Chapter 1 — The Long Road Home
The hospice room was quiet in a way battlefields never were. No gunfire. No explosions. No frantic shouts for medics. Just the steady hum of old fluorescent bulbs and the soft ticking of a clock that seemed determined to measure out the last grains of a man's life.
The bed's occupant had lived long enough to grow used to silence again, but the memories those never dulled.
Jacob Henry Walker, U.S. Marine Corps, retired Staff Sergeant, two-war veteran, ninety-one years old, lay beneath thin white sheets staring at the ceiling as dusk's fading orange crept across it.
He was dying.
And he knew it.
He wasn't afraid not really. But he felt the weight of time like a hand on his chest, pressing gently but insistently. His breaths came slow, each one a little shallower than the last. Hell of a run, old man, he thought as his lips curled faintly. Never thought I'd get past thirty.
The door creaked open.
"Dad?" a woman's voice whispered.
Jacob turned his head. His daughter, Marianne his last surviving child stood there, small, tired, and trying to smile. Behind her came two of his grandchildren, hovering awkwardly at the edge of the room.
He forced a smile. "Hey, kiddo."
"You should be resting," she chided softly.
"Nah." He coughed lightly. "Figure I'll have plenty of time for that soon enough."
Marianne winced. "Don't say that."
He knew she needed comfort, but Jacob had never been a liar not in war, not in life, and not on his deathbed. So instead, he reached out his hand. She took it, squeezing gently.
"How's the pain?" she asked.
"Manageable."
Liar. But this lie was allowed.
"You want anything? Water? I can call the nurse"
"I'm good," he murmured. "Just… stay. That's all."
She nodded and sat beside him. The grandkids lingered a minute, uncertain. He gave them a small wave.
"You two go stretch your legs," Marianne said. "I'll call you when, when it's time to head home."
They left. The door clicked shut.
Jacob stared at the fading light again.
"Dad…" Marianne's voice cracked. "Were you scared? Over there? When you were serving?"
He chuckled a rough, rattling sound. "Every damn day."
"I thought Marines weren't supposed to be scared."
"That's the biggest lie the Corps ever told," he said with a smirk. "Courage ain't not feeling fear. It's doing your job anyway."
She nodded slowly, wiping her eyes.
"Tell me about it?" she asked after a moment. "Just… once more?"
Jacob closed his eyes. And the world drifted back—
Vietnam — 1968
Heat. Humidity. Bugs thick enough to form clouds. He was twenty-four, boots heavy with mud, helmet low, teeth clenched as the jungle swallowed every sound except his own heartbeat.
"Move up!" Lieutenant Harris whispered, hand signaling forward.
Their squad advanced through tall grass, crouched low. They'd been ambushed the night before; one man dead, two wounded badly enough for evac. Anger churned inside Jacob even now—anger at the enemy they could never see, anger at the incompetence of orders they couldn't question, anger at the fear that gnawed at all of them. A twig snapped.
Jacob froze.
"Contact!" someone shouted.
Gunfire erupted from the trees. Bullets sliced through leaves. One struck Harris in the shoulder, spinning him around. Jacob grabbed him, hauling him behind a fallen log. Dirt exploded around them as machine-gun fire strafed the ground.
"Walker, take point!" Harris gasped.
So Jacob did. He moved through the trees like a ghost, adrenaline sharpening everything the crackle of branches, the distant shouts, the acrid smell of gunpowder. Three enemy soldiers flanked their position. He didn't hesitate.
Breathe. Aim. Fire.
One fell. The others scattered. Jacob pressed forward anyway because if he didn't, his squad would die. He didn't remember shouting. He didn't remember reloading. He didn't remember the exact moment the firefight ended. But he remembered Harris looking at him afterward, eyes wide.
"You saved us," Harris whispered.
Jacob shrugged, wiping blood from his cheek he didn't even know whose it was.
"Just doing my job, sir."
Iraq — 2003
He was decades older. Slower. Wiser.
The desert stretched endless and brutal, sun beating down on armor too hot to touch. Convoys ran long, dangerous routes. IEDs were everywhere. His unit approached a village where intel suggested insurgent activity. The tension in the Humvee was suffocating. A boy darted into the road.
"Stop!" Jacob yelled.
The driver slammed the brakes. Then Jacob saw it. A wire. Thin, almost invisible. Leading from a buried device toward the village wall.
"IED!" he shouted.
But it wasn't aimed at the convoy. It was aimed at the boy. He didn't think. He threw open the door, lunged forward, grabbed the child, and hurled them both behind a low stone barrier. The explosion shook the earth. Dust swallowed the world. When the air cleared, he heard screaming, coughing. The boy stared at him wide-eyed, terrified but alive.
His CO approached, shaking his head.
"You're insane, Walker."
Jacob spat dust. "Someone's gotta be."
Present Day – Hospice Room
He came back to himself slowly. Marianne watched him, tears shining.
"You never told me any of that," she murmured.
"No point. Past is past."
"It made you who you are."
"Yeah," he whispered. "But it also took a lot. Friends. Brothers. Parts of me I never got back."
She leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"I love you, Dad."
He squeezed her hand weakly. "Love you too… kiddo."
A sharp ache twisted through his chest. He inhaled, but the air didn't fill his lungs the way it used to. The world dimmed around the edges.
"Marianne… call the… nurse."
Her face crumpled. She fumbled for the call button. He drifted. The nurse rushed in. Machines beeped. Voices echoed.
"Blood pressure dropping—"
"Stay with us, Mr. Walker—"
"Get his daughter back—"
Everything blurred. His heart thudded hard once, twice, then slowed. He heard crying. Someone held his hand. His final thought wasn't of war, or death, or fear.
It was of his daughter when she was five, laughing as he pushed her on a swing. Not bad, he thought faintly. For a screwed-up kid from Kansas… not bad at all.
And then Jacob Walker died. The line between breath and no breath was so thin he barely noticed when he crossed it.
The Quiet Between Realms
For a moment maybe a minute, maybe a thousand years there was nothing.
No body.
No pain.
No age.
He floated in warm darkness, peaceful, weightless. Then he felt something else.
Presence.
A soft glow bloomed around him. Not blinding. Comforting. Like starlight reflected on water. A shape slowly formed: A sphere of shifting light, swirling with blues, golds, and hues beyond mortal sight.
Not an angel.
Not a god.
Something older. Higher. More fundamental.
When it spoke, there was no sound yet the meaning bloomed directly into his consciousness.
"Jacob Henry Walker. Your journey in that life has reached its conclusion."
He tried to speak but he had no mouth.
Somehow, the being understood anyway.
So this is the afterlife?
"A transition point, not an end. Your soul has been cataloged, evaluated, and deemed eligible for continuation."
Continuation? A dry laugh echoed through the void. I thought death was supposed to be final.
"For many, it is. For a few… it is an opportunity."
He would have frowned if he still had a face. An opportunity for what? The orb pulsed gently.
"Reincarnation."
Jacob blinked or felt like he did. You're kidding.
"I do not 'kid.' I offer choice."
A ripple of light expanded outward, forming… something like a vast cosmic interface. Symbols, worlds, shapes he couldn't understand.
Then:
"Your next existence will begin soon. Before that… you must select your parameters."
Parameters?
Then he realized:
It was a gacha board. Bright, spinning, chaotic like a cosmic slot machine. He felt a sinking feeling.
"Oh, hell," he muttered. "I died just to get dumped into some gacha nightmare?"
The orb pulsed with amusement.
"Correct."
And the board began to spin