John Raisen died on a Tuesday.
Not dramatically. Not heroically. Not even meaningfully.
Just… inconveniently.
The morning had started like any other—his alarm screaming at 6:30 AM, his hand slamming it into silence with the mechanical precision of someone who had done this exact thing for years. He didn't even open his eyes at first. There was something comforting about pretending the world didn't exist for just a few extra seconds.
Then reality seeped in.
School.
John groaned, rolling over. His room smelled faintly of yesterday's pizza and laundry he had promised himself he'd do. Posters of anime lined the walls—some mainstream, some so obscure even Reddit threads barely mentioned them. His phone buzzed with notifications: group chats, memes, arguments he didn't bother replying to.
Just another day.
He dragged himself up, brushed his teeth half-heartedly, and stared at his reflection.
"Damn," he muttered. "Still me."
Messy black hair. Slight eyebags. Average everything. The kind of face people forgot five minutes after seeing.
He threw on his hoodie, grabbed his bag, and left.
Outside, the sky was… weird.
It wasn't obvious at first. Just slightly off. Like someone had taken a perfectly normal morning sky and turned the saturation down a notch too far. Pale. Empty.
John noticed it for about three seconds.
Then he put his earbuds in.
Music filled his ears—some random playlist he didn't remember making. He walked down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, mind drifting.
If I got isekai'd right now, I'd actually be ready, he thought. I've watched enough anime.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
"Yeah right," he muttered under his breath. "My luck? I'd end up in Berserk and die in like—five seconds."
He stepped off the curb.
That was when the sky broke.
There was no warning.
No thunder.
No sound.
Just—
A flash.
A streak of light tearing through the pale sky like a blade splitting open reality itself.
For one brief, impossible moment, John looked up.
And saw it.
A meteor.
No… not just a meteor.
A piece of the sky, falling directly toward him.
His brain didn't process fear.
Didn't process death.
Only one thought formed, absurdly clear:
Huh. That's kinda—
Impact.
⸻
Darkness didn't come.
Instead, there was light.
Soft. Endless. Suffocating.
John's eyes snapped open.
He inhaled sharply—except… he didn't feel his lungs move. There was no air. No weight. No body, really.
He was floating.
Above him—
No.
Around him—
A sky.
But not a normal sky.
It stretched infinitely in every direction, a vast ocean of pale blue and silver clouds drifting like waves. The horizon curved in impossible ways, folding into itself like a dream that refused to follow logic.
It looked… familiar.
John blinked.
"…Wait."
His voice echoed strangely, like it wasn't entirely his.
"This is—"
Tokyo Ghoul.
Specifically, that opening scene. The one with the surreal sky-ocean, the quiet, haunting emptiness.
A chill ran through him.
"…No way."
He turned slowly, trying to understand where—what—he was.
Then he saw her.
Standing—or floating?—a short distance away.
A woman.
Tall. Elegant. Draped in something that wasn't quite a dress, nor quite light, flowing around her like liquid shadow and starlight. Her hair cascaded down endlessly, black as night, blending into the void behind her.
But her face—
John froze.
There was none.
Where her face should have been… there was only a hole.
Not a literal hole—but a darkness so complete it devoured the concept of light. It wasn't empty.
It was hungry.
And yet…
He didn't feel afraid.
Not really.
Just… unsettled.
"…Okay," John said slowly. "That's new."
The woman tilted her head slightly, as if observing him.
"John Raisen," she said.
Her voice was strange.
Not echoing. Not loud.
But it resonated directly inside him, like it bypassed his ears entirely.
"Age: sixteen. Average academic performance. Mild procrastination tendencies. Consumes excessive amounts of fictional media."
John blinked.
"…Hey," he said. "That last part was uncalled for."
A pause.
Then—
"Correction," she continued calmly. "Unhealthy amounts of fictional media."
"…Alright, now you're just attacking me."
Silence stretched between them.
Then she spoke again.
"You are dead."
John stared at her.
"…Yeah, I figured," he said after a moment. "Meteor kinda gave it away."
Another pause.
"…Do people usually deny it or something?" he added.
"Frequently."
"Damn."
He scratched the back of his head—or at least, he felt like he did.
"So… what now? Judgment? Heaven? Hell? Is there like… paperwork?"
The woman took a step closer.
Or maybe the world shifted around her.
"You are at a threshold," she said. "A place between endings and beginnings."
"…Cool," John said. "Very poetic. Still don't know what that means."
For a moment, the endless sky rippled.
Then she raised a hand.
The space between them shimmered—
And suddenly, images appeared.
Fragments of his life.
Him as a kid, laughing.
Him failing a test.
Him staying up until 3 AM watching anime.
Him walking to school—
And then—
Impact.
The images vanished.
John exhaled slowly.
"…That's it?"
"Yes."
"No secret potential? No hidden destiny? No 'chosen one' speech?"
"No."
"…Damn."
Another pause.
Then the woman spoke again.
"You have two choices."
John straightened slightly.
"Okay, now we're talking."
