I am dueling Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi with a piece of cheese. It’s intense—gritty combat with high stakes—until the One Piece falls out of nowhere and squashes me into pulp. Just like that.
The dream changes, as dreams are prone to do, slipping between absurd scenarios I won’t bother remembering. Half-lucid as always, I let the nonsense wash over me, enjoying the mayhem.
And then, suddenly, I wake up.
To blinding light.
To terrified screams.
The sensation is akin to being hoisted into the air and dropped, stomach plummeting like I’m on a rollercoaster. I land flat on my back with a solid thud, grass of all things cushioning the impact.
My breath escapes in a wheeze, but adrenaline floods my veins almost instantly—sharp, biting, a visceral jolt that drives me upright before I even register what’s happening.
My eyes snap open, squinting hard as the blinding sunlight pierces down through the treetops. My pupils contract in rebellion, and for a moment, everything is a painful, blurry mess.
The screams.
They’re louder now, filling the air with a cacophony of fear, anger, and raw panic. Men, women, strangers of every shape and size shout, cry, and stumble in every direction. Some dart out of what looks like half a bar—yes, half a goddamn bar. The wooden structure is sliced cleanly in two, one half missing entirely, the other teetering like a drunk on the verge of collapse.
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Some of these people are yelling at their phones, others are pointing wildly at the sky, and a few are just… breaking. Their eyes are wide and glassy, mouths working soundlessly as if the reality of the situation has broken something fundamental inside them.
I gape at the chaos, rooted to the spot even as a voice in my head screams, Run, you idiot! This place is not safe!
Yeah? And run where, exactly?
I wrench my gaze from the mob and glance around. We’re in a clearing—a small, grassy space surrounded by towering trees that stretch toward an endless sky. The forest looms all around us, dark and indifferent.
I pat myself down, the action almost automatic. Shorts? Check. T-shirt? Check. Shoes? Socks? Dignity? Not even a whisper. I’m standing here in my pajamas, practically naked and utterly unprepared for whatever the hell this is.
No shoes. No socks. No Earth for you.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I pinch myself, half-heartedly. No dice.
“Drugs?” I mutter. “Aliens? Motherfucking father-sucking isekai?”
The thought is insane. So is the situation. The voice of reason whispers, "Ask someone what happened!" , but it’s drowned out by the shrieking lunatic in my head that’s already singing, “Isekaaaaaaai!”
“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN?!”
The shout jolts me back to the present. I glance toward the group of strangers, now devolving into outright chaos. An old man, maybe 70 years old—face red, spittle flying—points wildly at the sky, his words sharp and venomous as he berates anyone and everyone near him.
Huh?
Against my better judgment, I follow his gaze and freeze.
Two suns.
Two fucking suns hang in the sky.
The first is bright and familiar, its golden glow softened by wisps of cloud. The second is smaller, dimmer, and a deep orange, hanging low to the left of its twin.
My breath catches.
A smile creeps onto my face, unbidden and entirely inappropriate. I slap a hand over my mouth before anyone can notice, the gesture more instinct than thought. The last thing I need is to seem happy right now, not with everyone already losing their minds.
“Not insane,” I whisper to myself, voice shaky. “Nope. Not at all.”
The voice of reason, weak and barely audible, adds, Good. Blend in. Act normal.
But the other voice—the one cackling and screaming “ISEKAAAAAAAI IS THE WINNEEEEEERRRRR”—is a lot harder to ignore.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look away from the twin suns. The scene unfolding around me is pure madness, so what’s one more thing? What’s one more impossible leap?
“Status,” I whisper.
A translucent blue window flickers into existence before me, faintly glowing against the sunlight.
The voices stop.
The world doesn’t.