Chapter 1 — An Ordinary Evening and the Last Truck

Alex pushed open the heavy glass door of the office building and stepped out into the fine drizzle of an autumn evening. Friday. His legs throbbed from eight hours behind a monitor, his back ached with the familiar, dull pain between his shoulder blades, and a light fatigue pulsed in his temples—one that even the vending machine coffee couldn't soothe. He paused for a second, feeling the cold air wrap around his face, and slowly raised the collar of his dark blue jacket. His fingers, slightly numb from hours of clicking a mouse, clumsily fastened the top button. Shoving his hands deep into his jeans pockets, he started walking. During rush hour, the subway turned into a can of sardines, and today he wanted neither strangers' elbows nor the smell of wet wool and sweat. It was better to walk. Fifteen minutes home—enough to exhale and let his brain switch from bug reports to something of his own.

The drizzle fell steadily, like a poorly adjusted spray bottle. Droplets gathered on his long chestnut locks, trickling in cold paths down his neck and shoulders, making his skin break out in goosebumps. His gray eyes squinted against the wind, which carried the scent of wet concrete and exhaust fumes. Alex walked without quickening his pace, feeling the cold seep under his jacket, cling to his shirt, and force the muscles in his shoulders to tense involuntarily. The workday was over, but there was no relief—only a hollow habit, as if his body had already resigned itself to the fact that tomorrow everything would repeat. Another week lived. Another one ahead. He stepped over a puddle reflecting the neon lights of signs and thought that even this minor annoyance felt like part of an endless cycle.

At the turn toward the avenue, a 24/7 convenience store flickered with a neon sign. Alex pushed the door, and a cheap bell jingled overhead—a sound he had heard hundreds of times. Inside, it smelled of heated noodles, disinfectant, and a hint of wet asphalt brought in from the street by a cold draft. The shelves glowed with bright packaging, reflecting the fluorescent lights that stung his eyes after the twilight. He walked between the aisles, his fingers sliding over cold plastic as he chose pre-made meals—slightly clumped rice, some vegetables in sauce, and two pieces of chicken that looked as if they had been prepared several hours ago. Beside them, he grabbed a can of cold coffee, feeling the metal burn his palm with its icy touch. At the checkout stood the same clerk as always: short hair, tired eyes, and an apron with a coffee stain that hadn't come out for a week.

"Good evening," Alex muttered, placing his purchases on the belt. His voice sounded hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken all day.

She nodded without looking up and priced the barcodes. Plastic rustled. Coins jingled in the tray, cold and damp from his palm. He gathered the change, his fingers clumsily scooped up the coins, and the bag pulled on his arm with its modest weight.

"Thank you," he said, though no one answered. The clerk was already looking at her phone, scrolling through a feed with her thumb.

Alex stepped back out into the rain. A familiar, almost cozy loneliness stirred in his chest—like an old, habitual burden that you no longer notice until you stop. No one was waiting. No call, no message, no smell of dinner from the kitchen. Only an empty apartment, a laptop with another anime, and a silence that sometimes felt almost friendly. He smiled, but the smile was bitter, lingering a second longer than it should have. Oh well, he thought, adjusting the bag so it wouldn't get completely soaked. At least everything will be different there. There, they'll be waiting for me. The thought was warm, like a sip of the coffee he opened on the go, feeling the bitter taste spread across his tongue and drive away some of the fatigue.

He continued along the wet sidewalk. Puddles reflected the streetlights, shattering under his boots into thousands of shards of light that immediately vanished in the next wave of water. The rain intensified, droplets drumming on his shoulders and soaking through the fabric of his jacket, but Alex hardly noticed. His thoughts had already drifted far away, leading him from the gray asphalt into bright, vivid images. A fantasy, as familiar as an old blanket, unfolded in his mind. Here he is walking, and here a truck flies out of nowhere—a genre classic, the perfect catalyst. Impact. Darkness. And then—awakening in another world. Grass beneath his back, soft and cool; a sky with two moons or magical constellations shimmering like gemstones. And, of course, the System. A voice in his head, cold and solemn: "Welcome, Hero. You have received the unique class 'Master of Fates'." Skills. Cheat-level. "Instant Healing," "Infinite Inventory," "Charisma +50." He smiled to himself, walking through the rain, feeling warmth spread in his chest from these images. He imagined opening his eyes to see an elf archer leaning over him with anxiety in her huge eyes, her silvery hair touching his face. "Are you... alright?" she would ask in a trembling voice, her fingers lightly touching his shoulder. And he, already with the slight smile of a hero, would answer something witty, stand up, brush himself off, and immediately receive his first quest. Saving a village from orcs. Searching for an ancient artifact in a ruined temple. And, of course, companions. Beautiful, strong, with personalities that would gradually open up only to him—one sarcastic, another shy, a third with fire in her eyes. No gray work. No loneliness. There, he would become who he was always meant to be: significant, needed, alive.

The fantasy was so vivid that Alex could almost smell the forest—damp earth, pine resin, the slight metallic tang of armor. The smile didn't leave his lips, even as the rain streamed down his face, mixing with drops of coffee from the can. He didn't wipe the rain away; he just walked, allowing the world around him to dissolve. A warm, almost childlike anticipation filled his chest, making his heart beat a little faster. Any moment now, he thought, shifting the bag to his other hand. One step, and everything changes. The main thing is not to miss the moment. Truck-chan, rebirth, a new start. I'm ready.

