I descend through the layers—threads of causality snapping into place like seatbelts around an unsuspecting idiot.

Below me: Simulation 000-Earth-JP. Known locally as “modern Japan”. Known to me as “Ground Zero for emotionally repressed reincarnation fodder.”

Target lock acquired.

Visual confirms: male, thirty-four, tragic posture, wearing the universal uniform of spiritual defeat—wrinkled slacks, scuffed shoes, tie hanging like a noose negotiated by HR.

Hiroshi Tanaka.

Walking alone. Head down. Eyes glued to his phone.

Probably reading a light novel about someone getting hit by a truck. The irony alone should be an automatic bonus.

He’s approaching the crosswalk. Red light. Cars frozen.

Pedestrian lane blinking angrily.

And still—he walks.

Distracted by phone: check.

Existential monologue likely in progress: check.

Wishing for a simpler life: oh, guaranteed. Probably just got dumped. Or worse—got invited to a team-building weekend.

I adjust trajectory.

Subtle corrections. Minimal splash. I am a professional.

---

 [IMPACT TRAJECTORY: 97.4% OPTIMAL]

[KARMIC RESONANCE: MILDLY PITIFUL]

[POTENTIAL DESTINY SCORE: Unremarkable]

---

I call this… “The Tanaka Arc.”

Straightforward. Painless. No bystanders. No lawyers.

This one won't even scuff the bumper.

“Right on schedule.”

From the HUD, a glowing checklist appears mid-air like a DMV form sent by God:

---

[CHECKLIST]

• Sudden Impact: ☑️

• Vehicle Type: ☑️ Truck

• World Transfer Parameters:

→ Fantasy

→ Subclass: Slime Farm

→ Bonus Skill: “Mild Charisma”

[Proceed?]

---

My indicators blink once.

“Affirmative.”

“Let’s get this over with.”

My engine purrs. The road beneath me bends like a red carpet laid out for divine nonsense.

Hiroshi steps off the curb.

The last thing he sees?

My grille.

Chrome. Eternal. Inevitable.

I don’t honk.

I deliver.

---

Milliseconds from impact.

Hiroshi’s foot hovers mid-step.

The wind shifts.

The moment is perfect.

Everything is aligned: trajectory, destiny, and at least three insurance disclaimers.

Then—

everything breaks.

Inside my cab, alarms begin to scream.

And not the usual ones, like “Soul Drift Detected” or “Please Update Your Eternal Operating License.”

No—this is full-body, system-wide, catastrophic failure.

---

 [SYSTEM ALERT]

❌ CORE PROTOCOL CONFLICT

❌ SCHEDULE OVERRIDE

❌ DESTINATION: ERROR! ERROR!

[UNPLANNED RECALL INITIATED]

➤ New Slot Assignment: [MAJOR VILLAIN – UNPLOTTED REALITY]

---

 Wait.

WHAT?!

The street below flickers like a broken VHS tape. Hiroshi freezes mid-breath.

My HUD goes static.

The void trembles.

“UNPLANNED RECALL?!”

My tires spin—on nothing.

My transmission sputters in horror.

My trailer—nonexistent, theoretical—feels like it’s being yanked through a meat grinder made of bad plot twists.

“I’m mid-delivery! This is against regulation! I’m the one who does the hitting—I don’t get hit! This violates at least nine sections of the Cosmic Labor Accord!”

A voice bursts into my comms, loud enough to dent galaxies.

“TRUCK-KUN!”

Oh no.

Dispatcher.

My supervisor. Full Title: Senior Overlord of Reincarnational Logistics and Metaphysical Transport Efficiency, Division B (Vehicle Fatalities).

Voice like gravel in a blender. Tone like someone who hasn't been thanked since the Big Bang.

“What in the multi-verse are you doing?! Your Universal Impact Rating just flatlined! You’re overloading the Nexus! GET BACK HERE, you malfunctioning hunk of ethereal junk!”

