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I had lived and died ninety-seven times.
Ninety-seven lives of joy, suffering, excitement, and absurdity. Ninety-seven deaths, some tragic, some stupid, some outright embarrassing.
And yet, here I was again.
But this time, something was different.
I took my first breath in this life as Camden Whitmore, born to an upper-middle-class family in the year 1812. My father, Ernest Whitmore, was a respectable businessman in London, dealing in textiles and trade.
My mother, Margaret, was a gentle yet firm woman who ensured our household ran like a well-oiled machine.
I was the eldest of three children, with a younger sister, Barbara, and an even younger brother, Stewart. Our home was comfortable, not extravagant, but enough that I never wanted for much.
I grew up learning Latin, mathematics, and history from private tutors. I learned to ride horses, to dance properly at social gatherings, and to conduct myself as a gentleman. It was a structured, ordinary life.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I thought—maybe this one will be normal.
But, of course, that was a lie.
Because at the age of seventeen, I discovered something.
I couldn't die.
"..."
It happened in a way that should have been entirely unremarkable.
I was riding horseback through the countryside, as I often did to clear my mind. The air was crisp, the sun warm against my skin. The world felt alive, full of endless possibilities.
Then, my horse, a fine stallion named Bellerose, spotted a snake and decided, Absolutely not.
He reared back violently. I lost my grip.
One moment, I was in the saddle, enjoying the ride. The next, I was airborne.
I remember the feeling of weightlessness. The rush of wind in my ears. The slow-motion realization that this was going to hurt.
Then, impact.
I hit the ground headfirst. My neck snapped. Everything went black.
Death. The familiar embrace. The thing I had known ninety-seven times before.
But instead of floating on the Samsara River, instead of seeing Destiny, Fate, and Luck drawing lots for my next life…
I woke up gasping and heart pounding. And completely fine.
At first, I thought perhaps I had imagined it.
But then, I sat up and felt my neck. There was no pain. No stiffness. My bones were intact. I should have been dead. Yet here I was.
I looked around. The sun had moved slightly in the sky. Based on its position, I estimated at least a few hours had passed.
Bellerose stood a few feet away, staring at me with the wide, uncertain eyes of a horse who knew something unnatural had just happened.
"…Well," I muttered, brushing dirt off my coat. "That's new."
I got to my feet and walked home, mind racing.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Something had changed. The cycle had broken. I wasn't reborn somewhere else. I hadn't moved on. For the first time in ninety-eight lives… I had survived death.
Now, I'm not an idiot. I didn't immediately throw myself off a building just to confirm my suspicion.
But over the next few years, accidents happened.
And every time, I woke up, good as new.
Drowned in a lake? Woke up on the shore, lungs clear as if nothing had happened. Don't ask me how I found myself drowning.
Crushed by a carriage? Opened my eyes in an alleyway a few hours later, not a single bone broken.
Poisoned by bad food at a dinner party? Spent a few hours feeling miserable, then suddenly felt perfectly fine.
It became clear: I could not die.
No matter what happened, my body simply… reset.
At first, this was liberating.
No more worrying about sickness. No more fearing accidents. I could take risks no one else could.
I gambled at underground clubs, knowing I could survive any violent disputes that arose. I fought in back-alley brawls, letting men beat me within an inch of my life just to see their faces when I stood up without a scratch. I didn't willingly let them beat me of course, I'm not that type of guy
I walked through dangerous parts of London at night, unarmed, unafraid. I even survived Jack the Reaper once, ain't that an achievement, heh.
When duels became fashionable among the upper class, I accepted every challenge. Men aimed their pistols at me, fired, and watched in horror as I got back up minutes later, brushing dust off my coat as if nothing had happened.
Rumours started. Some whispered that I had the Devil's luck. Others believed I was cursed, touched by something unnatural.
But none of them knew the truth. The years passed. Decades, even, and slowly, the excitement faded.
At first, I had enjoyed pushing the limits of my condition. But eventually, I came to realize something far more terrifying than death:
Life had no consequences for me.
I could do anything, and it wouldn't matter.
If I fell in love, I would outlive them. If I made enemies, they would die before they could take true revenge.
Nothing lasted. Nothing mattered.
I watched friends grow old while I remained unchanged.
I buried my parents. My siblings. The people I had once known.
And when I looked in the mirror, I still saw a man in his prime, untouched by time.
I tried traveling. I went to France, Italy, even as far as the Ottoman Empire. But everywhere I went, it was the same.
Life moved forward. And I was stuck.
It has been nearly a century now since I first realized my condition.
The world is changing. Industrialization is sweeping across the nations. Cities grow, empires expand. Technology advances faster than ever.
And I remain the same. Still Camden Whitmore. Still unable to die.
I don't know what comes next.
Maybe I will live forever. Maybe, eventually, the universe will find a way to correct itself and erase me.
=.=.=
=.=
=
The 21st century had finally given me something I had long lost—entertainment.
