"I still can't believe it.
I just got reincarnated.
Or is it called transmigration? Or whatever.
All I know is that… oh wait, I think it's called isekai. Yeah, yeah, something like that.
Never mind. Whatever.
All I know is that I am no longer in my world.
This isn't even my body."
Michael muttered to himself in his small, dimly lit room. His hands fidgeted nervously on the desk, fingers tapping a staccato rhythm. The faint smell of dust and wood lingered in the air, mixed with a subtle hint of candle smoke. A soft hum of wind rattled the cracked window, making him shiver.
Speaking aloud didn't make it any more real. It didn't change the fact that everything he had known—his old world, his body, his life—was gone.
---
Here's how it all started.
Eighty years ago, portals appeared around the world.
Hunters poured through them, killing monsters, exploring lands unknown. Cities were transformed. Countries trembled. Legends were born. Everyone knew stories of those who became heroes, and everyone wanted to survive.
Achu Michael, though… he was just a normal boy.
Until his parents died when he was eight.
No relatives. No guardians. Just him. Alone in a world that didn't care if he lived or died. Somehow, he survived. Hunger gnawed at his stomach. Cold nights bit into his skin. Every day was a struggle, but he kept going. Every step was heavy, every breath a battle.
By the age of twelve, he had awakened.
---
Legally, he shouldn't have been allowed into dungeons. Minors under sixteen were forbidden.
But Michael begged. Relentlessly. And eventually, a shady crew allowed him in.
They weren't a famous guild. Not even close. They ran illegal operations—smuggling, theft, and worse. They let him into the dungeons, but only to carry their loads. Only to be their tool. Michael obeyed. What choice did he have?
---
Everything changed when he turned eighteen.
That day, the group planned to enter a high-ranked dungeon. The air outside was thick and damp, smelling of mud and rot. The cavern mouth loomed before them like a jagged wound in the earth. Luck was not on their side—they stumbled into a horde of massive orcs, their snarls echoing through the darkness. The sound was guttural, primal, and sent shivers crawling up Michael's spine.
Michael, who had always been kept behind, had no idea what was happening.
When the group finished planning, they called him over. Naïve as ever, he obeyed.
Then, without warning, they shoved him straight into the orcs. And ran. Using him as a shield.
Panic seized him. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst. Every scream, every roar of the orcs made his ears ring.
On the verge of death, he shouted, "Why are you guys doing this to me?"
The leader shouted back, "I'm sorry, but you are the only one without a family here!"
Michael wanted to curse them. But slowly, a bitter understanding washed over him. They weren't cruel—they were desperate. Fighting for their own families.
Resignation settled in like a heavy stone.
While the orcs tore into him, he thought, Why am I even suffering in this world? What good is there here? I haven't even enjoyed alcohol… and I'm still a goddamn virgin. Why did my life come to this?
Blood tasted metallic in his mouth. Pain shot through his limbs. Darkness crept at the edges of his vision. And yet, a strange calm settled over him. I'm coming to you, Mom… Dad.
---
When he opened his eyes again, there was nothing. Absolute darkness pressed against his mind. Silence wrapped around him like a thick fog.
Then, a glowing window appeared, hovering in front of him. Words formed slowly:
"You will be transported in ten… nine… eight..."
Anxiety gripped him. Am I going to heaven or hell?
Four… three…
I'm pretty sure it's heaven, since I haven't committed any crimes.
Two… one…
Darkness swallowed everything again.
---
Michael woke on a hard wooden frame, covered in a stiff white cloth. The fabric smelled faintly of herbs and damp linen. He sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists, feeling the coarse texture bite into his skin. A faint warmth radiated from the room, mixed with the earthy scent of old wood and stone walls.
"Am I in heaven or hell?" he muttered.
Then, after a moment, he added, "I think this is heaven… but why does it look so old? No proper mattress, and it's unbearably warm."
He swung his legs off the bed and moved toward the door. The floor creaked under his weight. Dust floated in the streaks of sunlight that managed to pierce through cracks in the walls. Small insects scuttled in the corners, a reminder that this place was alive in its own quiet way.
Just then, the door opened. A woman entered, balancing a tray with a bowl, eyes fixed entirely on her task rather than him.
"Hello… are you perhaps Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ?" Michael asked cautiously.
The woman raised her head, about to answer. "No, I'm not—I'm…"
Before she could finish, she screamed. She flung the tray to the floor, shattering bowls and spilling food. She ran from the room, screaming all the way down the hall.
Michael's stomach twisted. Did I scare Mary off? Am I that ugly?
He shook his head. No, that can't be. Maybe she wasn't Mary. Maybe… maybe she was an angel or something else. Well, whatever.
Before he could dwell further, a crowd rushed in. Leading them was an elderly woman, her steps urgent, arms outstretched. She leapt forward and embraced him tightly.
"It really was true! My son is still alive! What did I tell you? What did I tell you people? I was sure of it!" Her voice trembled with tears.
Do I look like Jesus Christ? Michael thought, bewildered.
"Ma'am… I think you're mistaken. I'm not—" he began, but she cut him off.
"Go and call the head over here!" Two women immediately ran off to obey.
Michael glanced around, unease settling like a cold fog. The more time passes, the more I think this isn't heaven. If it's not heaven… then where am I?