“YOU'RE CAUSING A DIMENSIONAL FOLD! QUICK—ACCEPT THE RECALL OR I SWEAR I’LL TRANSFER YOU TO THE SOUL-COLLECTION-VIA-OVERWORK DEPARTMENT FOR ALL ETERNITY!”

“NO. No no no. I’m not going to that place. They make you wear neckties made of existential debt!”

My HUD melts into a feedback loop—

The Isekai Log. Playing back every face I’ve ever “processed.”

Shocked faces.

Screaming faces.

One guy who just went, “...Nice.”

They’re laughing.

Every soul I ever flattened is laughing at me.

“I’M NOT A PROTAGONIST!”

“I’M A PLOT DEVICE! THIS IS MY JOB! I HAVE A KPI TO MEET, DAMN IT!”

I try to swerve.

Failsafe: rejected.

Axles: spinning like the wheels of fate on LSD.

Chassis integrity: compromised.

Dig dignity: now measured in negative integers.

The void bends around me—

A swirling, neon, kaleidoscopic toilet flush of time and narrative.

Digital static. Glitched-out status bars. Mocking echoes of every soul I’ve ever splattered.

And then—

it hits me.

Not destiny.

Not Hiroshi.

A body.

Squishy. Organic. Bipedal.

“My glorious chassis!”

“My mighty engine!”

“...What are these… squishy bits?!”

I scream.

My horn honks involuntarily in a minor key.

And then the light swallows me whole.

---

Light.

Blinding, unbearable, personal.

Like someone shoved a sunlamp directly into my brainstem and yelled “rebirth!” with jazz hands.

Then: stone.

Cold. Hard. Unforgiving.

Not steel. Not blessed alloy.

Stone.

Rude.

I opened my eyes, immediately regretted it.

Everything was too much. The colors screamed. The air was moist. I could smell dust. I could feel my nose smelling the dust.

> No. No no no. This is too organic. This place has humidity. I don’t do humidity.

I tried to move.

Muscles.

Joints.

Bones.

What in the ever-shifting multiverse was bone doing in my operating system?

I went to push myself upright. My instincts expected the low growl of my drive shaft locking in, hydraulics engaging, a glorious mechanical rise.

Instead?

My hand slapped the stone floor.

CRACK.

The ground exploded.

No, seriously—exploded.

A miniature shockwave blew out from my palm. Dust shot up like a cheap smoke machine. And beneath me?

A perfectly-formed crater.

Fist-shaped. Stupidly deep.

Like a punch from the gods. Or me. But not me. Except... apparently now me.

I stared at the hole.

Then my hand.

Five fingers. Soft. Still attached. No flame decals.

This... is my hand? This useless, unpainted meat claw?

I tapped the floor again.

Just a little. Just a tester.

crk

A web of fractures skittered across the stone like nervous spiders.

I just poked a dungeon into early retirement.

Then, like a bad HR notification, a pop-up flashed directly into my eyeballs:

---

 [WARNING]

Chassis Integrity: 0%

Vehicle Type: HUMAN (Fragile)

New Designation: LEO

Status: Highly Debuffed

Perks: None

Powertrain: Not Detected

Recommended Action: Cry and/or Adapt

---

Leo.

They named me Leo.

Short for “Leaking Exhaust Organism,” maybe.

“Oh. Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

My voice came out soft.

No speaker system. No external amplification module.

Just raw, awkward mouth noises.

I prodded my own chest and nearly screamed.

A heartbeat.

Biological propulsion via blood.

 This is undignified. I have a pulse. I am... a mammal. I don’t even have a license for that.

I tried to stand. My knees popped. My spine made a sound like a trapped weasel.

First step: wobbly.

Second step: also wobbly.

Third step: let’s not talk about it.

 I used to be the instrument of destiny. The hammer of reincarnation. The four-wheeled apocalypse. Now I’m walking around on these... bizarre, toe-infested stilts.

I straightened up, or at least tried to.

My back hurt.

I had a back.

I had hurting.

“I’m going to sue the reincarnation department,” I muttered, as the torchlit room blurred around me.

“First for damages. Then for emotional trauma. And then for this… ridiculous name.”

---

END OF CHAPTER 1