It is the twenty-first century, and contrary to what many intellectuals once predicted, humanity has not become more civilized or intelligent. If anything, the opposite has happened. As ideologies clash and discourse decays, the world seems to have grown more uncivilized—and spectacularly stupid.
The global economy is in steady decline, bringing with it widespread poverty, unrest, and desperation. Birthrates have plummeted. Life expectancy is shrinking. As society crumbles, so too does the planet.
Bit by bit, the Earth has begun to turn against its most obnoxious tenants. Natural disasters have become more frequent and unpredictable. Bizarre weather patterns have wrecked harvests, triggering famines and mass migrations.
Meanwhile, humanity's insatiable appetite for more—more energy, more stuff, more everything—has bled the planet dry. With dwindling resources at home, nations have turned their gaze outward. The result? More wars. More weapons. Less planet.
This has been the cycle for some time now: take, fight, break, repeat.
The unity that once held the world (barely) together is beginning to fray. The Union of Nations, a relic of hopeful cooperation, can no longer agree on anything—except that things are really, really bad.
With no global consensus in sight, individual nations are left to act alone, fumbling toward solutions that often make things worse.
And so, as the twenty-first century limps toward its end, humanity once again stands at the brink of war—confused, divided, and well-armed.
Somewhere in the Middle East, under the cover of night in a ruined coastal city, armed men moved like shadows across rooftops. They wore bandanas inscribed with strange symbols—foreign scribbles that no Englishman could hope to understand.
They carried rockets, setting them carefully atop crumbling buildings. When everything was ready, one of them pressed a button on his radio and spoke quietly:"Akl alqaraf."
Then they waited.
Crackling through static came the same phrase, repeated in many voices and many accents:"Akl alqaraf."Over and over, the words echoed through the night like a strange, ominous prayer.
And then came the final command:"Almawt li'Amrika."Death to America.
With that, the city—and many others across the Middle East—lit up in bursts of orange flame as rockets launched skyward. From north to south, across the Islamic world, missiles soared toward carefully chosen targets.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea, aboard a U.S. aircraft carrier, Lieutenant Jack Fritz was being rudely awakened.
The sirens were blaring. Red lights pulsed across the walls of his cabin like the heartbeat of doom. Jack cracked open one bleary eye and groaned like a dying walrus. Still half-asleep, he fumbled around the bed, searching for his phone.
No phone on the nightstand. No phone under the pillow. Nothing but crumpled sheets and regret.
That's when he felt it—something firm, warm, and awkwardly positioned in his underwear.
With zero grace, Jack shoved his hand down and fished it out.His phone.Big. Thick. Unreasonably durable. A true beast of a phone. The kind of phone that could survive nuclear war or at least a drop from the flight deck.
He turned it on. The screen lit up, but his eyes betrayed him.Too blurry. Too dark. Too damn early.
"Oh come on, eyes—work, damn it!" he muttered, as if yelling at his face would fix anything.
From under his pillow, Jack retrieved his emergency self-care kit: a lighter and a pre-rolled joint. With the elegance of a sleep-deprived raccoon, he sparked it, inhaled deep, and let the tension melt away. The world made slightly more sense now.
Finally, he checked the time.
3:00 AM.
Jack flailed his arms toward the ceiling like a man in existential crisis.
"You have got to be kidding me. It's three in the fucking morning?! Again?!"
This wasn't his first rodeo. Jack had been stationed aboard the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower for months now, part of a U.S.-led deterrence force babysitting the region. Lately, they'd been getting warnings almost nightly. A few sad little rockets had been fired from the ruined coast—but they either got shot down or missed completely.
At this point, Jack had reached Olympic-level exhaustion.
Assigned to the flight deck, he had to climb endless staircases every time the alarms went off. Which they always did. Every. Damn. Night.
"Fuck me, man," he muttered. "Why now? And what the hell is going on out there? Sounds like someone's way too excited for another false alarm."
Still grumbling, he started getting dressed. And just as he pulled on his boots, the sound of frantic knocking exploded at his door.
"Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Open up!"
Jack was startled.Why the hell is he so panicked? Could it be... something actually happened this time?
