Michael Williams leaned back in his worn recliner, the cheap leather creaking beneath his weight. The glow from the television flickered across his rugged features, highlighting faint scars on his knuckles and a thin line across his jaw, souvenirs of a life that had demanded more of him than most. His hand held a half-empty beer, condensation dripping onto his worn jeans, but the chill barely registered
Tonight, like many nights before, he watched another isekai anime, the ridiculous premise of a teenage protagonist dying and being reborn into a fantasy world sprawled across the screen.
The protagonist had just met the trope's usual absurd death: from a normal boy to somehow managing to die hilariously, to be reborn as a chosen hero.
The scene on-screen drew a dry, humourless laugh from him. "Truck-kun strikes again. how fucking original," he muttered, the sarcasm bitter
He took another swig, letting the carbonation burn down his throat. He had seen real death. Real blood. Men he'd commanded—young soldiers whose lives rested on his decisions—had died screaming, bleeding, and shaking in the dirt of Afghanistan. There was no reset button, no convenient "another world" to redeem failure. And yet here he was, chuckling at the cartoonish death of a fictional teenager crushed by a truck, supposedly rewarded for dying in the most ridiculous way possible.
Michael's disdain for the trope didn't prevent him from appreciating it. Anime had become a sanctuary of sorts after leaving the Marines. During one of his deployments, a younger squad member had insisted they watch GATE on a battered laptop during a rare, quiet night in the desert.
At first, he had scoffed, sceptical of any portrayal of military operations that wasn't U.S.-based. Japan's depiction of logistics, tactics, and chain-of-command seemed exaggerated, or at least different from the rigid structures he had relied upon for six years. Yet there was something undeniably captivating about it—the melding of military precision with the chaos of a fantasy realm.
Soldiers moving in formation, commanding from the frontlines, facing monsters with discipline and strategy—it felt familiar, yet impossible.
It was the first spark.
After leaving the Marines at twenty-four, Michael had discovered Naruto. The series appealed to him for its harsh reality. Children were trained to be weapons; failure had consequences. Power didn't fall from the sky—it was earned, forged through effort, suffering, and determination.
Unlike many isekai protagonists who stumbled into invincibility, Naruto's world was brutal, and its rules consistent.
Bleach followed soon after. While the audience celebrated Ichigo's reckless bravery, Michael admired Aizen. A man who planned decades ahead, manipulating the very framework of the world around him to achieve his goals. Intelligence over brute force. Precision over impulse. That, he understood. That resonated.
And then there was Dragonball. Pure spectacle. Endless escalation. Limitless drive. No overthinking required—just raw, chaotic, unapologetic power. It spoke to a different part of him, the part that had once thrived on challenge for its own sake, not strategy.
Tonight, he had settled on a marathon of absurdity. The protagonist on the screen, flailing in exaggerated death, drew another scoff. Michael leaned back further, the leather protesting, his mind wandering into memories he didn't often indulge in anymore.
He thought about Afghanistan. How, at twenty-two, he had been promoted to a squad leader becoming responsible for a dozen men's lives.
The weight of command had been relentless. Every decision, every order, carried stakes that could not be undone. Each patrol, each mission, had forced him to anticipate outcomes, calculate risk, and absorb the consequences of failure.
He had survived mortar fire, ambushes, and roadside bombs. He had survived losing good men to poor odds. He had survived situations that would have killed lesser men, sometimes by inches, sometimes by luck alone.
And now? Now he was a civilian, sipping beer on a Friday night, observing an animated teenager meet his end in a way so absurd it made his stomach ache with disbelief.
The phone on the table buzzed. Michael sighed, picking it up. Jackson, an old buddy from his security contracting days, was on the line.
"Mike, sorry to call so late. But listen, we're currently down a guy from covid. And I was wanting to know if you are still interested in doing some side work?"
Michael rubbed his eyes and slowly stood up from the old recliner. "Yeah I am. Just send me the address and I'll be there as soon as possible."
Setting the phone down, took the last swig of beer, and pulled on his jacket. Michael laced up his boots tight just like he used to in the military.
Grabbing his keys from his bedside table Michael walked outside, closing then locking the apartment door behind him, The quiet night enveloped him as he stepped outside.
The street was calm. Suburban. Peaceful, in a way that felt alien to him. The faint hum of street lamps, a distant dog barking, a neighbour's car alarm somewhere far off. His boots echoed softly as he walked across the street toward his vehicle, mind drifting to the absurdities he had just watched.
Then he heard it.
A low, growing rumble.
Michael's instincts, refined through six years of combat and survival, kicked in before conscious thought could.
He stiffened, scanning the shadows. The vibration of the asphalt beneath his feet intensified. The smell of exhaust, acrid and overwhelming, hit his nose.
And suddenly, his peripheral vision picked up the glint of chrome and metal, too close.
The truck.
It was moving fast. Too fast.
"...You've got to be shitting me," he muttered under his breath.
Muscle memory took over. He twisted, braced, even considered rolling to the side—but there was nowhere to go. The truck was upon him before he could react fully.
BANG!!!-
Time slowed.
Michael felt the initial strike as a violent, searing force. His body bent unnaturally, metal and flesh meeting in grotesque choreography. Bones shattered. Ribs snapped with a sound like splintering wood. His spine jolted, and he tasted copper—blood rushing into his mouth. Each breath became a razor cutting through lungs that had never failed him before.
He tried to move but nothing responded, Pain screamed through every nerve ending. To Michael the world was now only pain, only disorientation, only chaos.
And yet, in the midst of it, he could think.
'This pain… It isn't back like in Afghanistan, Not even close. This pain… it's real. Real and final.'
He coughed violently, blood bubbling past his cracked teeth. His hands twitched in helpless reflex, an echo of drills and reactions drilled into him over years of service.
Suddenly a thought came to his mind
'Surely, it couldn't be that, right?'
He couldn't believe his luck, just as he said anything about isekai protagonists dying in stupid ways, this happens to him.
Anger built up inside of him
"I'll kill you," Michael hissed, voice ragged, blood sliding down his lips. His hands spasmed in the air as if he could grasp fate itself. "If this is your idea of a joke, I swear I—"
He gagged, choked, and collapsed mid-sentence. The words died in his throat. For a moment, absurdity pierced the pain.
Truck-kun.
He had always mocked the trope. Now he was living it.
Anger flared even hotter than the pain. Rage sharpened his fading consciousness. He reflected on every firefight, every patrol, every life he had been responsible for. How he had stared death in the face countless times, and yet here it was—mocking him in the most surreal way imaginable.
I survived firefights, ambushes, and explosions. I survived chaos itself. And now a truck? A truck ends me.
Michael's thoughts blurred. The world swirled between light and darkness, pain and disbelief. And yet he smiled—bitterly, weakly, sardonic.
If this is a joke… you've underestimated me.
Muscle memory, again, kicked in despite the overwhelming agony. He flexed hands that were already useless, and tried to push against the asphalt, yet nothing moved. Blood streamed from every direction. But still, the mind assessed. Tactical, analytical, calm in the storm of dying:
-His body would fail within seconds.
-Breathing shallow, but the heart is still pounding.
-Pain, strong enough to dull the senses, but mind intact.
And somewhere in that chaos, a faint humour flickered.
'If this is what isekai is like… I'm going to laugh in the next life. I'm going to mock the gods for this. I'll-'
'Cough, Cough'
Darkness closed in on the edges of vision. Pain intensified. Rage burned. The last coherent thought that survived, jagged and electric, was:
I will not bow. I will not be made a joke again.
Then… nothing...