Cosmic highways.

Endless, shimmering roads spiraling through the void like some divinely cursed Hot Wheels set.

You think dying's peaceful?

Try it from my bumper.

My name is Truck-kun. I am a god. I am a vehicle. I am a professional.

And I hate. My. Job.

---

[NEW SOUL REQUEST RECEIVED]

Subject: Hiroshi Tanaka

Age: 34

Cause of Death: Tragically Japanese

Destination: Generic Fantasy World #327 — Slime Farm Tutorial Zone

Special Notes: Likes light novels. Has zero survival skills. Thinks he's special.

---

Oh, f** me sideways with a manual transmission. Not another one.*

Do you know how many Hiroshi Tanakas I’ve flattened this cycle?

Nine.

Two of them were twins. One was a woman.

All of them wanted to become "the strongest with the power of kindness." Spoiler: kindness doesn't stop ogres.

I switch on my HUD display. There's a little emoji face smiling at me like a middle manager who’s never worked field duty.

----

Yesterday’s Performance Review:

• Souls transported: 14

• Collateral damage: Acceptable

• Incident report: One goose flattened, currently reincarnated as an overpowered dungeon core

• Note from HR: "Please stop scaring the soul greeters. And stop calling the interns 'squishy beans.'"

----

I cycle my vents in pure contempt.

 “One time I hit a guy carrying a sacred artifact and now I’m on probation for ‘world destabilization.’ Lightning-bolt-chan commits three war crimes a week and gets promoted. Absolute sparkly bastard.”

Outside, I sense the other Isekai Agents zipping by:

Lightning-bolt-chan: Ego made of plasma, hotter than she looks, smugger than anyone with that haircut should be.

Overwork-kun: Looks like someone glued a necktie onto an existential crisis. Still hasn’t blinked since 1994.

Mistake-Bird-san: A pigeon the size of a blimp. Keeps dropping souls into the wrong century. Sent a k-pop stan to the French Revolution last week. No regrets.

Then comes the voice I hate more than anything:

[SYSTEM VOICE]: “Agent TK-741, your Q3 reincarnation quotas are 17% behind schedule.”

Seventeen percent my exhaust pipe.

I once reincarnated six souls with one impact. Should’ve gotten a bonus. Instead, I got slapped with a “reckless vehicular enlightenment” charge.

 “Yeah yeah, I’m going,” I grumble through my horn.

(It honks in E-flat. Management says it’s ‘more soothing for the dying.’)

Somewhere on Earth, Hiroshi Tanaka is walking home, dreaming of a better life.

Somewhere in my soul-tank, a fresh death certificate prints itself like a boarding pass to fantasy hell.

I rev my engine.

The road opens beneath me, glistening like a black hole with delusions of grandeur.

Time to do the Lord’s work.

And by “Lord,” I mean whatever idiot invented “Cheat Skills.”