I died before I even realized it.
Darkness swallowed everything, sound, sensation, thought itself. There was no pain, no fear… only an endless void.
Then, after what felt like seconds, or perhaps minutes… hours… or even longer, I regained consciousness.
I found myself sitting inside a large, empty white room.
Four walls. Perfectly smooth. Perfectly silent.
At the center stood a plain office desk, and across from me sat one person.
He was an ordinary looking office worker.
He wore a formal shirt with rolled sleeves, a loosened tie, and rectangular glasses resting low on his nose. Without sparing me even a glance, he continued signing stacks of documents piled endlessly on his desk.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
The sound of his pen moving across paper echoed through the room.
The silence was so overwhelming that I could hear my own heartbeat.
Wait… heartbeat?
Instinctively, I checked my body. Solid. Warm. Breathing normally.
So I wasn't exactly dead.
Looking around again, I noticed something unsettling, there were no doors. No windows. No entrances or exits whatsoever. Just endless white walls enclosing us.
A sudden realization struck me.
This feels familiar…
All those novels, anime, and web stories I had consumed flashed through my mind.
Could this be—
Trying to suppress my excitement, I cautiously spoke.
"Um… am I going to get isekai'd? You know… summoned to another world to save it from disaster or something?"
The office man stopped writing for exactly one second.
Without looking up, he replied flatly,
"No."
My excitement immediately deflated.
"Then… reincarnation? Or transmigration?"
"No."
"…Then why am I here?"
This time, he placed his pen down and finally looked at me.
His eyes carried the exhaustion of someone buried under centuries of paperwork.
"You were killed," he said calmly, "by the God of Trucks."
I blinked.
"…I'm sorry, what?"
"The God of Trucks," he repeated patiently. "A troublesome deity who sends avatars, commonly known as trucks, to lower worlds. He runs over individuals like you and reincarnates or transmigrates them into different dimensions… purely for entertainment."
My brain froze trying to process that sentence.
He sighed and adjusted his glasses.
"Do you have any idea how much chaos reincarnators and transmigrators create?"
Before I could answer, he continued.
"Every foreign soul introduced into a stable dimension alters probability. Their knowledge, decisions, and unpredictable actions generate exponential divergence in fate lines. Over time, these deviations accumulate."
He tapped a document on the desk.
"And eventually… the dimension collapses under excessive disorder."
A chill ran down my spine.
"So," he continued, "multiple higher gods and goddesses, whose home dimensions were repeatedly destroyed or on verge of being destroyed, formed an organization."
He leaned back slightly.
"The Interdimensional Council of Order."
The name alone carried weight.
"They exist for one purpose," he said.
"To prevent dimensional collapse… and to clean up the mess left behind by irresponsible reincarnators and transmigrators."
He picked up another file and flipped it open.
Then he looked directly at me.
"And unfortunately for you…"
My name appeared on the document.
"…you've become part of that cleanup process."
I frowned. "Cleanup?"
The office worker interlocked his fingers and finally gave me his full attention.
"The God of Trucks does not discriminate," he said. "Some individuals he sends across dimensions become heroes… innovators… saviors."
He flipped open another file.
"And some become catastrophes."
Images briefly flashed above the desk, cities burning, kingdoms collapsing, timelines fracturing like broken glass.
"Reincarnators possess foreign knowledge, alien ethics, and unpredictable ambition. When used responsibly, they accelerate progress."
Another image appeared, advanced civilizations flourishing.
"The Council does not interfere with beneficial outcomes."
The images vanished.
"But power without restraint inevitably produces excess."
His voice hardened slightly.
"Certain reincarnators exploit prophecy, manipulate economies, enslave populations, destabilize divine systems, or attempt ascension beyond permitted limits."
I swallowed.
"And those are the ones you eliminate?"
He shook his head.
"No. Elimination is the final measure."
He tapped the desk once.
"Our role is correction."
A new holographic document appeared between us.
"Good individuals are left alone. However, every action produces consequences, political imbalance, technological contamination, magical overload, paradoxical timelines."
He looked directly into my eyes.
"When a reincarnator saves a kingdom by introducing gunpowder… wars inevitably follow."
"When one cures disease using advanced knowledge… population collapse or resource wars may emerge decades later."
"When one defeats a Demon King… the power vacuum may destroy the world faster than the demon ever could."
A quiet realization settled in me.
"So… someone has to deal with the aftermath."
"Correct."
He nodded approvingly.
"That someone is an Interdimensional Regulator"
The title felt heavier now.
"Your duty is not to judge morality," he continued.
"You investigate instability."
"You observe."
"You intervene when consequences exceed dimensional tolerance."
"And only when absolutely necessary… you neutralize the source."
I exhaled slowly.
"So I'm not hunting protagonists."
"No."
He resumed signing documents.
"You ensure that protagonists do not accidentally destroy reality."
The statement lingered in the silent room.
A cosmic auditor.
A disaster regulator.
A handler of unintended consequences.
"…And why me?" I asked quietly.
He turned another page.
"Because you died outside scheduled fate parameters."
My name glowed faintly on the file.
"Individuals like you possess minimal karmic anchoring. You adapt well across dimensions and generate low causal resistance."
In simpler terms—
I was expendable.
A contract materialized before me.
-------
[INTERDIMENSIONAL COUNCIL OF ORDER]
[OFFICIAL APPOINTMENT NOTICE]
[DESIGNATION: INTERDIMENSIONAL REGULATOR]
[DIVISION: CASUAL STABILITY ENFORCEMENT]
-------
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
He answered without emotion.
"Then your soul proceeds to standard recycling."
Memory erased. Identity gone.
Existence concluded.
I stared at the contract for a long moment.
Heroes saving worlds.
Villains destroying them.
And someone forced to clean what neither side noticed.
Slowly, I picked up the pen.
"…Looks like every story needs maintenance staff."
For the first time—
the office man smiled.
"Welcome to the Council."