He opened the door to see a fat, excited, and sweaty Petty Officer panting like a dog that had just discovered fire. Jack squinted, glaring at the man, but before he could even speak, the sailor stood up straight, threw a hasty salute, and blurted out:
"Sorry for disturbing you, Lieutenant! But I have urgent news! Sir!"
Jack raised an eyebrow, silently granting permission to continue. As he did, other sailors sprinted past the man in the corridor—shouting, scrambling, chaos brewing.
"Sir, it's war! We're at war! The news just came out!"
"War?" Jack echoed, suddenly wide awake. The word hit him like a double shot of espresso. "With who?"
The petty officer's eyes widened."Everybody."
Just then, the ship's intercoms crackled to life. The Admiral's voice came screaming through, unfiltered panic and static clashing like cymbals.
"This is not a drill! I repeat, this is not a drill! All personnel to your stations—immediately!"
Welp. That was it. No more false alarms. This was the real deal.
Jack bolted down the corridor alongside the sailor, adrenaline now fully in control of his body. The distinct sound of the Phalanx CIWS anti-air guns firing filled the air—fast, mechanical, terrifying. Explosions echoed in the distance like angry gods throwing tantrums.
As they ran, Jack's mind wandered—like it always did at the worst possible time.
Shit... how the hell did it come to this?
This wasn't the life he'd signed up for. Jack had joined the Navy hoping for a cushy, posturing gig. Maybe some easy medal-chasing, a decent salary, a white-picket-fence kind of life. Wife. Kids. Dog. Backyard barbecue Saturdays.
But no. They just had to start World War Freakin' Three.And right when he was finally hitting his prime.
Couldn't they have waited thirty years? Let him retire in peace and send his kids to war instead?
Yeah, Jack was kind of a coward. He'd never thrown a punch, never taken one either. His best weapon in life had always been bullshitting confidently and yelling with authority.
Maybe he should've just listened to his dad and worked on that damn fishing boat. But that was actual labor—and Jack had made it a life goal to avoid that at all costs.
Oh well, too late for regrets now.YOLO, he thought bitterly.I mean, it can't really be that bad out there on the deck, right?
Wrong.
When Jack stepped onto the deck, his jaw dropped.
The night sky was on fire.
Tracer rounds from the Phalanx systems zipped through the air like glowing threads. Hundreds—no, thousands—of lights streaked across the sky toward them.
It was like the Fourth of July on every drug known to man.
"Wait... what the fuck...? Those aren't stars. That's a fuck-ton of TNT coming our way!"
Jack dropped to his knees.
It was over. He knew it. With that many rockets, and modern guidance systems? Even one hit would be enough to end the Eisenhower. And there were hundreds of them.
Beside him, the fat sailor—Petty Officer Sam—was practically bouncing.
"Damn, that's frickin' awesome!" he shouted, grinning. "Lieutenant, what do we do? Why are you kneeling? Sir? I don't think this is the right time to reenact the scene from Platoon..."
The excitement faded from Sam's voice as he looked into Jack's dead, glassy eyes. His lieutenant looked utterly defeated—like a man who'd just seen his Tinder date turn out to be his cousin.
But then, something changed.
Sam took a breath. His voice dropped to something deeper—calmer, almost heroic.
"I know, sir. It's all wrong.We shouldn't be here. So far from home.But we are.
It's like in the great war stories, Lieutenant.The ones that really mattered.Full of darkness and danger.And sometimes you didn't want to know the end.Because how could the end be happy?How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?
But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this darkness.Even darkness must pass.A new day will come.And when the sun shines, it'll shine out the clearer.
Those were the stories that stayed with you.That meant something.Even if you were too small to understand why.
But I think, sir, I do understand.I know now.Folks in those stories had lots of chances to turn back, only they didn't.Because they were holding on to something."
Jack blinked. He stared up at the sky—his fate incoming like angry, flaming angels—and smiled with tears in his eyes.
"What are we holding on to, Petty Officer Sam?" he whispered.
Sam placed a sweaty hand on Jack's trembling shoulder. His voice, for once, soft and steady.
"That there's still some good in this world, Lieutenant Jack.And it's worth fighting for."
