As it turns out, Instant Ramen could go bad.

Dan stared at little green pieces of mold dotting the surface of the rock-hard noodles and cursed his decision to go for the cheap kind.

He'd recently found out that a few brands of questionable quality catered to those either too stingy or too poor to afford even basic cup noodles. Overjoyed, he’d bought them instantly, given that he was about fifteen cents worth of rent from being evicted. A terrible decision, obviously.

He cursed his stupidity and collapsed onto the littered apartment floor, a couple of discarded plastic cups wheezing under his weight. Everything reeked a combination of alcohol and dirty clothes, which was convenient, as the stench overpowered countless other god-awful smells lingering in the worn carpet. He’d never bothered to clean it, and now that he was living alone, nobody picked up for him.

A rackety, half-collapsed wooden table, a Panasonic Television made in 2001, and a dinky fridge he’d salvaged from the dump were the only things he owned of any value. They stood out like beacons of purity compared to the mounds of garbage terraforming the apartment into post-apocalyptic terrain.

Now, lying in his own filth, he contemplated what to do. The electricity hadn’t been cut yet. Maybe he could play Counterstrike a couple of hours and watch his favorite NBA team, the Cleveland Cavaliers, continue their historically long losing streak (31 games!) before the internet and water and cable went too.

But none of those provincial concerns came close to his current predicament.

The blinds were half-drawn, and little rays of sunlight burst through, hitting him directly in the face. He tried moving an inch to the left to avoid it, but his body would not budge. Instead, he resorted to hissing furiously and attempting to use the Force to move the sun sideways. Or at least, to close the blinds.

Ten minutes of lying there later, he decided that he might as well just go blind from solar exposure and claim the medical insurance.

Crap— did he have medical insurance?

His eyes closed mid-blink, and he could not muster the force of will to open them again.

“Why the hell was I born into this lame-ass world?” he wondered aloud. “If I had one wish, it would be to be born into some sort of fantasy world, like in those cultivation novels. Someplace interesting, for once.”

He would be a kickass martial artist. Reborn into some kind of noble family, he’d learn all their secret techniques and wow all of the girls. Maybe collect a cute little tsundere from the clan, and then some sort of fire-element hottie, and then win a big tournament and get some crazy overpowered master who would make him the best martial artists in the world. No, scratch that-- the galaxy. Or the universe. Whichever was bigger.

The red-tinted light streaming through the shades faded to the black of waning dusk. He groaned. So did his belly.

He was reminded of the story of the frog in hot water, and how the frog would stay in the pan as the temperature incrementally increased, eventually succumbing, never jumping because the change was so gradual.

He supposed he did appear somewhat toad-like in reflections, and his empty stomach would eventually cause his death. Maybe that’s how he would go. Eventually, he’d grow weak and fall asleep and die of malnutrition, never bothering to save himself. Then he’d find himself in some sort of summoning ritual to be the hero of some other world.

An hour into his suicide-by-inertia attempt, he overcame his laziness and, with a herculean effort, forced himself to his feet. He was too goddamn hungry. Who knew death by hunger strike would be so difficult to accomplish? Grumbling to himself, he fetched a rusted yet, yanked his door roughly open, stepped out, and shut it again in one smooth motion. He thought about locking the door, but decided it didn’t matter. What would a thief want with his house anyways? His growing collection of potato chip bags?

The street lamp outside his apartment building had broken a while ago, so he felt his way across a path in almost sheer darkness. A fluorescent light beamed in the distance-- the local supermarket. This would be a quick operation-- in, grab cup noodles, out.

A rising, almost guttural noise emerged from the distance. Two headlamps, like saucers, burst onto the road, steadily growing closer. Dan stopped in the middle of the road and watched.

This was, he thought, almost a carbon copy of every reincarnation novel he’d read. Otaku NEET stands in middle of road, gets hit by truck, reincarnates into another world. If only it were that easy.

He sighed and stared as the vehicle approached. It would stop, and the driver would get out and shout at him for blocking the round, but he didn’t care. And if it didn’t stop-- even better. He was getting tired of this life anyways.

It was closer now. The sounds of gravel screaming under chrome tires lanced his ears. He took a step back involuntarily. It would stop, wouldn’t it? But the thing showed no sign of slowing down. Fuck. Fuck! He tried to move his legs, tried to flail his arms, tried to scream, but his body would not obey.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“No! Fuck! God, I was joking! Please let me go! No! Fuck!” he roared. The beams of light were upon him now. Two giant, cruel eyes ready to devour him in body and soul.

And yet, a deer in headlights, he could not bring himself to move.

God, I’ll change! I swear! I’ll go to church on Sundays! I’ll actually do work! I’ll go to university and get a job and everything oh please dear god please don’t let that thing hit me!

