So, the name's ****. I'm a 20-year-old pseudo otaku attending university away from home—mostly to escape my mom's constant nagging about "getting a life." Well, I can't precisely say out loud that I want to be isekai-ed. I mean, that would land me in a mental hospital.
Right now, I'm on a public bus heading to college, listening to my mother rant on the phone about some relative's son getting a high-paying job.
"See? Even he got a job, and he used to score lower than you in middle school!" came the voice from the other side.
"Mom, that was middle school…" I tried to defend.
"So what? Just the subjects have changed, blah blah…" I spaced out at that logic, my brain hitting a full-on blue screen of death.
Yep. That's what I'm up against. Not that my marks are low—they're 2 or 3 points above the average.
After my brain rebooted with a new operating system, I replied, "Mom, he barely does anything other than study."
"And what do you do? Watch your bloody cartoons…"
I half-imagined holy music halting at that line and wanted to scream Blasphemy! But I restrained myself.
"I see you are not a woman of culture," I said.
"What?!?"
"Nothing."
"Get going or you'll be late for class."
"Mom, the bus doesn't move according to me."
"Shut up. Get up early tomorrow. Anyway, here, talk to your dad. The neighbors come over—I need to convince her to vote for me in the upcoming 'Lady of the Neighborhood' election." She handed the phone to Dad.
"Hello there."
"General Kenobi."
"I dearly regret the blasphemy that came from my wife's mouth. I seek forgiveness and will accept any punishment you decree."
"Watch Boku no Pico."
"…Nope."
"But you said any punishment."
"I need to work tomorrow, not lie down having a talk-no-jutsu session with a psychiatrist. Although I admit the view would be better than at my office. Who the hell hires a male receptionist? It ruins my whole damn day walking into that place."
"Dad, you're almost 50. Stop being a perv."
"I'm not a perv. I'm a man of culture. When I was your age—"
"You already lost your virginity. I know."
"If you know, then why are you still a virgin?"
"Otaku license."
"…Not gonna argue with that." I chuckled.
"So, how's life?"
"You know. Normal. Your mother's running a campaign to get anime banned on local cable TV."
"Poor kids."
"Yeah. All we can do is pray. Oh, and I've been free lately thanks to a new employee I can dump my work on."
"Your son will be the same one day."
"That's why it's so fun to make your life harder. After all, I was the one who introduced you to the holy religion of anime."
"And that's why Mom keeps screaming in my ear."
"Do you regret it?"
"Nope." We both laughed.
"Anyway, take care…"
"Wait, your punishment is still pending."
"Tch. Alright, hit me with it." I smiled wickedly.
"Sung Jin-Woo dies in chapter 160 of the manhwa and lives in an illusion in 161 created by the original Shadow Monarch. He's given a choice—to live in illusion or reality. Alright, bye."
I hung up just as I heard a furious "BASTAR—" on the other side. Take that, old man.
Anyway, the bus stopped near the college gate. I got out and saw the guard glaring at me. Yeah, I was late. I mean, for fuck's sake—what kind of class is at 8 in the morning? Even the street dogs are still asleep at that hour.
My strategy is simple: class is at 8, get up at 7:45, change while brushing, spray deodorant, take a five-minute ride to college, walk in late, and make an excuse. Done.
At this point, even the teacher has stopped saying anything. I walk in, and the teacher pauses mid-sentence to stare at me. I smile. A chalk piece flies toward my head—I duck and head to my seat as the teacher clicks his tongue.
I don't have many friends. I'm a proud loner.
Classes drag on as I repeatedly nod off. Kids, you need eight hours of sleep—especially if you start a new anime the night before. Like I did.
Starting an anime the night before is a dangerous move. It's not a tale your friends will tell you.
After class, I head to the otaku club—or what's left of it. It's not official this year. Damn bodybuilders took our room for storage, and the staff happily supported them. We were disbanded. Hope you reincarnate in Boku no Pico as kids, you bastards.
"Hey, what's up?" a voice called out. I turned to see James—the handsome guy of our otaku club. Hard to believe, right? But aside from the looks, he's an otaku to the bone.
"Nothing. Just hoping Truck-Kun shows up," I replied.
"Dude, I've been praying every day, but nobody's come."
"Have faith, my child. The holy Truck-Kun will answer." Another voice joined us—it was Jake, the short guy of the group, walking over.
"Jake, how's the cosplay pass prep going?"
"I managed to secure three passes. We're in."
"Fucking finally."
"We've waited for this. Now it's our time to shine."
"What are you dressing up as?" I asked James.
"My dude—Madara."
"And you, Jake?"
"Still undecided. You?"
"Can't decide."
"Well, decide fast, dude. You need time to get your outfit ready," Jake said.
We hung out, messing around until evening. Eventually, we called it a day and started heading home. But as luck would have it, I missed the bus. So, I began walking back to the apartment.
While crossing an empty street, I felt like someone was watching me. I turned around and saw a big truck. As if it had spotted me, it revved its engine and began creeping toward me.
I couldn't help but mutter, "Oh? You're approaching me?"
It paused. I looked at it. It looked at me. I turned and began walking. It started rolling forward. I sped up—it did too.
I started jogging. It gained speed.
I broke into a full sprint. It roared and gave chase.
Just as I was racing down a narrow lane, a small pickup truck rammed into me, crashing me into a nearby house wall.
Pain exploded through me. I looked up and saw the big truck in the distance.
"So you were teaching your young one, huh?" I thought, barely holding on.
As the darkness closed in, my final thought was: Shit, I haven't cleared my browser history. Hope those assholes remember our promise if one of us gets isekai-ed…
And then, I lost consciousness.