shouldn't trust any Earth knowledge unless we were actively trying to die.
I found a short bush with dark red fruit near a shallow stream. The berries looked toxic, honestly—but I was tired, hungry, and running low on patience. I plucked one, sniffed it, then popped it into my mouth.
"Seriously?" A sharp voice cut in. I turned.
A guy was staring at me like I'd just swallowed a grenade. Mid-twenties, neat dark hair, thin glasses, and a small leather notebook clutched to his chest. His expression was somewhere between horrified and morbidly fascinated.
"If I keel over, you'll know not to try them," I said through a chew. Tart. A little dry, but edible.
He sighed like someone who'd been disappointed by humanity one too many times. "Or—and hear me out—you could've tested it first. Maybe with a bird or squirrel."
"Yeah? See any squirrels?"
"...Point taken."
He scribbled something into his journal. Next to him, a tall guy who looked like he bench-pressed trees for fun crossed his arms.
"Reckless," he muttered.
I shrugged. "Efficient."
By sunset, we managed to build a fire—more by accident than skill. The light was dim, the air chillier than I expected, and the mood… fragile. There were maybe twenty-five of us total. We sat in loose circles, scattered across the camp like survivors of a shipwreck that hadn't accepted yet the ship was gone.
The silence stretched, broken only by the occasional cough or rustle of clothing. Then someone kicked a stone into the fire.
"Alright, seriously. Who are all of you?"
Most people stayed quiet. A few glanced up, then went right back to staring at the fire or their hands or the empty space in front of them. No one moved. No one answered. It was like someone had thrown a rock into a pond and expected the water to explain itself. We weren't a group. Not yet. Just a bunch of strangers hoping someone else would speak first.
The speaker was a girl—sharp eyes, long black hair tied back into a practical ponytail, and a no-nonsense tone that left no room for small talk. She wasn't asking to be polite. She wanted answers.
The tall guy beside her was the first to respond. He let out a slow breath.
"Nikita. Russia."
That was it. No elaboration. Just a name and a country.
"Cool," the girl replied, unimpressed. She turned to notebook-guy.
"Daisuke. Japan. I studied history."
"Useful," I muttered.
He offered a wry smile. "More than you'd think. Knowing how civilizations collapse might be relevant."
"Cheery."
"Realistic."
The girl rolled her eyes. "Carmen. Spain. I don't take shit from anyone."
"Noted."
Next to her, a quiet girl shifted slightly.
"Amina. Morocco."
She spoke softly, but her gaze was sharp. Watching. Measuring. The kind of person who didn't waste words.
Then Carmen gestured at me.
"And you?"
I sighed. "Aleks. Poland. Sixteen."
A beat.
"Oh. A baby," Carmen said, smirking.
I gave her a deadpan look. "Fuck off."
That earned a small chuckle from Daisuke. Carmen didn't reply, but her smirk widened just a bit.
With introductions done, the conversation shifted. Some asked about home. Most didn't. A few stared into the fire like they were hoping it would burn away the reality of where we were. But eventually, the subject turned practical—leadership, plans, structure.
Nikita wanted a chain of command. Carmen pushed back hard. Daisuke tried to mediate, offering historical precedent and logical suggestions. Amina listened, arms crossed, face unreadable. I didn't say much. Not yet.
Because while they argued, while they fought to shape a future none of us had agreed to be part of—I realized something.
For the first time since the sky fell apart…
I wasn't alone.