The truck came barreling down the darkened night street, headlights shining through the drizzling rain with the promise of immortality. Max’s heart leapt at the sight of it as it tore along the wet street at dangerously unsafe - and most promising - speeds. Here was the moment he had been waiting so long for to arrive; ultimate power was at last within his reach.

All those long nights spent waiting in the dark and the cold and the rain - for it had to be a dark and rainy night for the magic to work, nothing else would do - all the discomfort, the wet clothes, the mocking laughter of the ignorant, all of it would finally be rewarded.

He stepped out into the road, arms outstretched, rain dripping from his weedy body, his glasses misting over, offering himself to the truck. “Take me!” he squeaked. Shutting his eyes, he waited for the blessed event.

Instead, there was the sound of the truck’s brakes squealing, and it suffered to a halt, mere inches from him. He opened his eyes as the truck door swung open and a head wearing a baseball cap stuck out. “Are you mad, kid? You could have been killed.” Then the driver was back in, shutting the door, shoving the truck into reverse and backing away.

Max’s heart sank. His arms dropped, as did his head, his hopes and dreams shattered. Cold and wet, he trudged off the street, downcast, starting his way down the long pavement. Why was this happening to him? It was so unfair. He kicked at a can, only to miss, his feet to go out from under him, slipping on the wet concrete and ending up sitting on the pavement. Great, just great. More unfairness.

All he wanted, all that he dreamed of, was to follow the heroes of his books and to isekai. Was that too much to ask? To escape his mundane existence, his miserable job, his boring family, to get what he deserved.

No one understood him. They called him obsessed, thought that he was mad, but he knew he wasn’t. Oh, no, he was the only sane one around. He knew the truth. Who wouldn’t want to isekai, to escape the mundane, to achieve true power, immortality? And a harem. After all, he could quote verbatim all thirty-seven episodes of Reincarnated as an Armadillo Dishwasher, and he knew for a fact that it was not merely a story but was loosely based on real events.

Not that any of that interested his co-workers. They all thought it childish. Childish? They hadn’t even heard of My Life as the Vending Machine’s Roommate. It was sacrilege. Let them have their mortgages and taxes; meanwhile, he would seek out immortality and unlimited power.

So preoccupied was he in his own world of self-inflicted misery that he was unware that he had reached a corner and had stepped out onto the road again. And that was when the truck hit him.

It hurt. It hurt so much. As he flew through the air from the impact, he could hear bones snapping, could feel the pain stabbing through every part of his body, endless, eternal agony. Agony beyond agony. It wasn’t meant to hurt. It never did in the stories. The truck was meant to hit him and then, bam, blackness, next to wake up being greeted by the system. And very soon after, ultimate power. And the harem. Not this long, stretched-out agony.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

And then he hit the ground. Hard. He had thought he had known pain while flying through the air. Oh, no, now he really knew it. Knew that it was not for him. Even his agony hurt. Why hadn’t he ascended yet? Why was he lingering?

“Someone call for help!” There were people around now, looking at him. One was kneeling beside him.

“Hold on there,” they were saying. “Does it hurt much?”

Were they mad? Of course it hurt. How could they not see it?

“Don’t need help,” he heard himself cough.

“Did he just say that?” an onlooker asked.

“He must be in shock, poor thing,” another added.

His eyes managed to focus on a person at the back of the ground, a tall man who appeared to have a knowing smirk on his face. Could it be? Surely that had to be the system, come to take him finally.

“Take me,” he gasped.

No, the man was smirking, but not at him, but at the woman he was looking at. The indignity of it all.

“There, there, dear,” the person alongside him was saying, “The ambulance is on the way. They’ll take you soon.”

“No hospital,” he mumbled.

“Told you he was in shock. That just proves it.”

Why didn't they understand? It was so simple. Well, if they had read The Ascendance of a Painting it would be. No doubt they wouldn’t know a classic if it smacked them in the face. If they ‘saved’ him, all of this would have been for nothing. The pain made it hard to think - there had to be a way to speed up the process. What was it that the protagonist of Dungeons and Harems had done? The one based on that game?

Ah, yes. Died. That was it. A simple thing, and yet one denied to him.

“Die,” he muttered, as if the words would hastened the act.

“Did he just say what I thought he said?”

“Now, dear, don’t give up hope. You aren’t going to die. Why, I can hear the ambulance coming now.”

What was wrong with these people? They were actively trying to stop him from gaining ultimate power. It was galling. It was a tragedy. It would be comedic if it didn’t hurt so much. Just like in My Next Life as a Misunderstood Side Character. Now there was a character who had had it bad, and yet they didn’t still didn't have to deal with anyone as ignorant as this crowd.

All right, he had to concentrate; he had to ascend, must ascend. Was that a light approaching? Curses, it was, but only the flashing lights of an ambulance.

And then, just as help was arriving, the system, with a wicked sense of humour, took him as the blessed blackness descended.