As Jack was about to respond to Sam, something caught his eye—just a glint at first, from the corner of his vision. Then came the explosion.
A nearby ship was struck dead-on by a massive missile. In an instant, it was ripped clean in half. The shockwave hit before his brain even processed the sight. He watched in horror as the crew onboard was reduced to a red mist—meat paste scattered into the wind.
Jack tried to move, to brace, to scream—but it was too late.
Suddenly, everything went deathly silent.
His body felt weightless. He saw his own boots float past his face as he flew backward through the air like a ragdoll. Then—blackness.
When consciousness returned, Jack wished it hadn't.
Pain. That's all he could register. Everything hurt. Every bone. Every muscle. Every organ. He could taste blood in his lungs. His coughing turned violent—wet, desperate, gurgling. His ears rang like an air raid siren stuffed into his skull. His eyes were bleeding.
Through the blur, he saw hell.
Fire danced across the deck. Men and women—those lucky enough to still be moving—scrambled to put out fires or leapt from the carrier into the dark sea below. Smoke bellowed from the side of the ship. It had been hit. Hard. And now, it was tilting, like a wounded beast preparing to sink into the deep.
Still, the guns fired—wildly, blindly—into the black sky.
Then he saw it.
A glowing light, descending from the sky. Soft. Radiant. Like some divine entity gracing his final moment.
He smiled through the blood and bruises, arms wide open.
"Yes... you big-tittied beautiful angel lady... come to meeeee! Let me be isekai'd!"
But instead of salvation, it was Sam.
Petty Officer Sam, crawling across the scorched deck—legless, mangled, face caked in blood and soot.
He flopped down on top of Jack, breath ragged. "Not yet, Lieutenant... we can still make it. We can live."
Jack's eyes widened."Yes... I want to live!"
And then—
Boom.
A blinding flash of light.Then darkness.
Suddenly, water. Cold, suffocating, endless.
He thrashed.
Something was pulling him down.
He looked below—and nearly screamed.A red, horned demon grinned up at him, its claws digging into his leg, dragging him deeper into the abyss.
"What the fuck is that?! Oh shit—OH SHIT!"
He struggled, kicking, fighting to swim up. But the demon was impossibly heavy—like a goddamn one-ton anchor chained to his soul.
His lungs screamed for air.
That's when he saw Sam.
Legless, yet swimming with absurd speed, Sam cut through the water like a torpedo. He reached Jack and grabbed his hand, trying to pull him up. Jack looked at him with wide, panicked eyes.
Let go. Just let go. Let at least one of us survive.
But Sam shook his head. He held on.
Together, they sank.
Jack felt the last of his air escape his lungs. His vision darkened. Limbs went numb. This was it. This was—
Thud.
A sudden, violent crack. He slammed into solid ground.
He coughed, gasping for air that shouldn't have been there. The pain returned. Reality returned—but not the same reality he knew.
He lay on something sharp. Crunchy. Uneven.
Bones.
A whole landscape of them.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Sam lying nearby, motionless.
Then a voice: hoarse, trembling.
"Lieutenant... where are we?"
Jack gritted his teeth, forcing himself up on one elbow.
"How the hell should I—"
He stopped.
His blood ran cold.
A distant fire flickered into existence, illuminating the horizon. It wasn't a fire on the sea—it was a blaze in the void.
And with its glow, Jack could finally see where they were.
An island.Made entirely of bones.Human, animal… and other things. Things with skulls and tusks and jaws he couldn't even recognize.
"Lieutenant... I think we're sinking," Sam said, concern creeping into his voice.
Jack looked around. The bone island was groaning, shifting beneath them. Little by little, it was going under.
"Shit."
Sam scrambled—crawled—to the highest pile of bones at the island's center. Jack followed, slipping on slick femurs and shattered skulls. From the top, they watched in horror as the macabre island sank and strange, swirling shapes began to emerge.
"Are those... are those fucking ghosts?" Jack asked, voice cracking.
Sam looked down at his bleeding stumps. Blood poured into the water like bait.
"I dunno," he said. "But they sure seem interested in me. Who knows? Maybe they're helpful ghosts. Maybe they wanna heal my legs. Hahaha!"
