With the plans for Marino's first business underway—and, more importantly, out of his hands—life slowed down.
A week had passed since the meeting with Lord Segres. Most days were now filled with labor at the docks beside his father, hauling crates and managing cargo manifests. When he wasn't sweating under the sun, he was doing push-ups behind the house, determined to sculpt the body of a hero. Or, at the very least, a decent set of abs.
But deep down, Marino yearned for something more.
Where are my overpowered protagonist abilities? he thought bitterly, standing in his small backyard, arms raised to the sky like some anime character mid-transformation.
"Status window!" he shouted. Nothing."System, activate!" Still nothing."Fire magic! Earth magic! Wind—light—dark—!" Silence.
Only the cluck of Mary's chickens and the unimpressed bleating of her lambs replied.
But Marino didn't give up. I know how this goes… maybe it's cultivation. Yeah, slow burn, ancient energy awakening. He sat down cross-legged, closed his eyes, and began to meditate. The breeze brushed his face. His breath slowed. His body relaxed. Hours passed.
And then… he felt it.
A pressure… rising… within…
He opened his eyes suddenly.
He had to take a massive shit.
With the look of a man betrayed by the very heavens, he marched to his usual bathroom—the cliffside overlooking the sea. As he squatted there on the wind-swept bluff, staring into the churning waves and jagged rocks below, his mind turned dark.
This isn't fair, he thought. Where's my system? My cheat skill? My glowing blue HUD?!
Then—an idea struck.
He remembered a show he'd once seen. In it, the protagonist didn't awaken his powers through meditation or luck. No—he found strength through trauma. Through danger. Through death-defying madness.
By jumping off a cliff.
And in that brief moment before impact… boom. Inner power, unlocked.
Marino's eyes lit up.
He stood tall, surveyed the drop, and carefully picked out the least rocky section of ocean below. His heart thundered in his chest.
Come on, Marino. You're not a bitch. That power is yours. You just have to take it.
He slapped himself across the cheeks.
"FUCK YEAH!"
And with that, he ran.
One step. Two. Three—
He leapt.
Air rushed past him. Fear, excitement, adrenaline—he felt alive. YES! THIS IS IT! I CAN FEEL THE POWER—
SPLASH.
The sea smacked him like a divine punishment. Cold. Crushing. Chaos.
When Marino dragged himself ashore ten minutes later, coughing and pale, he was missing one thing: powers.
But he had gained a broken arm.
By some miracle, that was the worst of it. He knew how to swim, and had at least the sense to keep his head above water. When his frantic parents found him soaking and grimacing on the sand, he mumbled something about slipping near the edge.
They didn't press him. Instead, they rushed him to the local priest.
There was no true "healing magic" in this world, not like in games or light novels. The priest muttered a prayer and helped reset the bone with the steady hands of someone who'd done it many times before. Marino's arm was bound in a wooden splint, and that was that.
He spent the next several weeks healing—and reevaluating his life choices.
He told himself that maybe the power would come later. Yeah, probably locked behind a plot trigger or emotional trauma or something. These things take time.
In the meantime, he returned to his mundane medieval life.
Part of that meant weekly church visits, where the priest would inspect the healing of his arm and quietly mutter that maybe young boys shouldn't be climbing cliffs. Marino just smiled and nodded.
With more free time than he liked, Marino began sketching the blueprints for a new kind of ship. A sleeker, more maneuverable design based on the caravels of his past life. Something that could eventually carry him west—far beyond the known sea.
He might not have powers yet… but that wouldn't stop him.
He had bread. He had vision.
And soon… he'd have sails.
In Marino's small room sat a simple wooden table and a rickety chair, where he now hunched over paper and ink, deep in thought. His fingers were stained black, and scattered around him were sketches, calculations, and half-finished designs. Most of them were focused on one thing: ships.
In this world, there had never been any great age of exploration. Civilization was locked in by danger on all sides. To the north and east lay savage barbarians and howling monsters. To the south, green-skinned warbands roamed the deserts, while remnants of ancient, militant empires still clung to their dead gods and deadlier traditions. Even the heartlands of Europe weren't safe—there, the mountains birthed horrors, and the caves beneath the earth occasionally spewed forth monstrous hordes to plague the land.
Only one direction remained truly unknown.
The vast, mysterious western sea.
Because of this constant threat, the kings and nobles of the world had never invested seriously in naval exploration. Their coin and steel had always gone to land armies, fortresses, and border wars. The Western doctrine was, and always had been, focused on ground warfare. As a result, shipbuilding had stagnated. The most common vessel in the known world was still the galley—oar-powered, short-ranged, and utterly unsuited for crossing oceans.
