SS: Adventures of Protag-kun Volume I

After his strong insistence, the “annoying” NPC, Allen, had invited me back to his campsite.

Campsite. The guy was only isekai’d today, but he was already acting like he’d unlocked the Survivalist Prologue while I was still fumbling through the Social Anxiety Tutorial. His shelter looked like it had been handcrafted by a minimalist forest god, and his expression had the emotional range of a loading screen.

Meanwhile, I was over here trying to invent fire like a caveman with commitment issues. I knuckled two stones together, scraping and bashing like I was trying to unlock a secret combo move. Nothing. Not even a pity spark. The glowing fungi nearby pulsed gently—judging me in Morse code, probably spelling out 'pathetic.'

“This is so unfair!” I whined to the bioluminescent audience. “If I could just unlock my magic, a simple fire spell would solve everything!”

The fungi didn’t respond. Rude.

This just made me I slump back, defeated. The sky above was shifting now—deep lavender streaked with molten gold, like a celestial artist had gone full drama queen. Even the sky had more personality than me.

This world was supposed to be my playground. My destiny. All the manga and light novels I’d devoured promised epic quests, dramatic transformations, and maybe a harem if I played my cards right. Not a repeat of my old life, where I couldn’t even manage basic survival tasks. Where I was the side character in my own story.

Being isekai’d was not all it was cracked up to be.

With no other option I jabbed at the twigs with a stick—jabbed, not poked, because poking implied intention. This was just sad. The twigs looked more like rejected quest items than firewood. I glanced at them with theatrical despair, hoping the universe would at least award me a Pity Buff.

Nope.

Across the clearing, Allen stood by the riverbank with a crude spear in hand, trying to fish. The river shimmered with alien beauty—radiant fish darted beneath the surface like enchanted koi, their scales reflecting the swirling sky above. The air smelled faintly of ozone and moss, like the world itself was freshly booted.

“Gotcha!” he shouted, cornering one of the slippery creatures in the shallows.

Then his foot slipped on the slick mud. The action caused him to flail, dropping the spear, and losing the fish.

A guttural, triumphant laugh erupted from me. See? The annoyingly competent NPC was a failure too!

But then—of course—Allen simply got back up, dusted himself off, and within minutes, speared another fish with quiet precision. No drama. No internal monologue. Just results.

My moment of schadenfreude shriveled into something pitiful.

I couldn’t help but compare the two of us. He moved like someone who’d already accepted this world. I still felt like I was buffering.

In my head, I imagined what it would be like if I had the Appraisal Skill:

Allen: Annoyingly Competent NPC

Passive Buffs: Critical Thinking, Emotional Stability

Title: Fish Whisperer

As I turned and looked at my reflection in the water, this was what I saw reflected back.

Me: Awkward Loner

Hidden Debuff: Crippling Self-Doubt, +10% to Self-Sabotage

Title: Shut-In NEET

Despite his lack of flair, Allen kept plunging into the alien waters like some amateur survivalist. His failure even looked cooler than my success. At least he had one.

“I bet that fish has more EXP than me,” I muttered, watching the river carry away my dignity like it was a dropped inventory item.

The sky above shifted into a surreal canvas—deep violet streaked with molten gold, like a celestial artist had rage-quit realism and gone full fantasy. Even the sky in this world had more personality than me.

The rhythmic hum of the river and the gentle warmth of the setting sun wrapped around me like a weighted blanket made of nostalgia and mild regret. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. But I did.

When I woke, the air had cooled and the scent of roasting fish curled into my nose like a side quest notification. A fire crackled beside me—real fire, not the sad pile of twigs I’d emotionally bullied earlier. Two fish sizzled over the flames, their scales now dull and charred. My stomach growled like an angry boar spirit demanding tribute.

Allen was already eating. Calm. Efficient. Like he’d just completed a quest titled Basic Human Functionality and earned a passive buff in Not Making Things Weird.

Shame settled in my gut like a cursed item. I had done nothing. He had made the fire, caught the fish, and was now eating. I hadn’t earned any of it. I started to get up, ready to wander off and wallow in my own uselessness like a side character in a tragic backstory.

