My name is Nguyen Hoang Kim Long, just turned twenty-six years old. My life in Saigon – or more accurately, Ho Chi Minh City – has nothing special about it. I grew up in an orphanage, without a father or mother, and from a young age, I learned to take care of myself. I have few friends, mostly superficial relationships at the company where I work as an office employee with repetitive tasks: typing on the keyboard, checking reports, drinking black coffee to stay alert through long, tedious meetings. Every morning, I wake up at six, squeeze onto the bus amid the rushing crowd, then return to my rented room at eight in the evening, eat a bowl of instant noodles, and scroll on my phone until late. No grand dreams, no lofty ambitions. Just enough money to pay for the room, food, and occasionally buy a fantasy book to escape reality. That's me, an ordinary guy so invisible in this bustling city.
That day was a beautiful one. The sky was blue, the sun gentle, the air cool and crisp, rare in the midst of the sweltering summer. I left the office earlier than usual because the boss let us go after completing a project. Walking along the familiar street, I thought about stopping at the usual com tam restaurant to get a portion to take home. Everything was proceeding normally to the point where I had no idea that moment would change everything. Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit me, as if the world around was bending. The sounds of vehicles, people talking and laughing, all faded. I tried to grab the roadside railing, but my hand only grasped air. Then darkness swallowed everything.
When I woke up, I was lying in the middle of an unfamiliar forest. Not the familiar tropical forest in Vietnam, but a damp place with towering trees and dense foliage blocking the sky. The ground beneath my feet was soft and mushy, mixed with the smell of decaying leaves and something foul and unpleasant. I sat up, my mind still spinning, checking my body: no wounds, my office clothes still intact – white shirt, black trousers, shiny leather shoes now covered in mud. "Am I dreaming?" I muttered, trying to stand. But no, the pain in my back and the real smell of the forest couldn't be a dream. My heart pounded as I realized: I've been isekai'd. Like in those isekai stories I've read. But why me? An ordinary guy, no hero, no special skills.
Before I could panic, an invisible voice echoed in my head, cold and mechanical: [Welcome to the system. You have been selected to participate in the new world. Proceeding to implant basic information.] I startled, looking around but seeing no one. Then a massive stream of data flooded my brain, as if someone was cramming knowledge into my head. Painful, but not enough to pass out. Information about this place: Kanto, a desolate land after a horrific earthquake, where humans are divided into the strong and the weak, where violence reigns. And this world… is the world of Violence Jack. I know that manga well – a classic by Go Nagai, full of blood, violence, and giant characters like monsters. Slum King, biker gangs, brutal battles. "Fuck," I cursed inwardly, trying to suppress the trembling. Why not a light fantasy world like Sword Art Online or Konosuba? Why this hell on earth?
The system continued: [To assist the newbie, the system grants two gifts. First gift: Proficiency in Japanese language and writing. You will communicate and read/write like a native.] Immediately, I felt the change. Japanese words flowed through my mind naturally, as if I'd learned them from childhood. Second gift: [Violence Jack's gene, upgraded version. This gene set is ten times stronger than the original, including physical strength, recovery ability, and instinctive combat skills.] Before I could react, the pain hit. It felt like my body was being torn apart and reassembled. Bones cracked, muscles bulged, blood surged in my veins. I collapsed to my knees, screaming in agony, sweat pouring like rain. The process lasted perhaps only a few minutes, but to me, it felt like hours. Every cell was transforming: taller, larger, stronger. When the pain subsided, I gasped for breath, looking down at my body.
The system opened a virtual stats panel floating before my eyes, like in a game: Height: 2.5 meters. Weight: 300 kg. Strength: 50 times that of a normal human. Speed: Can run 100 km/h. Recovery ability: Fatal wounds heal in minutes. Instinctive skills: Use of giant dagger (Jack Knife), transformation into various forms (Lady Jack, Kid Jack, Devilman – but upgraded with tenfold power). My face now looked fiercer, sharp features carved from stone, eyes flashing with inhuman brutality. My office clothes were torn to shreds from the body expansion, shirt buttons popped revealing a rippling muscular chest, trousers ripped leaving only the lower part covered. Leather shoes burst open, large feet now barefoot. I touched my face, feeling the change: no longer the scholarly look, but a giant ready to crush everything.
"Is this… me?" I whispered, my voice now deep and resonant like thunder. The overflowing power made me want to test it immediately, but reason held me back. The system continued: [Main quest: Survive and leave Kanto within one month. Completion will grant a major reward. See you in one month.] Then it went silent, disappearing as if it never existed. "Fuck you!" I growled inwardly, punching a nearby tree hard. The tree crashed down, the sound echoing through the forest. Why throw me here without any further guidance? No weapons, no map, just this monstrous body and a vague quest. I cursed the system for a long while, but then calmed down. Survival first. This isn't a comic, but reality – a reality full of violence like Violence Jack.
