Prologe: Worst. Rebirth. Ever.
I'm probably the most f***ed-up isekai case in multiverse history.
Seriously. I've read enough webnovels, fanfics, and late-night Reddit threads to qualify as a degenerate scholar of reincarnation. And trust me — I've seen every cliché out there.
Truck-kun slaps your ass into another world? Classic. Electrocution, stabbing, bullet to the head, spontaneous plane crash — take your pick. Hell, some unlucky bastards just go to bed and wake up in a new universe with a "Congratulations, you've been chosen!" banner over their corpse.
Me?
Nah. That would've been too merciful.
Alright, time for the abridged version of my pathetic autobiography: born — lived — died.
We can skip the "born" part. Childhood's a blur anyway — I probably emerged from the womb flipping off the doctor and asking for Wi-Fi.
Now the "lived" part? That actually went suspiciously well. Suspicious like "plot twist incoming" well.
Graduated with zero effort, scored a chill job with a fat paycheck and minimum human interaction. Three-room apartment, my own car, a girlfriend who didn't stab me in my sleep — life was borderline illegal in how smooth it ran.
And yeah, I had hobbies. You know, the kind that make your parents whisper about failed genes: anime, manga, fanfics, fantasy novels, a little supernatural crap, and a dangerous addiction to RPGs.
Basically, I was living the degenerate dream.
Now the "died" part? Yeah... that's where shit hit the fan, slid down the wall, and landed squarely on my face.
And let's be honest — there's nothing glamorous about dying. Unless it's your upstairs neighbor finally choking on his own dumbassery. That? That'd be worth celebrating.
But me? My death was less "tragic hero's fall" and more "hold my beer, I got this"
It was a Sunday. A boring-ass, nothing-to-do, scroll-memes-till-I-rot kind of day. I stepped out on my balcony for a smoke. Yeah, I know — "Smoking kills." Thanks, Captain Obvious. But no one told me it'd try to do it this literally.
So there I was — puffing away, leaning on the metal railing, pretending I was some tragic anime antihero staring into the city night.
And then karma decided to shove a steel pipe up my ass.
CLANK.
The right side of the railing tore clean off — and I went down like a sack of gamer disappointment.
Three floors. Gravity. My dumb luck.
Roll for survival.
You're probably thinking, "Big deal, you fell off a balcony." Yeah? Well, plot twist: I survived.
Turns out, three stories isn't enough to finish me off — especially when a conveniently placed tree bitch-slaps you mid-fall and a bush full of thorns decides to break your landing like nature's own spiky airbag.
I'm lying there, impaled by twigs, bleeding like a stabbed anime side character, and staring at the sky like some poetic asshole — and then I see it.
The railing — the same metal bastard that betrayed me — decided to follow me down.
Not metaphorically. Literally. It broke off, and it was now falling... straight. At. My. Face.
Because apparently, fate didn't just want me dead — it wanted me dead and mocked by physics.
I noticed it a second too late.
Let out a glorious string of curses — three floors tall, one for each I'd just fallen — and tried to roll the hell out of the way.
Nice try.
The railing kissed me right in the skull like a jealous ex.
Blackout.exe loading…
At that moment, I fully expected the "Welcome to the New World" screen to pop up. Light tunnel. Angel tits. The whole deal.
But nope.
I woke up with a goddamn goose egg on my head the size of a small melon, still very much alive, and in a bush full of ants biting my ass.
The paramedics showed up, poked my broken body, and diagnosed me with — and I quote — "concussion of whatever is pretending to be your brain."
Then they loaded me onto a stretcher and shoved me into the back of the ambulance like tomorrow's discount meat.
We're halfway to the hospital when — boom — enter: fucking KamAZ.
You know those massive Russian trucks that look like Optimus Prime's drunk cousin? Yeah. One of those T-boned our ambulance on the highway like it had a vendetta against my existence.
And me?
Couple scratches. Some bruises. Maybe a loose tooth.
Everyone else? Smeared like jam across the windshield.
Guess who was strapped to the gurney like a Christmas turkey in the safest goddamn spot in the vehicle?
Yeah. Me.
My luck wasn't good. It was just spitefully effective.
Somehow, they got my ass to the hospital. Dumped me in the ER like a delivery package with no return address.
And then... they just forgot I existed.
Because hey — FREE healthcare, baby!
Where you pay with hours of your life, not cash.
I laid there, still strapped to the gurney like Hannibal Lecter on a smoke break, while the day shift collectively said "not my problem" and noped the hell out.
Eventually, the night crew stumbled upon me like I was some kind of cursed DLC nobody wanted to load.
I wasn't even on their f***ing patient list.
Cue thirty minutes of top-tier medical professionalism, aka: "Who the hell dumped this corpse here?"
Day shift pointed fingers faster than a group project on fire, and night shift refused to claim the mystery meat a.k.a. me.
One genius even suggested the morgue — but apparently I was still twitching, so instead they compromised.
Intensive care.
Not because I needed it.
Because no one wanted to fill out the paperwork if I flatlined in the hallway.
ER was on the ground floor. ICU was on the third. The morgue was also downstairs, just in case they needed a backup plan.
Naturally, they headed for the elevator.
That's when I spotted salvation:
The glorious holy sign — "M/F" — aka Toilet. Relief. Sanctuary. My final goddamn quest.
I made my needs very clear: "I've been holding this since I fell off a balcony. If you don't want this stretcher soaked in shame, we make a pit stop."
Response?
"Aww, can't you hold it a bit longer?"
No, Karen, I can't.
This bladder is on a boss timer.
While we were arguing about my bodily fluids, some random grandpa wheeled himself into the elevator like he had plot armor.
He didn't.
Barely made it to the top floor before we all heard a SNAP. Then a CRASH.
Yep. Elevator cable gone.
Whole damn thing dropped like my GPA in college.
Toilet plans? Postponed.
Survival mode: engaged.
So, new plan: stairs.
They dragged my gurney up like I was a particularly annoying couch during a move.
Almost dropped me six times. Actually dropped me twice.
Once because a wheel fell off.
Once because the straps broke.
Seriously — who tied me down, a drunk Boy Scout?
By the time we got to ICU, I was one bounce away from becoming a modern art piece on the floor.
I thought ICU meant safety. Rest. Healing.
How adorably f***ing naive.
That night, death tried to speedrun me three more times.
First, they wheeled me into the OR by mistake.
Wrong patient. Wrong room. Right amount of panic.
They prepped me like I was the Friday special and jammed me with anesthesia.
Turns out I'm allergic to that shit.
How allergic?
Let's just say I saw Jesus, and he looked pissed.
Next morning, my girlfriend shows up like a sexy nurse in a hentai — minus the sex.
She brought snacks. I nearly cried. Hope tasted like cherry pie.
While I was chewing, thinking "maybe the curse is lifting," she casually drops a bomb:
"Oh, by the way, you almost died two more times last night while you were unconscious."
Did I ask for details? F*** no. Knowing the how wouldn't make it less stupid.
I just nodded, chewed, and accepted that I was now in a long-term relationship with Murphy's Law.
And then… the grand finale.
The climax of this beautifully cursed saga.
Ten minutes. Just ten f*ing minutes** after my girlfriend left the room, humming something sweet and thinking I was finally in the clear…
I choked.
Not on pride. Not on revenge. Not even on a nurse's thigh — no, life's not that generous.
I choked on a goddamn cherry pit.
Death Count #… I lost track. Final Result: KO'd by a fruit snack.
Achievement Unlocked: Death by Dumbassery.