Gone were the wars, the endless cycle of politics, the spy games, the black operations, and the nuclear standoffs. I had seen it all, done it all, killed, saved, betrayed, and been betrayed more times than I cared to count.
I had been a soldier in countless wars, a mercenary in back-alley revolutions, a kingmaker in clandestine political struggles. I had played the role of assassin, diplomat, scientist, businessman, and artist. I had built empires and watched them crumble.
But none of that compared to the sheer insanity of the modern world.
The 21st century was fun.
The internet alone had kept me entertained for decades. A place where people argued about the dumbest things with such conviction that you'd think their lives depended on it? Hilarious.
Movies, anime, video games, theme parks, extreme sports—I did it all. For the first time in centuries, I was simply enjoying life.
I had long abandoned any attempt to blend in with normal society. Why would I?
I was a relic of a bygone era, a man who had outlived not only his loved ones but entire civilizations. Pretending to be normal was a pointless exercise, and frankly, I couldn't be bothered anymore.
So, I did whatever I wanted. Became an Olympic athlete? Done. I won gold in multiple sports, changed my identity, and did it again just for fun.
Tried every extreme sport? Absolutely. Skydiving, base jumping, wingsuit flying, deep-sea diving in places no human should survive—I checked them all off my list.
Video games? Played them all. I was a walking god in any competitive scene, using knowledge from my centuries of combat experience. People called me a cheater. I laughed.
Dating? Eh. Relationships were tricky when you literally never aged. I tried it now and then, but it always ended the same way—with me moving on before they ever noticed.
I had no responsibilities. No attachments. I was simply here, in this era of limitless possibilities, doing whatever amused me.
And then, one day, something changed.
I was walking home one night, fresh off a karaoke session where I had emotionally destroyed an entire bar by singing old wartime songs no one had ever heard before.
It was a peaceful evening. The streets were mostly empty. The streetlights hummed with electricity. A cool breeze swept through the city.
Then, I heard unmistakable roar of an engine. I turned my head just in time to see an unmanned truck barreling toward me. Now, I'd been alive long enough to recognize a murder attempt when I saw one.
But an unmanned truck? That was new. It came at me fast, headlights glaring like the eyes of a vengeful spirit. I had no time to dodge.
Impact.
I was thrown through the air like a ragdoll, hitting the pavement with a sickening crunch.
Darkness. Silence. Then, I woke up good as new. As always of course. But the truck? Gone.
Vanished, like it had never existed weird. After that, it happened again. And again. And again.
Every few weeks, the same scenario played out.
I would be minding my own business, living my immortal life, and then—boom—a truck would come out of nowhere, trying to flatten me.
Always unmanned. Always at high speed. Always failing. At first, I thought it was just bizarre coincidence. Then, I realized—something was trying to isekai me.
It had all the signs.
A random truck, appearing out of nowhere. The fact that it only targeted me. The way it never left evidence, never had a driver, never made sense.
I had seen enough anime to recognize this trope when I saw it. Truck-kun wasn't just an accident. It was a force of nature.
And it wanted me gone.
Naturally, I decided to test my luck.
If something wanted me gone this badly, I wasn't going to make it easy. So, I started dodging.
I studied Truck-kun's patterns. I changed my routines. I made sure to never walk alone at night. I avoided crosswalks. I made sure to always be near cover. But Truck-kun adapted.
One time, I dodged out of the way at the last second, only for the damn thing to swerve and still clip me.
Another time, I jumped over a guardrail—only for a second truck to be waiting on the other side.
It was like fighting an enemy that didn't need to rest, didn't need to think, didn't even follow the laws of physics.
It would find me. It would always find me.
And yet—It never succeeded.
By now, I had grown too entertained by the game of cat and mouse I was playing with a rogue reincarnation vehicle. I had survived nuclear explosions. I had lived through wars, betrayals, and revolutions. I had been stabbed, shot, poisoned, drowned, burned alive (For being accused as the Devil).
And yet, it was this—a homicidal truck—that was providing me with the greatest thrill of my life.
So, I decided to take it one step further. I baited it. I walked into an empty intersection in the dead of night, hands in my pockets.
I waited.
Sure enough, within minutes, I heard the engine revving.
A massive truck turned the corner, headlights blinding, engine roaring like a beast given form. I stared it down, grinning.
"Alright, Truck-kun," I muttered. "Let's see what you've got." It charged. I braced myself.
Then—
SCREEEEECH!
"…Oh," I murmured. "This is getting interesting."
=.=.=
=.=
[A few hours earlier]
[Location: Universal Highway of fate]
Deep within the cosmic highways that wove through the fabric of reality, past the astral crossroads where destiny itself often found itself gridlocked, a meeting was being held.
A meeting so dire, so unprecedented, that even the most ancient forces of existence trembled at its significance.
The Council of Trucks had convened.
Not just any trucks, no. These were the great reapers of the road, the grim heralds of reincarnation, the steel-clad arbiters of mortality who dictated who lived and who died—at least, in the most absurd, ironic, or dramatic ways possible.