The monologue in his head deepened, turning onto the familiar rails of self-analysis that he knew by heart but still traversed every evening. The reality around him seemed flat, like an old photograph faded by time. He had almost no friends left—those from university had scattered, grown families, jobs, and mortgages, and their rare messages boiled down to "how's it going?" without any real interest. His last relationship had ended two years ago: a quiet "we're different" over a cup of cooled tea and a division of things—she took the lamp, he kept the books. She had said he "lived in his own world," that he looked through her as if through glass. Well, she was right. The gray work of a tester—bugs, reports, endless iterations of code that no one appreciated, a boss who didn't even remember his name, only "hey, you." A salary that was barely enough for food, anime, and the occasional comic that gathered dust on the shelf. Alex acknowledged this calmly, almost with self-irony, stepping over another puddle and feeling water seep into his boot. I hardly even try anymore, he thought, feeling a slight sting in his chest. Why bother? Nothing will work out here anyway. But there... there I'll be able to. There will be adventures. There will be people who see in me not some average guy with long hair and tired eyes, but a hero. There, I'll finally be needed. Not just a function in a report, but someone people follow.

The bitterness was quiet, habitual, like the aching pain in his back that he no longer noticed until he made a sudden movement. He wasn't angry with himself. He was simply stating it as a fact. Life here was background. Scenery. The real thing would begin after. He even laughed out loud, shortly and joylessly; the sound drowned in the noise of the rain. Typical isekai protagonist, he thought, looking at his reflection in a puddle—wet locks, gray eyes, a slight smirk. Except instead of a sword, I have a bag with a cold dinner. Great. Level one, skill 'surviving on minimums'.

The intersection was approaching. A regulated crossing over a wide street where cars usually sped by without slowing down, splashing water from the puddles. The rain lashed harder, droplets drumming on his hair and streaming down his collar, making his skin turn cold. Alex stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, slouching slightly, and continued to dream, feeling the wind toss his wet locks. The traffic light for cars was red. Water flowed along the asphalt in glistening streams, reflecting the red light. He stood there, the cold can of coffee in the bag pulling at his arm, imagining how he would immediately gain a status in the new world. "Level 1. EXP: 0/100." The first quest would flash before his eyes: "Help the locals in the fight against goblins." Or something more poetic. "Find the lost princess in the ancient forest." He already imagined himself stepping confidently along a path, the wind tossing his long hair, as the first sword appeared in his hand—not a simple one, but one with a damage bonus, glowing with a faint blue light. The smile returned, wider than before. His gray eyes shone with anticipation despite the cold. Come on, he thought, his lips almost moving. I'm ready. Transport me already. Let it be today.

The screech of tires tore through the rainy evening like a knife, piercing and sudden. The roar of an engine lunged from around the corner—low, furious, out of place in this gray world. A white truck, as massive as the fate he had imagined for himself, skidded across the wet asphalt. The wheels lost grip, the vehicle fishtailed, and it slid sideways straight toward the sidewalk. A harsh light broke through the dirty headlight glass, turning the rain into silver threads. Alex only had time to turn his head. Time stretched into a strange, slowed pulsation. He saw raindrops hanging in the air; he saw the logo on the cabin—blurred, irrelevant. He saw the radiator grille looming, the huge wheels spinning in the air, throwing up sprays of water.

The impact was monstrous.

A powerful thrust to his chest and hips, as if he had been hit by an iron battering ram. The crunch of bones, which he heard before he felt—a sharp, dry sound inside his body. His body was ripped from the ground, his feet leaving the sidewalk. A flash of pain—sharp, all-consuming, as if he had been torn in half, his ribs crushed and muscles ripped. A flight. Short, absurd, almost comical. The world spun: wet asphalt, a sky with blurred lights, asphalt again. The bag with the cold dinner flew aside; the coffee can rolled through a puddle, leaving a brown trail that mixed with the rain. One last thought flashed through his mind, mixed with surprise and an almost comical relief: Finally... Here it is. The real beginning... Did it actually happen?

The world went black.

Absolute darkness lasted for a moment—or an eternity, a timelessness in which there was neither pain nor thought, only void. Then came a slight dizziness, like after rising too quickly from bed, when the world sways slightly. The smell of asphalt and exhaust fumes vanished instantly, dissolving. In its place—damp earth, fresh grass, and a hint of smoke from a distant campfire, mixed with something green and alive. His body lay on something soft and uneven; he could feel clumps of soil and stems beneath his back. The warm light of the morning sun was already breaking through his eyelids, and a soft silence surrounded him, broken only by the rustle of leaves. Alex didn't understand yet. He just lay there, blinking slowly, as consciousness gradually returned, as if after a deep sleep. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The smells weren't right, the surface wasn't right, and in his chest, where the mark of the impact should have remained, pulsed a strange, almost alien emptiness. But the thought hadn't yet managed to form—it hung on the edge of his consciousness, like a final breath before awakening.