It was pitch black outside, and a violent rainstorm battered the rooftops of Sagres. Thunder cracked in the distance, and lightning illuminated the narrow, winding streets for a single heartbeat before plunging them back into darkness.
On the second floor of a humble brick-and-wood house, a boy twisted in his straw-stuffed bed, the old wooden frame creaking under him. Sweat trickled down his brow, his face contorting in discomfort. His fists clenched as he mumbled incoherently, locked in a restless dream.
In that dream, he stood on the deck of a great ship, far out at sea. Rain did not touch him there, only golden light—warm and divine—bathed the vessel and those upon it.
Lined across the ship stood dozens of soldiers, all clad in radiant golden armor. Their faces were hidden by helms, but when the wind shifted, they turned as one—kneeling.
At the ship's prow stood a man.
Tall. Radiant. His long golden hair danced in the wind like strands of fire. He wore armor that gleamed like polished sunstone, but it was his face that drew Marino's eyes. Not for its symmetrical beauty—but for the eyes.
They were as blue as the deepest sea, so clear and sharp that Marino felt himself drowning in them.
The man turned and raised a short sword to the heavens, then pointed it to a distant shore—a dry, desolate coastline just northward.
"Men!" the golden leader shouted. His voice carried like thunder, full of power and conviction. "Do you see it? Over there—beyond the waves! That hilltop dwelling is the nest of those who would deny us Immortality!"
The men roared. Shields slammed. Spears rattled.
"But remember who we are!" he continued, voice rising. "We are no mere mortals. We are the chosen. We are lions! And we shall claim our Immortality—no matter the cost!"
Another cheer—this one louder, like the crashing tide.
The man lifted his sword once more, pointing now directly to the shore.
"There lies your Immortality! So I ask you—what do lions do?"
The warriors rose as one, beating their chests and chanting, voices in unison like war drums:"Take! Take! Take! Take!"
Marino, still silent, could only stare.
Then the golden man looked directly at him. Those piercing ocean-blue eyes met his own.
"And what about you, boy? Will you cower in your little safe corner? Or will you rise? Will you fulfill the destiny the gods have carved for you—fight like the lion you were meant to be?"
Marino opened his mouth to answer—
—but the world turned to black.
The ship, the men, the golden light—all vanished in an instant.
When vision returned, he was no longer at sea. He sat alone on the sandy shore—the same one they had just pointed to. The waves lapped quietly beside him. The house on the hill stood ominously in the distance.
The storm was gone.
But he was still drenched in sweat.
Now Marino sat on the ground, dazed, struggling to understand how he had gotten here. The salty wind stung his skin, the waves hissed behind him. That's when he saw them—on the hills overlooking the beach, emerging like ghosts from the storm mist.
Thousands of armored giants.
They stood nearly two meters tall, clad in gunmetal and black, their visors glowing faintly like smoldering embers. As one, they turned to him.
The pressure of their gaze was unbearable. Marino felt the breath leave his lungs. His heart pounded like a war drum as the air grew heavy, crushing. Then the roar came—an earth-shaking, bone-splitting bellow that seemed to come not from their throats, but from the very soul of war itself.
And then they charged.
The earth trembled. The sky cracked. The sea recoiled.
Marino's instincts screamed louder than the army—he scrambled backward like a panicked animal, kicking sand, clawing the ground, cursing between gasps.
"Shit. Shit. I'm so fucking dead—!"
Then—slam. His back collided with something solid.
He turned.
It was him.
The golden-armored man, radiant even beneath the storm. His shoulder-length blond hair whipped in the wind, and his ocean-blue eyes burned with something ancient. He looked down at Marino as if judging the worth of his soul.
"Where are you going, boy?" the man asked, his voice cold and thunderous. "The battle hasn't even begun."
Marino looked past him—the tide of armored giants surged ever closer.
"Are you insane?" he cried, trembling. "There's too many of them! I—I don't even know how to fight!"
The man's face darkened. His lip curled.
"And that is why no one will ever remember your name," he said with disgust. "You are nothing but a coward—a frightened child."
The words struck harder than any blow. Something old and painful twisted inside Marino's chest. That look—the disappointment—it was the same one his favorite teacher had worn in his past life, handing him back his final exam with a sigh. "I expected more of you. What a waste."
Shame washed over him. He dropped his gaze to the wet sand.
"I know…" he whispered. "I know I'm a coward. I've always been a coward."
His voice trembled. "In my last life, I let so many chances slip away. I was afraid. Always afraid. Of failing. Of looking foolish. Of not being good enough."
He closed his eyes as memories crashed into him—moments where a different choice could've changed everything. A word spoken, a step taken, a risk embraced. But he hadn't taken them. He hadn't moved.
And then—
The vision changed.
Now he stood on a grand stage under brilliant lights. Before him stretched a crowd of thousands—politicians, scientists, soldiers, and civilians of every nation. Their eyes were fixed on him, glowing with hope and admiration.
Behind him, a banner waved gently in zero gravity:UNITED NATIONS SPACE COMMAND.