My stomach growled from hunger. I hadn't eaten since morning, and this new body seemed to burn energy faster. I started wandering through the forest, trying to find food. The Kanto forest in this world wasn't ordinary: twisted trees, leaves in strange colors, and a heavy atmosphere like pollution. I picked some wild fruits that looked like blueberries, tasting them cautiously. Sour and sweet, not poisonous – at least my new instincts told me so. After eating a few, I continued on, ears listening to every sound. Suddenly, a roar came from the bushes. A monstrous beast charged out: body like a wolf but twice as big, skin covered in sharp spikes, eyes blood-red. It leaped at me, jaws full of jagged teeth.
Combat instincts kicked in. Without thinking, I dodged to the side, right hand swinging up to punch its flank hard. Bones cracked, the beast flew into a tree, blood splattering. But it wasn't dead, growling as it got up and charged again. I picked up a broken branch, using it like a club to smash its head. The head split open, a foul stench rising. I panted, looking at the beast's corpse: not a normal wolf, but like a hybrid from hell. The bloody smell made my stomach churn. I turned away, vomiting up the wild fruits I'd just eaten. "Damn it," I muttered, wiping my mouth. Even hungry, I didn't dare eat raw meat. This physique was strong, perhaps it could handle it, but I didn't want to lose my humanity. Eating raw meat, killing – that's the path to becoming a real monster, like the characters in Violence Jack.
Continuing on, I encountered two more similar beasts. This time, instincts helped me handle them faster: one punch through the chest, one kick shattering the jaw. The blood stench made me vomit again, but less than the first time. I tried not to think about killing living creatures, focusing on finding safe food. Luckily, I found a bush of berries, picking handfuls and devouring them. The juice quenched my thirst, but my stomach still rumbled. As night fell, the forest became more dangerous with echoing howls. I needed a place to rest. After an hour of wandering, I found a small cave, hidden under a cliff. Checking inside: no beasts, just damp rocks and moss. I gathered some dry grass to make a bedding, lying down. The giant body made the cave cramped, but the new endurance kept me from feeling cold without fire.
Lying in the darkness, my thoughts wandered endlessly. Lucky that this physique surpasses normal humans – otherwise, with zero survival knowledge from my office life, I'd have died on the first day. No fire, no tools, just bare hands and monstrous strength. In the isekai stories I read, protagonists survive easily: with magic, constant system support. Reality is far crueler – hunger, thirst, fear, and crushing loneliness. "Tomorrow, I'll figure it out," I told myself, closing my eyes. A long night passed in the pitch-black cave, the forest wind whispering like a reminder: Kanto does not forgive the weak.
In the damp darkness of the cave, sleep came to me unexpectedly, like a river sweeping away all fatigue. This giant body, no matter how strong, still needed rest after a long day battling fear and hunger. The rustling wind outside the cave entrance was like a soothing lullaby, pulling me deep into the dream world. And then, the dream arrived – not chaotic images of the ruined Kanto, but a clear stream of memories, as if my twenty-six years of life were replayed before my eyes. It started from the very beginning, when I knew nothing of this harsh world.
I dreamed of myself as a newborn baby, crying in the stark white hospital room. No warm embrace from a mother, no smile from a father. The nurses later told me I was found on the roadside, wrapped in an old blanket, amid a torrential Saigon rain. No name, no origin – just a tiny life abandoned in the rushing flow of life. They took me to the orphanage in Binh Thanh District, which later became the only "home" I knew. In the early days, I lay in an iron crib, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the cries of other children. The nuns at the orphanage said I cried less than the others, as if from infancy I'd learned to endure in silence. They named me Nguyen Hoang Kim Long – "Kim Long" meaning golden dragon, hoping to bring luck to an unfortunate child. But luck doesn't come easily; life at the orphanage was a string of deprivations, with meager meals from relief rice and wilted vegetables. I grew up among children in similar situations, learning to share the last piece of bread, and sometimes fighting over an old ball.
At three years old, my first clear memory was running in the orphanage yard, tripping and crying from a bleeding knee. An old nun, Mrs. Lan, picked me up, cleaned the wound with diluted salt water, and told fairy tales about orphaned boys becoming heroes. She was the closest to me, teaching me to read from old books, and advising that "You must be strong, because no one will protect you but yourself." Those words etched deeply into my mind, becoming my guiding principle later. But Mrs. Lan passed away when I was five, from heart disease, and her departure made me realize life's fragility. From then on, I spoke less, spending time observing those around me. The other children were adopted gradually – wealthy couples came, choosing the cute, lively ones. Not me; my angular face and quiet personality made me overlooked time and again. By seven years old, I was used to watching friends leave, taking with them hopes I didn't have.