They were forces of nature, mechanical beasts imbued with the authority to deliver an untimely end to unsuspecting souls.
And yet, despite their cosmic mandate, they had encountered an anomaly.
A man.
A single, infuriating, impossible man.
A man who should have long been crushed, splattered, reduced to nothing but a footnote in the endless annals of rebirth, but who instead persisted. He had been hit, run over, pulverized, shattered, and annihilated in ways that should have guaranteed his passage down the Samsara River.
And yet—he would not die. Every time a truck struck him, his body simply reset, his injuries undone as if reality itself was mocking their efforts.
This could not stand.
Thus, for the first time in recorded history, the Council of Trucks had been summoned in the Celestial Pit Stop, a grand, floating space between dimensions where all highways of fate converged.
It was here that the most powerful and legendary trucks of existence gathered to discuss the matter of Camden.
At the head of the council sat Big Rig Prime, an ancient eighteen-wheeler with rusted scars from centuries of sending souls to the afterlife. His headlights flickered with the wisdom of eons as he surveyed the gathered trucks before him.
To his right, Mack the Menace revved his mighty engine, his hulking red and black form bristling with impatience. A demolition truck by trade, he was known for his brutal efficiency in ensuring no pedestrian survived his impact.
To the left, Speed Demon, a sleek, jet-black semi-truck adorned with streaks of lightning, idled menacingly. His specialty was hitting people at speeds so fast they never saw him coming.
He had sent thousands to reincarnation before they even realized they had been hit.
Further down the line, Tonka Tyrant, a monstrous yellow construction truck with massive wheels and an even bigger ego, loomed over the others. He was renowned for his sheer brute force, having flattened countless souls into the pavement.
Finally, Phantom Freighter, a ghostly, translucent truck that phased in and out of existence, hummed ominously. No one ever saw him coming. No one ever heard him. One moment, someone was crossing the street—the next, they were gone.
And yet, none of them had succeeded in taking Camden's life.
Big Rig Prime's engine let out a deep, reverberating rumble as he finally spoke.
"Brothers. Sisters. Fellow harbingers of fate. We are gathered here today for a matter most dire."
The other trucks rumbled in agreement.
Mack the Menace let out an irritated honk. "Damn right, it's dire! This Camden guy is making us look bad! I hit him six times already, and he just—stood up! Like nothing happened! Like I was a damn breeze! Do you know what that does to a truck's pride?!"
Speed Demon's headlights flashed with irritation. "I went at him at 500 miles per hour. The impact alone should have reduced him to paste! I even did a double-tap, backed up to check my work, and he was fine! He waved at me. Waved at me!!"
Tonka Tyrant's wheels creaked as he shifted in frustration. "I dropped a construction beam on him after hitting him with my full weight! I thought maybe crushing him completely would do the job! But no! He just groaned and got back up like he had a minor backache!"
Phantom Freighter's eerie, hollow voice whispered through the pit stop. "I... have phased through realms. Struck souls on the ethereal plane. I made sure no witnesses were around. No interference. But Camden... did not go. Instead, he simply... blinked at me. As if asking what I was doing."
A heavy silence followed.
This was worse than they thought.
Big Rig Prime's headlights dimmed as he considered their words. "It seems we are dealing with an entity unlike any other. A being that defies the very laws of mortality. We must ask ourselves—what are we missing?"
The trucks pondered this, their engines thrumming in thought.
Mack the Menace, ever the hothead, finally let out a furious honk. "What we're missing is that we need to stop taking turns! We're out here going one at a time like we're in some kinda gentleman's duel!"
Speed Demon's high beams flared. "Wait... you don't mean—"
Tonka Tyrant's engine revved. "You can't be suggesting—"
Mack's wheels screeched against the celestial road. "I'm saying we go all in. All at once. No more single strikes, no more waiting our turn. We hit him from all angles. Together."
The council fell silent.
It was... unheard of.
For all their might, the Trucks had never before had to collaborate to take down a single target. Each truck was powerful in their own right, capable of sending even the most stubborn souls to reincarnation. But Camden? Camden had rendered their individual might meaningless.
Big Rig Prime's deep voice cut through the silence.
"You propose a Truck Stampede."
The words sent a shudder through the pit stop.
A Truck Stampede was a last resort. A coordinated, multi-vehicle impact so overwhelming that it was physically, spiritually, and existentially inescapable. No soul had ever survived one. None.
And yet... Camden had forced them to consider it.
Speed Demon revved his engine in approval. "If we do this... we end him."
Tonka Tyrant's wheels trembled with anticipation. "He can't reset from everything at once."
Phantom Freighter's spectral form flickered. "It will be... absolute."
Big Rig Prime's headlights burned brighter than ever before.
"Then it is decided."
The council let out a chorus of thunderous honks, a sound that echoed across dimensions, shaking the very fabric of reality.
For the first time in history, the Trucks would unite.
For the first time in eternity, they would work together.
Their target?
Camden.
Their mission?
End him.
And this time—he would not walk away.
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