But Marino had an advantage.
He wasn't a shipwright, true—but he had knowledge. Lessons from his father, who'd worked the docks, and hazy memories from his past life, particularly one ship in particular: the Santa Maria.
It was the ship Columbus had sailed to the New World—and Marino intended to do the same.
He leaned over his blueprint, mumbling to himself as he traced the hull's outline.
Santa Maria.Carrack-class.Displacement: 150 metric tons.Hull length: 19 meters (62 ft).Keel length: 12.6 meters (41 ft).Beam: approximately 5.5 meters (18 ft).Draught: estimated 3.2 meters (10 ft).Crew: 40 men.Armament: 4 × 90 mm bombards, 50 mm culebrinas.
Marino grinned as he imagined his own fleet one day setting sail—not just one ship, but many. And unlike Columbus, who returned to Spain a beggar, he would not just find the New World. He would conquer it. From the beginning, he would establish a permanent colony. A foothold. A capital. A legacy.
Maybe he'd even become its ruler. A noble. A duke of the west.
And with that title would come wealth.
And with that wealth?
A harem, of course.
An evil grin crept across Marino's face as he imagined himself sitting on a wooden throne made from palm trees, surrounded by exotic beauties and palm wine. Maybe he could even name the colony something cool—like Nova Sagres or Colombica.
But as always, good things never came easy. He sighed. Why couldn't I have been born a noble with a shipyard and a treasury? Why, Jesus, why?
"Marino, breakfast is ready!" Mary's voice echoed from downstairs.
"Just a minute, Mom!" he called back, snapping out of his daydream.
At first, it had felt strange—calling a medieval woman "Mom." But over time, it had grown natural. His new parents were good people. Honest, kind, hardworking. Marino respected them. He didn't regret ending up here—not really. If he hadn't died in his old life, he'd probably be fighting World War III right now, dodging drones and radiation in the ruins of a dying Earth.
It pained him to think that his old family might be mourning him. But another part of him held a strange, selfish hope: maybe they would be isekai'd too. Maybe this world could become their home one day.
With that final thought, Marino stood up from his chair, careful not to smudge the ink. He folded the blueprint gently, got dressed in a plain green tunic and black pants, then pushed open his creaky wooden door.
Time for breakfast.
At the dining table, his father and mother were already seated, patiently waiting for him. Laid out before them was a colorful spread of sandwiches—some traditional, some wildly experimental. Mary had taken Marino's advice to heart, testing out new combinations in preparation for the launch of their sandwich-selling business.
Marino had recently decided that he'd train his mother to handle the business side of things. He had more important matters to attend to—like conquering the New World and building his dream body.
Sitting down, Marino slid the folded paper toward his father with a confident grin. "Here, Father. The schematics for a carrack-class ship. It'll be expensive, yes—but I think we can manage it once the business takes off."
Jesus unfolded the paper and studied the lines carefully, frowning as he did. "The design is sound," he admitted. "But I don't understand the purpose. Sure, it can travel farther than a galley, but in war, it would never win. Your ship holds forty men. A galley holds up to three hundred. And how much will this cost?"
Marino's expression twisted in frustration. He replied in a sharp tone. "Ha! While it's true the galley has a larger crew and lower cost, the carrack is still the superior ship. It's taller—much taller—which gives a significant advantage in battle."
Jesus raised an eyebrow. "And how, exactly, is that an advantage? How can forty men defeat three hundred?"
"Because of high ground, Father!" Marino snapped, speaking like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The carrack's deck sits so high that any boarding attempt would be suicide. Our men could just rain arrows, bolts, or bombs down on the attackers. It's simple tactics! The high ground always wins."
Jesus chuckled and leaned back, arms crossed. "And what would a boy know of naval warfare?"
That did it.
Marino's fists clenched on the table as he shot his father a death glare, gritting his teeth. Why can't this medieval caveman understand anything? Jesus smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction.
Sensing the tension rise, Mary raised her hands. "Now, now, let's not argue," she said gently. "Remember Sighard's teachings—no man should harm another unless he be heretical or wicked. You should talk this out calmly. Marino, explain yourself better. And you, Jesus, be more open-minded."
Marino let out a long, annoyed sigh, but nodded. "Fine," he muttered. "But Father, you have to understand—this ship isn't meant for war. It's for voyages. Long ones. Across the ocean. And it could even be used for overseas trade."