School became my refuge. I was sent to a nearby public school, where worn books and cramped classrooms were everything. Studying was the only way to forget my loneliness. I wasn't good at sports, but math and literature were different – they were my private world, where I could control everything. Teachers praised my diligence, but friends avoided me because I played little. Once, a group of older kids bullied me, calling me "orphan without parents," and pushing me into a mud puddle. I didn't cry, just stood up, wiped my face, and walked away. That night, lying on the cramped bunk bed, I promised myself no one would hurt me again. From then on, I started exercising alone: running around the yard early in the morning, doing push-ups until my arms trembled. Not to fight back, but to prove I could protect myself.
In middle school, life got harsher. The orphanage started lacking funds, and we had to work to contribute: cleaning, laundry, even planting vegetables after school. I did it all without complaining, knowing whining changed nothing. At that time, I had my first friend – a boy named Minh, also orphaned, but much more outgoing than me. We shared books, told each other dreams: Minh wanted to be a doctor, while I vaguely dreamed of a stable job, enough to avoid hunger. But Minh was adopted when I was twelve, and he left without looking back. Once again, I learned to let go. School then became a battlefield: exam pressure, friends forming cliques. I didn't join, just focused on studying, earning small scholarships for books. In the afternoons, I wandered along the Saigon River, watching the water flow and wondering where my parents were now. Maybe they'd forgotten me, or never thought of me. That pain simmered, but I buried it deep, turning it into motivation to move forward.
Adolescence was the most chaotic phase. In high school, I switched to a boarding school thanks to a scholarship, leaving the orphanage for the first time. It was freedom, but also isolation. The dormitory room was cramped, roommates changed constantly, and I remained the taciturn loner. I started part-time jobs: delivering newspapers early morning, washing dishes at a restaurant late at night. The money earned was sent back to the orphanage, the rest for fantasy books – ones like "The Lord of the Rings" or "Harry Potter," where orphaned heroes triumphed over fate. They were escapes, letting me dream of another world where power came not from muscles but from magic. But reality pulled me back: at sixteen, I nearly dropped out from exhaustion, overworking leading to serious illness. Lying in the hospital bed, I realized I couldn't live like that forever. I cut back on jobs, focused on university entrance exams. Result: admitted to Ho Chi Minh City University of Economics, Business Administration major. That was my first victory, though the scholarship only covered tuition, living expenses I handled myself.
University was a turning point. I rented a cheap room in District 10, tutored to cover costs. Life was busy: mornings classes, afternoons work, evenings studying. Friends gradually appeared – not many, but enough to open up. There was Lan, a classmate, always smiling and sharing food. We once strolled in the park, talking about the future. I liked her, but didn't dare say, fearing rejection like past abandonments. Then Lan got a boyfriend, and I retreated into my shell. Studies saved me: graduated with honors, thesis on small business management. Out of school at twenty-two, I got a job at a small logistics company as an administrative staff. Salary enough to live, but not surplus. Life repeated: early rise, bus, office, home. I bought an old phone, browsed the net reading isekai stories – tales of ordinary people transported to another world, becoming heroes. They made me smirk: "If it were me, I'd probably die on the first day."
At twenty-three, I switched to a bigger company in District 1, slightly higher salary. Life stabilized: better room rental, bought an old motorbike for commuting. I started saving, dreaming of a small house. But loneliness clung. Tet holidays back to the orphanage to visit the nuns, but feeling out of place. At twenty-four, I tried dating apps – a few awkward coffee dates, but nothing came of it. They said I was too quiet, too distant. I agreed; childhood wounds made it hard to open up. Work became my anchor: minor promotion, reports, meetings. I read more books, especially manga like Violence Jack – that brutal world made me think about survival. At twenty-five, I bought an old laptop, spent evenings writing a blog about fantasy books, but few readers. Life flowed peacefully, to the point of boredom.
Then twenty-six, a birthday no one remembered but me. Eating alone at a rice shop, thinking about the future: maybe marry, have kids, to not be lonely anymore. But then, that beautiful day, everything changed. The dream ended at the dizzy moment on the street, leading me to Kanto.
I woke with a start, sweating profusely despite the cool cave. Outside, dawn shone brightly, the first rays filtering through the entrance, dyeing the rocks red. Birdsong echoed, mixed with forest wind. I sat up, the giant body still slightly aching from the dream – or memories? Those twenty-six years now seemed a distant dream compared to this cruel reality. My stomach growled, reminding me day two had begun. I stepped out of the cave, breathing the fresh air, ready to face Kanto once more.