Dazai Osamu had traveled to the farthest corners of the world, chasing stories that no other reporter dared to touch. He had walked through warzones, climbed unforgiving mountains, and sailed across treacherous waters, all in pursuit of the unknown. But nothing—nothing—had ever left him as speechless as the sight before him.

Standing among the members of the remote African tribe he had come to study was someone who, by all logic, shouldn’t be there.

A man with pale skin.

Fiery red hair.

And piercing blue eyes.

Dazai had spent years navigating different cultures, learning how to blend in, how to earn trust in the most closed-off communities. But this? This was something else entirely.

The stranger didn’t just live among the tribe—he moved with them, spoke like them, carried himself with the same hardened grace of a man who had never known another way of life. His clothes were no different from theirs, his body scarred from hunting, his hands steady as he carried a sharpened spear. But his features—his unmistakably foreign features—told a different story.

Chuuya.

That was the name the others called him.

Dazai watched as he spoke in the tribe’s tongue, his voice firm, his expressions raw and unfiltered. He barely seemed to know English—only a handful of words, his accent thick, his understanding broken. But there was no hesitation in his actions, no trace of someone who longed for another life.

Dazai had come expecting isolation, secrecy, and a wary reception from the tribe that avoided all outsiders. Instead, he was offered something he had never imagined—an invitation to stay among them for a few days.

And, whether he liked it or not, that meant getting closer to him.

To Chuuya.

To the mystery of the white-skinned warrior who didn’t belong—but had somehow, against all odds, become one of them.