Jack stared at him, deadpan."How the hell can you laugh right now? We're so dead. You realize that, right?"
Sam just grinned through the blood and grime."My mom always said—if you believe there's a way, you'll find the way. And I believe we can live. You wanna live too, right? So believe it."
Jack scowled, fists clenched."Of course I want to live!"
But before he could say more, a sudden wave of heat hit them like a furnace door thrown open.
Their skin began to sweat. The air shimmered. Flames erupted from the water—rising hundreds of meters, stretching wide like the maw of hell itself.
From within the fire, two massive horns emerged—each as thick as a tree trunk.
Then came the voice.
Deep. Menacing. Ancient. Soul-piercing.
"If you want something... you must give something of equal worth."
In the center of the bone pile, something appeared: a dagger.
Black metal, carved with strange symbols. A translucent glass handle glowed faintly with a sick, red light.
Jack didn't hesitate. Something about it called to him. He reached out—
"No, stop!" Sam yelled, panicked. "Don't be tempted! This is a devil's bargain—he's testing us. If we give in, we'll be damned for eternity! This has to be the Sea of Souls... the place before the Underworld. If we falter here, Jack, we may never return to God!"
Jack just laughed bitterly.
"Oh yeah? Is that a fact? Look around, Sam! I want to live, and I see no other way. Do you?"
The rising water touched Jack's boots. He lunged for the dagger.
"No! Don't—!"
Too late.
The moment Jack grasped the blade, a shock ran through him—up his arm, into his skull. His eyes flashed red. He gasped.
Power surged through him. His thoughts sharpened. His pain dulled. His mind cleared.
Then came the dread.
He tried to drop the dagger—but his fingers wouldn't open. It was like the blade had fused to his hand. He clawed at it with his other hand, smashed it against the bones, but nothing worked.
"Jack? What's happening? Let it go!" Sam called out.
Jack fell to his knees, trembling.
"It... it spoke to me, Sam." His voice shook. "It said... it's called the Soul Dagger. It wants me to kill you. In exchange... for my life. And power."
Sam froze. The water reached his stumps.
"Is there no other way?" he asked, desperately. "Can't you get it off?"
"No."
Sam stared at him.
Then nodded.
"Do it."
Jack's face twisted."What?"
"You're an atheist, right?" Sam asked.
"Yeah, so?"
"Well, I'm not. My soul is safe. Yours... maybe not. I say use this chance. Redeem yourself. Find your own way back to God."He smiled—weak, uncertain.
Jack's eyes welled with tears."Oh, Sam..."
"Don't worry, Lieutenant. We'll meet again. One day, up there."He pointed to the dark sky.
Then the fire rose again. The demon's voice boomed, now furious.
"I grow impatient of this whining! Do it—or I end you both!"
Jack looked up, terrified. The water boiled. The ghosts howled.
"Do it, Lieutenant!" Sam screamed, his skin blistering. "Kill me!"
The heat seared Jack's skin. Ghostly hands dragged at his legs.
"AAAHH!!" he screamed in agony.
Eyes shut tight, he reached forward with one hand and gripped Sam's shoulder.
With the other, he drove the dagger down.
They both screamed.
And the demon laughed.
Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab.
The blade came down again and again—each strike tearing through flesh, bone, and something deeper.
Sam's screams rang in Jack's ears—until suddenly, they didn't.
Silence.
Sam's body went limp.
Jack opened his eyes and stared at what he'd done. Blood. Meat. Bone. His friend, reduced to a shredded mess. His breath caught in his throat, and he doubled over, vomiting onto the pile of bones.
Wiping his mouth, hand trembling, he turned to the towering demon.
"Are you happy now?!" he screamed, voice hoarse and broken.
The demon's laughter slowed… then stopped.
"No," it said, voice calm, almost bored. "I want you to cut off his fat head.MUAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Jack stared in disbelief.
"Was this not enough...?" he whispered, looking down at the dagger.
Inside the glass handle, something shimmered. A wisp of light. A soul.Sam's soul.
It swam, slowly. Calmly.
Jack choked on the weight of it all. His eyes blurred with tears.
