Death was smiling at Kaladin.
Yes. Smiling. Like a shady uncle at a funeral who knows exactly where the inheritance went.
Kaladin, freshly healed and barely standing, felt all his newfound energy do a full U-turn and sprint straight back to the afterlife.
Death still had his arms wide open—like he was waiting for a hug, or maybe to reenact The Lion King.
"One of the Primordial, the most feared and powerful across the Three Realms..."
Kaladin just stared, deadpan.
Death.
As in, the Death.
The Big Sleep's receptionist. The Final Curtain himself. And apparently… a psychotic Gojo cosplayer?
'What in the fanfiction fever dream was happening anymore?'
"This can't be real," Kaladin muttered. "I'm either high, dead, or stuck in someone's edgy power fantasy."
Still, one question itched his brain worse than cheap shampoo.
"Why...? Why me?"
Why would the literal embodiment of Death—master of soul-yeeting—pick him of all people as his champion?
He was just a sixteen-year-old former delinquent who used to sling drugs behind the school gym and argue with vending machines that ate his coins.
Death tilted his head, his grin still plastered on like it was professionally glued.
"What do you humans call it...? Hmm... Ah! Yes—instinct!"
He snapped his fingers like he'd solved a puzzle on a game show.
"My instinct tingled the moment I saw you, Little Timmy. I just knew you were cut out for this world."
He leaned in like he was sharing a secret recipe for chaos.
"You get me what I want, and I get you what you want. Deal?"
And what he wanted…
Kaladin's throat tightened.
Family.
The one thing he lost five years ago that never stopped haunting his dreams.
His mom's gentle scoldings, his dad's awkward hugs, and his little sister's adorable gibberish—"bwadha bwadha!"—because her baby vocabulary hadn't yet leveled up.
And now, here stood Death himself, offering him a second chance wrapped in crimson eyes and insanity.
Kaladin's brain was screaming DON'T TRUST HIM with flashing neon signs. But his gut? His gut was just quietly sobbing in a corner, whispering "But family..."
Was this guy really Death? Maybe. Maybe not.But after everything he'd seen—the abyss eyes, the freaky healing, and the katana removal therapy—Kaladin knew one thing for sure:
This man… was definitely not human.
And right now, that was terrifyingly enough.
This was it. His golden ticket. His second shot at life. No—scratch that—his second shot at everything.
If he gave Mr. Death-cosplaying-as-Gojo what he wanted, he'd get his dead family back, neatly gift-wrapped in a happily-ever-after.
It was the ultimate deal. A win-win.
A cosmic barter system: Death gets his prize, and Kaladin gets to rejoin the Saturday morning breakfast table.
But then his brain, which had already been running like a squirrel on five shots of espresso, started asking the real questions.
What's so special in this world that even literal Death can't get it on his own?
And more importantly...
'Wait. Was that a system just now?'
A robotic voice and glowing words in his head—yep, that screamed "Congratulations, you've unlocked plot armor!"
Kaladin blinked hard, trying to process.
His brain was now juggling trauma, existential dread, and genre-awareness all at once. The poor thing deserved a raise.
'Okay… so I was nearly dead. Then Death himself shows up looking like he walked off a runway and decides I'm his chosen one.'
'Now I'm in a new world with floating castles, and trees taller than skyscrapers and apparently, I have a system...'
Yep. Totally normal day.
Right up there with Tuesday's "police chase and ramen dinner" combo.
Honestly, Kaladin used to come home after peddling his "pharmaceutical products" at school, toss his bag in the corner, and binge web novels, manhwas, and anime like it was religion.
So yeah. He knew what this was.
This was the isekai special.
A new world, a system, some trauma, a mysterious mission, and maybe—just maybe—a harem if he played his cards right.
"Am I really gonna do this...?"
He looked down at his hands. Then up, at the breathtaking horizon.
Massive trees danced in the breeze like nature's skyscrapers, glowing in the soft orange light of an unfamiliar evening. A gust of wind tousled his black hair like an anime protagonist mid-character development.
And then—like a knife to the heart wrapped in warm nostalgia—he remembered.
His mother's endless nagging when he was late.
His father's awkward pep talks that always circled back to "back in my day..."
And his baby sister's endless giggles and that one word she kept saying wrong—"bwadha" instead of "brother."
Kaladin swallowed.
Maybe this was insane.
'No turning back now. This is it. My anime arc has officially begun. I've got nothing left to lose—only stuff to gain. Mom, Dad, wish me luck. Little Akira, your big bro's about to do something either really heroic or really stupid.'
Kaladin clenched his fist like he was about to punch destiny in the face and stared straight at the wannabe-Gojo-man-who-might-be-Death.
"Fine. I'll find your mystery item, but you better keep your end of the bargain. No funny business."
Death let out a laugh that sounded way too dramatic for the moment, throwing his head back like he was auditioning for Evil Laugh Idol.
"Good! That's what I like to hear from my Champion!"
DING! DONG!
A deep, echoing bell rang out like some ancient but very punctual grandfather clock.
Kaladin jumped and whipped around—only to finally notice the castle.
"What the actual…"
There it stood: a massive castle that looked like someone had tried to build heaven's palace using a Pinterest board labeled "Royalcore Aesthetic."
White and gold, regal and ancient—though now weathered like an old Instagram filter left on too long.
"That's the first bell."
Death said casually.
"Looks like the other Champions are already inside. You better move—clock's ticking."
Kaladin blinked.
"Other Champions? As in… there are more people doing this Hunger Games cosplay?"
"Oh, of course! Gods and demons all have their little Pokémon—I mean, Champions. You're just one of many, little Timmy."