Jesus remained unconvinced. "Trade? Where? The ships we already have can reach every civilized port. And exploration? To where? South lies the Caliphate and endless deserts filled with greenskins. North and east are barbarian wastes and monsters. And west?" He shook his head. "There's nothing but ocean."
Marino leaned back and laughed. "Ha! That's where you're wrong!"
Jesus frowned.
"Don't you remember the merchant tales?" Marino went on excitedly. "Of the great empire of Ind, where cities touch the clouds and temples glow with gold? Of the mighty Ming, whose people have conquered the sky with machines of wonder? If we could reach them by sea—imagine it! Endless wealth! Spices, ivory, silks, exotic wonders!"
Jesus raised an eyebrow. "And where is your proof?"
Of course, Marino had none. But neither did Columbus when he pitched the same ideas centuries ago. So Marino figured—why not play the same card?
"Proof?" Marino repeated. "Father, just because it hasn't been done doesn't mean it can't be done. In life, there's no certainty—there's only adventure. Like a great man once said: 'Without struggle, there is no progress.'"
Jesus sighed, his expression softening. "But my son… why? Why take such a risk? Why gamble everything—for money? For glory?"
Mary nodded. "Your father's right, Marino. We may not be nobles, but we have a comfortable life. Food on the table, a roof over our heads. What more do you truly need?"
"Mother, Father," Marino said solemnly, "I understand your concern. But I believe that as a man in my privileged position, it is my duty—not just to our family, but to our nation and to all of humanity—to strive to be the very best I can be. I believe I was brought here for something greater than becoming just another shipbuilder."
And he meant every word. After all, he had been brought to this world from another. Born with the name Colombo. The only transmigrator here, as far as he knew. He may not have been religious in his past life, but this? This was proof. Proof that something greater had chosen him—him alone—for a higher purpose.
Hearing such complex thoughts and grand proclamations from a twelve-year-old left his parents speechless.
Then Jesus laughed, loud and proud. "Ha ha ha! Who would've guessed my boy had already grown into such an ambitious man! If this is truly your path, then I won't stop you. A man's worth is no greater than his ambition!"
Mary smiled warmly, nodding. "Yes. If this is what you truly want, then we will help you however we can. Isn't that right, husband?"
Jesus nodded. "Yes, of course. Absolutely anything you need, my son."
Marino practically lit up. With his parents' blessing, he was one step closer to his dream. The name Colombo will be remembered for all time. He turned to his father eagerly. "Really? You'll help me build the ship?"
Jesus smiled. "Yes. If that's what you wish. Though the cost… well, it'll be high. But we'll find a way."
Marino paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Well… according to my calculations, it'll cost about 3,000 gold coins and take around 18 months to complete."
There was silence.
3,000 gold coins. In modern terms? Around three million dollars.
His parents stared at him, mouths hanging open. A galley—a whole galley—cost half that. Maybe even less.
After a long pause, Mary broke the silence. "The cost is high… but we'll do anything for our son. Isn't that right, Jesus?"
Jesus blinked, scratching the back of his head. "Y-yeah… of course."
In truth, Jesus only made around 160 gold per year—on a good year. And he didn't even own the shipyard. Everything there belonged to the local lord. If this dream was to become reality, they'd need to save aggressively… and hope those sandwiches sold like holy relics.
Seeing the weight of the conversation settle, Mary clapped her hands together. "Alright, enough scheming. Time to eat!"
She led them in prayer. They all raised their right hand in a fist, brought it to the center of their chest, and gently placed their open left palm against it—like the greeting of an ancient warrior. Bowing their heads, they spoke in unison:
"May Sighard bless our food and cleanse it of all evil, and so be it."
With that, they dug in with gusto.
Later that day, Marino followed his father to the shipyard. He watched closely, studying the medieval ways of shipbuilding with keen eyes and careful notes. The tools were crude. The techniques slow. But it was all knowledge—and knowledge was power.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the hills and painted the sky with warm orange light, Marino finally got to what he really wanted to do: work out.
Or at least, try to.
He didn't have a gym. Or weights. Or anything even close to equipment.
What he did have was:
A wooden pull-up bar
Two buckets, filled one-third of the way with rocks and water
Two logs placed close together for dips and L-sits
It wasn't much. But it was something.
This wasn't a bodybuilder's paradise. This was calisthenics—medieval peasant-style.
Still, Marino trained with fierce dedication. Every day, at least half an hour of strength training, followed by a run and a full-body stretch. He wasn't a soldier in his past life. But he was a gym bro. A gym bro with a dream.
He trained to be strong. To be lean. To be alpha. So that when he did reach the New World, he wouldn't just arrive as a captain—he'd arrive as a Chad.