"Forgive me, Sam..." he muttered.
Then, with hands sticky with blood and grief, he grabbed Sam by the hair.
The dagger trembled in his grip as he brought it to Sam's neck."I'm so sorry..."
The blade met skin. Cut. Bit. Tore.
Jack screamed as he worked—not from pain, but from horror.
The dagger sliced deeper, sawing through sinew, muscle, and the thick resistance of bone.
"AAAAAAGHHH!!"
Blood sprayed across his face. Hot. Thick. Wrong.
He could barely see, barely breathe, the sound of his own retching mixing with the sickening crunch of steel on vertebrae.
And then—
Silence.
The demon went quiet.
The flames vanished.
Darkness swallowed him.
***
Marino jolted awake with a shout, his high-pitched, girlish voice echoing through the small wooden room."Aaaaaaaaaaa!! Wait—did I just speak Portuguese?" he thought, blinking rapidly.
Where the hell am I?
He lay on a straw-stuffed mattress, staring at the wooden ceiling above. He was alive—clearly—but not as he remembered. He moved his hands. They were small, delicate, and soft. No calluses. No scars. His voice, too, was unnervingly high—like a young boy's... or a girl's.
Jack was no bodybuilder, sure, but he definitely hadn't been this tiny.
Turning his head, he saw a young couple standing beside his bed, watching him with wide, worried eyes. Late twenties, maybe. That's when it hit him—like a floodgate bursting open.
Memories.
His father's name was Jesus. He was a tall, broad-shouldered shipbuilder, a sailor by trade, with long, dark-blonde hair and a thick beard. He looked like… well, a buff version of the biblical Jesus.
His mother was Mary. Twenty-six. Petite—barely 150 centimeters tall—with a generous bust and a calm, elegant beauty. A former nun of the Church of Sighard, she had left her vows behind to raise a family. Her strict devotion meant Marino was their only child.
"Jesus? Father? Mother Mary? What the hell is going on? Why do I know this?"
Marino furrowed his brows, rifling through his thoughts. There were two sets of memories—one belonged to Marino Colombo, a mentally fragile twelve-year-old boy with no friends, a twisted imagination, and a tragic death. Apparently, he'd choked on his tongue during a fit of maniacal laughter.
The other belonged to Lieutenant Jack—a navy officer who'd died in the opening hours of World War III. An explosion. Blood. Darkness. Then… this.
Rebirth?
"Big-titted angels or Sam's wish?" he wondered. "If that was even real."He vaguely remembered ghosts… a fire… a demon whispering in the dark. Sam screaming. A dagger. But the memory felt distant, dreamlike. Blurry around the edges.
"I mean, come on—since when does the chosen hero get recruited by a freaking demon? That can't be right… can it?"
Before he could spiral further, a warm hand gently touched his own. Mary leaned in, her brown eyes full of concern.
"Are you well, my son? You didn't come for breakfast, and you wouldn't wake up. We feared the worst."
Marino blinked. Then smirked. "Nah. Just trying to set a world record for holding my breath."
Jesus and Mary exchanged a look of surprise.
Jesus let out a laugh. "That's my boy. Practicing diving already? Though next time, let's do it together—in the sea, yeah?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sure," Marino muttered, still disoriented.
His parents, reassured, placed their hands together in a blessing.
"May Sighard give you strength and guard you from evil," Mary said softly."And may it be so," Jesus added. "Praise Sighard, the Hammerer."
Jesus clapped his hands and grinned. "Alright, come down when you're ready. Breakfast is still warm."
And just like that, they left, closing the door gently behind them.
Marino sat in stunned silence, staring at the ceiling above.
He was alive. But he wasn't Jack anymore. Not fully.He was something… in between.
"Wait—Sighard? Wait, what?" Marino blinked in confusion, sitting up in bed.
He dug into his new memories, trying to make sense of it all. Apparently, in this world, the Church of Sighard reigned supreme across most of Europe. There was no Jesus dying on a cross to found Christianity. Instead, there was Sighard—the divine hammer-wielding savior who came from the stars.