Everything became viscerally real. The tusks of the fender of the truck, jutting out in monochrome silver, perked up, ready to gore him. It was over. With his meager athleticism, attempting to jump out of the way at this point wouldn’t save him from death.

He’d been such a fool. He didn’t want to die. Of course he didn’t. What could he have possibly been thinking, with his insane, stupid dream of transmigration?

He screamed.

Then it hit him.

*** 

He awoke to a vast, blank realm. There was no sound nor movement, nor anything, and yet the world seemed to shimmer, as if pulsating beneath the thin fabric of the world.

“Is-- is this heaven?”

“No,” a voice boomed. It was everywhere and nowhere at once. “But, to your insignificant species, I suppose it’s the closest approximation.”

He’d felt something missing, and not until now did he realize what it was. He did not need to breathe. He looked down and yelped when he found his whole body a translucent white.

“Relax,” the voice continued. “You’re a spirit.”

“Did-- did I die?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

He wasn’t quite sure what to say. Some part of him couldn’t understand what was happening, or didn’t accept what had happened. He was still back on that dark road, watching the bus grow closer.

“I-- I don’t understand.”

“Typical. Your kind never do. Some people go weeks before accepting it. Hell, some have been dead for years without accepting it.”

“Um.”

“Indeed.”

They stayed there, neither speaking, for some time. Time as a concept didn’t appear to exist here; or, if it did, it manifested in nothing.

“So what happens now?”

“Now, I grant your wish.”

“Sorry-- are you God? I’m still-- I don’t really--”

“For all your intents and purposes, I may as well be. My name is Atulhu. I am 50,000 years old, and a minor deity. It was no accident that you were hit by that truck. I froze your limbs and disrupted the truck driver’s senses into not seeing you.”

“Excuse me? I don’t understand.”

“Ah, still in some sort of post-trauma shock, are you? Very well. I’ll lay it out for you.

I’m bored. Monumentally bored. Have you any idea how long 50 thousand years is? A lot of deities break and commit suicide after 2,000. 50,000 years is enough to experience almost everything there is to experience a hundred times, and then some. The monotony is unbearable.

So I’ve decided to rummage through the mortal planes, pick one interesting mortal per world, and screw with them for entertainment. This is one of a simultaneous 50,000 experiments done by my soul-incarnations across a multitude of the lower realms.”

“... what?”

“Forget the terminology. It’s unimportant. What matters is that for this world, you are that mortal. You wanted to be hit by a truck and transmigrate, right? Here’s your chance.”

A figure materialized robed in a brilliant white fabric. Crystal-blue eyes sparkled with curiosity, gemstones studding an exquisitely beautiful face. He appeared young-- 17, 18 at the most-- with long, flowing hair and perfect, clear skin.

“I have assumed the appearance of the new body I’ve selected for you. Leonidas Mayhew, heir to clan Mayhew, a generational talent in cultivation. Truly, a chosen among chosen. Given a hundred years, he would rise to the Star plane and blossomed into one of the dominators of the realm. Transmigrating you into his body took a serious toll, even for me. His destiny is almost limitless.”  

Dan blinked.

“Are you serious? I’m not dreaming, am I? Or hallucinating?”

Atulhu smirked. “Another idiosyncrasy of your species. If you have the mental faculties to ask yourself the question, you should know if you are dreaming or not.”

“... there must be a catch. Is this some sort of… monkey’s paw or something? You’re not setting me up, are you?”

A radiant smile spread across Atulhu’s--, or Leonidas’s-- face.

“You needn’t worry about that. The game wouldn’t be so fun if I’d rigged it, now would it? Don’t worry. I’ve simply made a series of predictions. I’ll throw you into the world and see how well they bear out.”

“... what predictions?”

“Oh, that you won’t survive three years. Maybe two. It’ll be fun to see how it goes.”

“Wait. What?”

“Perhaps the most interesting trait of your species-- an inability to admit fault. Tell me, why are you the way you are?”

“Excuse me?”

“You are lazy, unmotivated, callous, and an utter degenerate.” Atulhu said matter-of-factly. “Whose fault is that?”

“That’s unfair. My world is incredibly boring. The people there are boring and there’s no magic or any cool stuff. You just sit around and grind out grades and go to college and it’s all a huge--”

“You do know that I am thousands of times more intellectually capable than you are, correct?” Atulhu interrupted. “You are feeding mortal excuses to an immortal god.”

“Hey! That’s--”

“We’ve covered everything you need to know. Good luck!”

“Wait-- you can’t just drop that on me and not--”

He blinked out of existence.

Somewhere, in a plane of existence an immeasurable distance away, Leonidas Mayhew awoke with a start.