"You may remain," she said, gesturing to the endless sky. "In this state. At peace. Detached from suffering."
John looked around.
It was… beautiful.
Quiet.
Empty.
"…Sounds boring," he said immediately.
The woman didn't react.
"Your second option," she continued, "is transmigration."
John didn't even let her finish.
"I'll take that one."
"…You did not hear the conditions."
"Don't care. I'm in."
A faint silence followed.
Then—
"…You are certain?"
"Yes."
"Without hesitation?"
"Yes."
"Without understanding the risks?"
"YES."
Another pause.
Then—
"…Very well."
The space between them twisted.
A wheel appeared.
It wasn't physical.
Not entirely.
It shimmered with shifting colors, each segment flickering with images—worlds, scenes, fragments of stories.
John leaned forward.
"…Wait."
The woman—Sheila, apparently—spoke calmly.
"The destination is randomized."
John froze.
"…What?"
The wheel spun.
His heart dropped.
"…What do you mean randomized?"
Images flashed by too fast to comprehend.
A titan's shadow.
A blood-soaked corridor.
A man swinging a massive sword against impossible odds.
John's nonexistent stomach twisted.
"…No no no no—"
Attack on Titan.
Angels of Death.
Berserk.
His mind raced.
"I take it back—WAIT—"
The wheel kept spinning.
Faster.
Faster.
Then—
It began to slow.
John leaned in, eyes wide.
"…Please," he whispered. "Anything but Berserk…"
The wheel ticked.
Ticked.
Ticked—
And stopped.
Silence.
Sheila spoke.
"Jujutsu Kaisen."
John blinked.
"…Oh."
A pause.
"…OH."
Relief flooded him.
"Okay. Okay, that's not—"
He stopped.
"…I mean it's still bad."
Curses. Death. Trauma.
"…But like… survivable bad."
He exhaled.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can work with that."
Sheila raised her hand again.
"Your next choice."
Another wheel appeared.
"You may be reincarnated as a random individual… or as a member of the central cast."
John frowned.
"…Cast sounds safer."
He paused, thinking it through more seriously this time.
Then he shook his head.
"No… wait."
Sheila remained silent, watching him.
"If I pick random," he muttered, "I might get someone with potential… but I could also end up as some background civilian who dies in the first five minutes."
He exhaled slowly.
"Yeah, no thanks."
He looked back up at her, eyes sharper now.
"At least with the cast… I know what I'm dealing with."
A slight grin formed.
"Dangerous? Absolutely. But they've got skills, training… relevance to the plot."
He shrugged.
"And honestly? If I'm getting thrown into a death world anyway, I'd rather not be completely useless."
Silence lingered for a moment.
Then—
"I choose the cast."
The wheel spun again.
This time, slower.
More deliberate.
Names flickered by.
Maki.
Miwa.
Mai.
Nanami.
Gakuganji.
Nobara.
Megumi.
Itadori.
Sukuna—
"…Okay, not that one," John muttered.
The wheel slowed.
Slower.
It passed Geto.
John leaned forward.
"…Gojo."
The name appeared.
Right there.
So close.
His heart pounded.
"…Come on…"
The wheel ticked.
Ticked—
And moved.
Past it.
John's face fell instantly.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
The wheel stopped.
Sheila spoke.
"Mechamaru."
Silence.
John stared.
"…."
"…."
"…."
His expression flattened completely.
"-_-"
The sky itself seemed to pause in secondhand embarrassment.
"…Of course," John muttered. "Of course it's the crippled guy in a bathtub."
An awkward silence stretched.
Then—
Sheila let out a small chuckle.
It was soft.
Almost human.
John slowly curled into a ball midair.
Rocking slightly.
"This is my life," he muttered. "Even death can't fix my luck."
"…You are dead."
"Exactly. And it still sucks."
Another pause.
Then Sheila spoke again.
"…I will offer you a concession."
John stopped rocking.
"…Go on."
A third wheel appeared.
Smaller.
Simpler.
"This determines whether you receive a supplementary system."
John blinked.
"…A gacha?"
"Yes."
His eyes lit up.
"…What are the odds?"
"Fifty percent."
"…And the other fifty?"
"Nothing."
John stared at the wheel.
Then at Sheila.
Then back at the wheel.
"…You've got cursed luck," he said.
"I do not—"
"You gave me Mechamaru."
"…That was random."
"Sure it was."
He took a deep breath.
"…Alright."
This was it.
His redemption.
Or his final humiliation.
He reached out.
His hand—or whatever counted as one—hovered over the wheel.
"…If this lands no," he muttered, "I'm actually uninstalling existence."
"…You cannot—"
"Shh. Let me have this."
He spun it.
The wheel moved.
Slow.
Steady.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
John held his breath.
The world seemed to narrow to that single point of motion.
Anticipation coiled in his chest.
"…Come on…"
The wheel slowed.
Slower.
Slower—
And then—
It began to stop.
Right between two segments.
Yes.
No.
It wobbled.
Teetered.
John's entire being leaned forward.
"…Don't you dare…"
The wheel clicked.
And fell—