On a long polished table lay a single document.
He read the words through tears.
"Jack Fritzh, President of the United States, is hereby named the first Earth Governor and Commander of the UNSC. Charged with leading humanity beyond the scars of war… into the stars."
Marino—Jack—lifted a pen and signed his name.
The room erupted into thunderous applause. World leaders rose to their feet. He shook their hands, one by one, feeling pride swell in his chest like a fire finally lit.
Then, the wall behind the stage opened—revealing a panoramic view of Earth hanging in the void. Space stretched endlessly beyond it, and with it, hope. Around the station, fleets of ships cruised past—symbols of mankind's rebirth.
For the first time in a long time, Jack smiled.
Then the scene shifted again.
Flashes—visions—rushed into his mind like a tidal wave. He saw vast fleets of human ships piercing the stars, arcing across the void like silver comets. Colossal space stations orbited alien worlds. Colonies bloomed across distant planets, cities shining with glass and steel under foreign suns. Mankind, united and strong, had conquered the stars.
Marino stared, eyes wide with awe, heart thundering in his chest.
"Holy shit… All of this—this could've been real? I could've stopped World War III? I could've saved Earth? This future… this peace… I—"
He hesitated.
"Is this even real…? It feels too real to be fake… but too impossible to be true…"
Before he could grasp the answer, the vision shattered like glass.
He was yanked back onto the windswept beach, choking on air, heart pounding in his ears.
Then it came.
A voice—low, guttural, cruel—spoke inside his mind. Its tone like rusted iron dragged over bone.
"How pathetic…"
"It could have all been yours. The glory. The future. Immortality. If only you weren't such a coward. Such a weak, pitiful, insignificant little boy…"
The words cut deeper than steel. They echoed over and over, louder each time, until they drowned his thoughts. His skull felt like it would split open.
"Shut up… shut up… SHUT UP!" Marino screamed, falling to his knees. He pressed his hands against his ears, his face buried in the sand. "I am NOT a coward!"
But the voice only laughed. A slow, twisted sound that slithered into his soul.
"Muahahaha… hah… haaa."
Then it whispered one final word that struck like lightning.
"Prove it."
The world fell silent. The storm, the wind, the sea—everything stopped. Time itself seemed to freeze.
Thud.
A soft sound—a small, almost imperceptible drop in front of him.
Marino lifted his head.
There, nestled in the sand before him, was a crystal vial. Inside it swirled a pitch-black liquid, veiled in a dancing mist of blood-red smoke. It pulsed with a heartbeat of its own—alive, waiting.
Then came the voice of the golden-haired man, now behind him. Calm. Commanding. Godlike.
"Take it."
"If you wish to unlock your true potential. To become what you were always meant to be."
"But remember this—power is never given. It must be taken. Only through strength does one gain the right to wield true, boundless power."
Marino picked up the vial without realizing he had. It was warm—almost alive—buzzing in his hand with a seductive rhythm. A strange comfort wrapped around him, calling to him, whispering promises of greatness.
But in the back of his mind, something screamed.
Don't.This is wrong.Everything has a price.
His hand trembled.
Then the man's voice hardened, cutting like a blade:
"Drink it. Cast off your weakness. Stop being a boy and become a lion. A god."
Marino stared at the vial, breath shallow, caught between dread and desire. In its shimmer, he could almost see himself—taller, stronger, radiating power, commanding legions, bending destiny to his will.
But then—
He looked up.
Across the field, thirty men were charging toward the army of thousands. Thirty against ten thousand.
No fear in their eyes. No hesitation in their step.
Not gods. Not monsters. Just men—burning with something greater than power.
Conviction.
Marino's grip tightened on the vial.
The storm churned overhead.
And he was left with a single question burning in his soul—
What kind of man would he choose to become?
Next, the two forces clashed—and the world erupted into chaos.
Steel shrieked against steel. Swords tore through shields. Shields shattered bones. The ground itself trembled beneath the weight of thousands.
But this was no battle.
It was a slaughter.
The thirty golden-armored men tore into the horde like gods among insects. They moved with terrifying precision—unstoppable, unrelenting. Every step they took cut down ten. Every swing ended lives.
From where he sat, the vial still warm in his trembling hand, Marino watched in disbelief.
They weren't fighting like mortals. They were butchers in a field of wheat.
Then his eyes locked onto him—the blonde-haired man at the center.
He had discarded his sword and shield. He needed neither.
With bare fists, he smashed through the armored giants like they were made of brittle clay. One punch to the chest of a massive two-meter-tall warrior crumpled his plate armor inward, sending him hurtling through the air like a broken doll.
From his left, a blade screamed toward him—he caught it.
With his bare hand.
Sparks flew as metal ground against flesh that may as well have been forged from stone. The blonde man didn't even blink.
Then, with a grunt, he drove his right fist forward. It connected with the enemy's helmet—and the man's entire head exploded, shattering helmet and bone in a geyser of red mist. A headless corpse collapsed to the sand.
The man to the blonde warrior's right froze—eyes wide with terror.
He turned to run.