But then—flashes of my past life.

The cold slam of a locker door. The sting of a shouted insult. The suffocating silence of my room. The fear of being judged. The years spent hiding from the world, buried in anime and self-loathing. I thought this world would be different. A fresh start. A new questline. But here I was, still stuck in the same emotional dungeon.

“You need to pee?” Allen asked, voice flat but not unkind.

I blinked. The question yanked me out of my spiral like a surprise status effect.

He didn’t judge. Not like the cruel eyes of my old world. He just moved with quiet purpose, collecting moss and bark like someone who’d accepted reality and made peace with it. He had that vibe—survival spreadsheet open in his brain, stoic NPC energy, zero chatbox interaction.

And somehow, that made me feel less alone.

My carefully constructed facade cracked like brittle glass.

“I… I should catch some fish too,” I said, voice cracking like a poorly dubbed anime character. “Before the sun completely sets.”

But instead of the judging gaze or dismissive scoff I expected, Allen simply held out a cooked fish on a stick.

“Just eat,” he said.

I stared at the fish. Then at him. Then back at the fish, like it might explode into a side quest. Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them, and I bit into the offering. The salty, savory taste was a thousand times better than the bitter berries and mystery nuts I’d scavenged earlier. It tasted like warmth. Like possibility. Like maybe I wasn’t completely broken.

Still it pissed me off that he didn’t complain. Didn’t mock me. Didn’t even sigh in that disappointed way adults always did when I failed to meet expectations. That sigh—the one that said “I expected nothing and you still let me down.”

Of course, I couldn’t say that out loud. It was easier to deflect than admit the truth: I had no idea what I was doing.

I’d read thousands of chapters about brave heroes surviving in fantasy worlds. But when I got dropped into one? Turns out I was still stuck on the tutorial stage, flailing through the emotional UI like a confused player who skipped the prologue and accidentally selected “Hard Mode.”

“My previous life focused on intellectual pursuits,” I said, trying to sound dignified. “Practical skills are… for supporting NPCs like you.”

Damn it. That was supposed to be gratitude. Instead, I’d insulted him. Again.

Allen glanced at me, expression unreadable. “I’m not an NPC.”

Suspicious.

“You say that,” I muttered, “but you literally just triggered a bonding event and gave me a tutorial. That’s textbook quest-giver behavior.”

Finally. The thing I was waiting for.

Allen sighed.

Not just any sigh. That sigh. The one I knew too well. The sigh people exhaled when they saw me as a walking disappointment. I’d heard it when I dropped out. When my parents dragged me to job interviews. When classmates rolled their eyes at my anime obsessions and called me a waste of potential.

I braced myself for rejection. For the inevitable fade-to-black of another failed connection.

Instead, my stomach growled again—loudly, like an angry boar spirit demanding tribute. So much for dramatic flair.

Allen didn’t say anything. He just grabbed the second fish and passed it to me, wrapped in a leaf that shimmered faintly with residual heat. The leaf glowed softly, like it had absorbed the fire’s warmth and decided to share it.

“Come on,” he said. “You need energy too. If we want both of us to survive.”

I stared at him. Not in disbelief. In confusion.

Why? Why help someone like me?

The guilt hit harder than any Demon Lord raid. My hands trembled slightly as I accepted the food. The warmth seeped through the wrapper, grounding me like a low-level healing spell. As the first bite melted in my mouth—charred outside, soft inside—I felt something sting my eyes. Not from the smoke. From something deeper.

The glowing fungi pulsed gently beside us, casting soft halos of light. One flickered in rhythm with my heartbeat, like it was syncing with me. Like it understood.

“Maybe…” I said, voice low, “maybe the reason I was summoned to this world wasn’t to slay gods and demons.”

Allen blinked, mid-chew.

“Maybe I was summoned to… develop social skills.”

Silence.

Awkward, echoing silence.

Then realization hit me like a critical damage notification.

That hadn’t been an internal monologue.

I groaned, burying my face in my hands as the fungi pulsed again—this time in a slow, sympathetic rhythm. Like they were trying to reassure me.