Thousands of years ago, during a time called the Age of Darkness, humanity had nearly been wiped out. People survived only in isolated forest hideouts, rugged highlands, or fortified cities. The lands between were ruled by creatures of the night—beasts that hunted and devoured human flesh without mercy.
Then everything changed with the arrival of the Yellow Comet.Sighard descended from the heavens, mounted on a great gryphon, wielding a mighty war hammer. He began by uniting the two greatest human tribes of the time—the Germans and the French—and forged them into a single unstoppable force: The Empire of Man.
Led by Sighard, the Empire's armies drove back the creatures of darkness, reclaiming the continent city by city. For a hundred glorious years, Sighard ruled, and humanity flourished. It was a golden age, an age of peace, rebuilding, and unity. Cities rose again, fields bloomed, and mankind stepped out of the shadows.
Now, however, it was the year 1050 After Sighard. The Empire was gone.Sighard had left behind no heir, and the Empire fractured into countless bickering kingdoms. The old unity was forgotten, but humanity endured—living in relative peace and steadily repopulating the continent.
Yet, dark whispers were returning.
There were rumors—horrors stirring in the East. Tales of vast, bloodthirsty hordes and undead legions marching again. The shadows of the old world were creeping back.
"Damn," Marino muttered to himself. "This world's metal as hell."
He wasn't wrong. The setting was grim and dangerous—but also brimming with opportunity.
Human progress had mostly stagnated over the past millennium. The focus had been on survival and rebuilding, not innovation. Only the dwarves—insular mountain folk who once fought beside Sighard—had pushed forward, developing new tools of war. Their cannons and muskets were whispered about in awe, but rare in most lands.
This world resembled late medieval Europe, yet with key differences.The dominant cultures were Germanic and French, and most nobles came from these lines. Their languages were the tongues of power. And where England once stood in his past life, there now lay the Kingdom of Albion—a mysterious, sparsely explored island said to be filled with monsters and magic.
Marino, of course, wasn't noble or educated. His skills came from his father—shipbuilding and sailing. Jesus (his dad, not that Jesus) was a master shipwright, and the family's livelihood relied on his reputation and craftsmanship. Honestly, it was uncanny—almost like he was blessed by a god.
Looking through his inherited knowledge of navigation, Marino noticed something bizarre:The stars were different.
The constellations weren't the same. They shimmered in unfamiliar patterns. The skies above might look similar, but they weren't Earth's.
"What the hell is up there?" he whispered. "And what's looking back down?"
If he was lucky, maybe one day he'd find out. Maybe one day, he'd even reach them.
For now, the mysteries lay closer to home.
At the docks, Marino had heard sailors whisper wild stories. Battles in the East.Endless green tides—likely orcs and goblins—and something more disturbing:Dead legions of the old Empire, marching again.
No one had seen them firsthand. It was always "a friend of a friend of a merchant," but the tales were spreading.
And then, there was faith. The Church of Sighard preached that, through true devotion, one's soul could be saved. In moments of desperation, it was said, a devout person could be granted Sighard's strength—overwhelming courage, divine power, just enough to overcome whatever evil threatened them.
"Sounds like bullshit," Marino muttered. He hadn't seen any miracles—just heard stories.
But there were other stories too.Darker ones.
Tales of necromancers, witches, and forbidden rituals that granted real, unnatural power at a terrible cost. Power that twisted the soul, condemned the wielder to eternal darkness. The Church hunted such practitioners relentlessly.
But to Marino?
It was... interesting.
He didn't know how to access such powers—if they even existed—but if anyone could, surely it would be someone like him. An isekai protagonist, right? He had to have some kind of power hidden away.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Whatever the case, this world was ripe for discovery—and he already had a plan.
His family name was Colombo.They were shipbuilders.
And nowhere in his memories was there any mention of a New World.
Just like Columbus in his old life, maybe it would be Colombo in this one who discovered it.
Sure, he wasn't the bravest guy around. But with muskets in hand, he was confident he could handle whatever backwater natives this world threw at him.
Marino smirked."This could get interesting."
He stood, dressed in simple middle-class attire—roughspun tunic, leather boots, and a salt-stained belt. Then he made his way downstairs for breakfast.
The world was waiting.