Too late.
The blonde warrior seized him by the shoulder—fingers digging into the metal like it was wet clay—and pulled him back.
Then came the blow.
A fist slammed straight through the man's armor, bursting out the other side of his torso. Blood sprayed like a fountain. His ribs cracked, his lungs crushed. The dying man gasped, choking on his own blood as the light in his eyes dimmed.
Then, in a grotesque display of power, the blonde warrior lifted him into the air… and tore him in half.
A spray of viscera painted the sand, his face, his golden armor.
Blood streamed down his cheeks—but he looked beautiful.
Terrifyingly beautiful.
And then, as if things weren't already beyond belief, the blonde man grinned. He grabbed the mangled limbs of his slain enemy… and began using them as weapons—flailing the lifeless arms and shattered spine like clubs, smashing skulls with wet cracks of bone against bone.
From a distance, Marino could only stare—vial clutched tightly in his hand, mouth hanging open.
His brain struggled to make sense of what he'd just witnessed.
"…What the actual fuck?" he whispered.
His breath was shallow, his chest tight, but his heart—his heart was thundering.
He couldn't look away.
There was horror—but also awe. And beneath that… something more dangerous.
Excitement.
He rose halfway to his feet, eyes locked on the carnage.
A grin stretched slowly across his face.
"…That's—" he muttered, voice cracking. "That's fucking awesome."
Then Marino remembered the vial.
The image of the blonde warrior ripping men apart like paper burned in his mind—and without a second thought, he popped the cork and downed it in one gulp.
Immediately, he gagged.
"Guh—cough! What the hell—?!"
It tasted like piss. No—like piss filtered through moldy socks. He doubled over, hands on knees, retching as the foul liquid burned its way down his throat.
But he didn't stop.
He wouldn't stop.
If this was the price of becoming one of them, of unlocking his isekai powers, then so be it.
And then—darkness.
His vision collapsed into a void. Then came the pain.
It started in his eyes—burning, searing. Like fire licked across his retinas.
He screamed.
Hot blood poured from his sockets as he clutched at his face. Behind his palms, his eyes shifted—irises turning black, pupils slitting vertically into reptilian daggers glowing with golden light.
When he finally pulled his hands away, everything had changed.
The world was sharper—inhumanly sharp. He could see every grain of sand, every scratch on a soldier's blade hundreds of meters away. It was like looking through high-powered binoculars, but without the blur.
Then the pain hit again—this time, everywhere.
His body spasmed violently. He dropped to the sand, screaming again, but this time his voice cracked—deepening, warping.
He was growing. Fast.
Muscle ripped through his skin. His limbs stretched. His spine cracked and reformed. His ribs expanded. His clothes shredded under the pressure of his transforming body.
He grew taller… and taller…
Until he stood a monstrous three meters high—his skin now a deep blood-red hue. His back arched as two thick, jagged horns burst from above his ears, curling slightly forward. They were at least half a meter long and sharp enough to gut a man.
His breath steamed like smoke from a furnace.
His teeth were no longer human. Rows of jagged fangs filled his mouth, like a shark made of obsidian. His nails were claws now—black, thick, and harder than steel.
Looking at himself, Marino felt a wave of unholy joy.
He had done it.
He had become what every isekai protagonist dreamed of.
"Ha… ha ha haa…" His voice boomed like thunder as he spread his arms. "I did it! I've become an overpowered god! Or should I say… a demon god?"
He threw back his head and let out a maniacal laugh that echoed through the valley.
"Now all shall know the name…" he roared, "Marino Colombo!"
Then he paused.
Something… was wrong.
He looked down—and froze.
"Oh... what the hell—?!"
There it was. A gigantic… situation swinging between his legs like a cursed tree branch. At least fourteen inches of demonic anatomy he had not asked for. It throbbed with menace. It glowed slightly. It winked.
Marino blinked.
Then, he grinned.
"Prepare yourselves, women of the world. Your new husband has arrived!" he declared with unholy confidence. "Though… I do wonder if anyone could handle this…"
With a flick of his fingers and a spark of black mist, he conjured a pair of enormous enchanted black underpants—stitched from the void itself—and snapped them on with dramatic flair.
With his dignity secured and his ego inflated beyond mortal comprehension, he turned toward the battle.
And ran.
He tore across the blood-soaked sands, his footsteps shaking the earth. Like a monstrous crimson hurricane, he dove into the fray.
Men were crushed beneath his fists and feet, reduced to pulp and paste. His roars mingled with the sound of splintering bone and shattering armor.
He was no longer human.
He was a force of nature.
He and the thirty golden warriors climbed the coastal hill, trampling over the mangled dead.
And at the top, they saw it—
An endless tide of enemies.
An ocean of men and horses, stretching from horizon to horizon, charging with all the fury and desperation of the damned.
Marino stood tall—his red skin gleaming in the sun, his horns catching the light, his eyes blazing.
And he smiled.
He stretched his arms wide, welcoming the oncoming storm.
"Come then," he bellowed. "Come and meet your end. I'm feeling generous today!"