The city lights smeared into long, dizzy streaks, the roar of an oncoming truck swelling in his ears like a tsunami crashing toward the shore.
But strangely, there was no panic, no fear.
Then, the truck hit him.
And instead of the pain he expected, all he felt was a strange calm settling deep in his chest. It was quiet, warm, and oddly comforting, like falling into a deep, still lake — no agony, no final scream — just calm .
"Well... looks like I got hit by Truck-kun," he thought, a wry grin curling on his lips. "Classic isekai start, huh?"
He could almost hear the cheesy yet familiar voice of a light novel narrator in his head. The kind that spoke just before the protagonist gets whisked away to a fantasy world filled with magic, swords, and impossibly beautiful elves.
He chuckled softly.
"Am I actually grinning right now?"
But then, like a record scratch cutting through a melody, a strange thought crept into his mind.
"Was I always this cheerful?"
The grin faded slightly. His brows furrowed.
I seem to have forgotten some things… or rather, many things that happened in this life.
He'd always heard that people, in their final moments, relived their most important memories — a life flashing before their eyes like the end of a film reel.
The face of a mother. The laughter of a younger sibling. A first kiss. A last regret.
But for him?
Nothing.
There was no flashback of a childhood backyard, no warm smiles of family or the tearful eyes of friends.
Just emptiness.
A quiet void where memories should have been.
"What do I even remember?" he muttered in the stillness, as the roar of the truck vanished into an unreal silence.
He grasped at something — anything — that resembled a life.
And then it came: the scent of sweat and blood, the harsh glow of flickering overhead lights, and the sharp, metallic tang of adrenaline flooding his system. The guttural roars of a crowd echoing off concrete walls.
Underground fights.
That's all he remembered.
Dim alleys slick with rain. Bruised knuckles. Painfully taped ribs. The shouts of spectators baying for blood. The raw sound of fists hitting flesh.
"That's… all I had? I can't even seem to remember my own name. Did I even have one?"All he could recall were fragments — the struggle of underground fights.
He couldn't even recall his own name.
Just images of himself in a ring — sometimes looking 18, sometimes older — trading blows in matches that were barely legal, barely human. From 18 to 21, he fought. And now, at 21, he was dying.
Was there anything else?
No school life. No part-time job. No clear face of a family member or friend.
Just survival. Day after day, until now.
His heart clenched — not with fear, but with a raw honesty. A realization that in 21 years of life, all he had to show for it were bruises, scars, and a few half-remembered anime quotes.
"All I have are these fights... and the stories of manga and anime."
That was his reality.
Some people died with a lifetime's worth of love, achievements, and memories. He had a battered body, calloused fists, and an encyclopedic knowledge of shonen tropes.
Still, even here in the void — where the world was fading and his thoughts were growing faint — something stirred within him.
A wish. A spark.
A dream not yet extinguished.
A smile slowly crept across his face again, this time softer. Real.
"I hope I get reincarnated like those MCs in the anime and novels."
A quiet chuckle escaped his lips, even as blood slowly pooled beneath him on the road he couldn't feel anymore.
"Since I can't seem to remember anything but the sadness of this life... I want to make some good memories too. Memories not filled with desperation, but with choice."
He saw it in his mind — the fantasy worlds he used to read about: lush forests, floating islands, magic spells. But more than the setting, he longed for the connections. A life where people remembered him not for violence but for who he was.
"Friends and allies I can cherish... not like this life, where it seems I had no one. A name that—even if I forget it someday—will still be remembered throughout the centuries."
His eyes softened. "And maybe... a romantic partner too."
It was an embarrassing thought, but not an unfamiliar one. He'd read enough manga to know how that usually went.
A clumsy fall. A spark in the eyes. A bond forged in battle. A kiss beneath the moonlight.
His body slammed against the asphalt — a dull, distant thud.
But strangely, the pain never came. Only the sensation of weightlessness.
The world was growing dim around him, darkness pouring in like fog through a broken window.
But inside, something still burned bright.
"If I get a second life — a real one — I'll live it on my own terms," he whispered. "No regrets. No chains. I'll do everything I ever wanted... and maybe more."
The darkness wrapped around him like a cocoon.
And yet, he wasn't afraid.
…But the darkness didn't stay silent for long.
As his final breath left his lungs, a gentle sound rose in the void — not a voice, exactly, but something older, more resonant. Like the chime of crystal in wind. A presence.
Warmth returned, slowly. Not to his body — he no longer had one — but to his awareness.
Then, words.
[Error: Core Identity Incomplete. Attempting Reconstruction.]
His fading mind twitched.
?What...?"
[Name: Unknown]
[Origin Memory: Fragmented]
[Emotional Foundation: Resilient / Hopeful]
[Compatibility: 92.7%]
Reincarnation Sequence: Pending Approval…
"Re...incarnation?"
His voice didn't echo, but the thought reverberated. Something — someone — was processing him. Evaluating.
He was in between. Not alive, not quite dead. Not yet reborn.
Suddenly, light.
Not blinding. More like the soft radiance of morning sunlight through a high temple ceiling.
Before him stood a figure — vaguely feminine, cloaked in robes that shimmered like starlight. Her features were ethereal, unreadable, as if constantly shifting between beauty and awe.
She tilted her head.
"You are not like the others."
He blinked, or thought he did.
"Others?"
"The ones who come here screaming, crying, clinging to lives filled with people, regrets, and undone dreams. You… smiled at the death's door. And more curiously still… you remain conscious."
He swallowed. Or imagined the act.
"I don't know if I had anything to cling to." He said ignoring the conscious part as he did not seem to understand that part. Why did he ignore it you ask? It is because he believes in the philosophy that 'If u can not understand something just ignore it.'
The figure nodded, not unkindly.
"That is both tragedy and freedom."
She raised a hand, and suddenly — his memories.
Or at least, the broken fragments of them — began to swirl around them like leaves in a storm. Fights. Dark alleys. Split knuckles. Silent nights spent on cold concrete. The flicker of a TV screen glowing with anime reruns.
The woman (goddess?) traced one glowing memory — a rain-slick street, his face lit by the phone screen as he waited for a bus that never came.
"You lived simply... yet stubbornly."
He sighed. "I wouldn't call it living. It was more like… surviving."
The figure's eyes shimmered.
"Then would you like to truly live?"
He didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
She extended her hand.
"Then rise, child of shadow and story. I grant you a second life — and the power to forge your own tale."
As her hand touched his, the light consumed him. A wave of warmth and possibility surged through what was left of him.
His senses blurred. His body dissolved into pure will — and then... into silence.