The Truck Strikes Again

In the thick of a warzone where bullets fly and shells erupt to conduct a symphony of human screams and agony, it is hard to think of a role worse than being an infantry rifleman.

The rifleman stands in the front lines clutching at his gun with white knuckles, dirt-caked face, cracked lips, and bloodshot eyes.

The incessant clack of gunfire and the deep rumble of explosives keeps his mind racing, always racing, always aware that at any given moment, his life could end in a single unseen moment.

There are many that become so used to this state of mind that they never come back from it. To them, so used to their mortality ringing in their ears, peace and quiet become strangers to be feared.

But there is one role on the warzone that is worse than the frontline rifleman, and that is the combat medic.

When the shelling and shooting starts, the call for a medic is never far behind, and for a medic, it can be said that his life is no longer truly his. He bears the suffering and pain of all those around him on top of his own.

Just like any rifleman, he sees the carnage of the battlefield, the gunning, the bombing, the large-scale destruction , but he is also the most privy to the anguish of personal, individual pain.

It is the medic who actively must seek out the suffering, those with parts of themselves lost in both body and mind, those that need bandages, those that need comfort, those that need their last wishes passed on, those that need a hand to hold as they pass.

This was the life that John, a young man of barely twenty six, led, working as a combat medic for a humanitarian organization that worked in warzones across the world.

'Do the right thing when it counts, not when you can' - This was John's motto to keep his mind steady on his job.

It made him keenly aware of the lives he could save and the lives he had to leave behind for the greater good.

It made him understand that when it came down to the wire, his life was more important than anything, because if he died, how else would he do the right thing in the future?

The motto was one he had inherited from his father.

That was the last thing his dad had said to him when he was a boy of ten, right before his father went off to war and came back shipped in a coffin.

Those were the words that had inspired John to become a combat medic after graduating from college, wanting with high ideals to help the world and to ease the suffering of soldiers like his father.

He did not like the idea of war, for fighting for any one side, so he became a medic affiliated with a neutral organization.

For two years, John had led this life, and he had seen more than his fair share of destruction, death, and suffering.

Many that dive into the chaos of war drown in it, but there are some that manage to keep their heads held high, above the currents of misery trying to drag them down, and John was of the latter. No matter the struggling and suffering he witnessed, he did not lose himself.

He had read somewhere that the ancient Romans used to evaluate a sense of humor as one of the most important things to look for in a recruit for a long march, because without humor, the racing mind suffocated in war.

As a result, he developed an uncharacteristic optimism and a thorough sense of sarcasm, and with it, he had made the final moments of many a man and woman one that ended with a smile rather than a grimace.

But even John had a limit to what he could take. Everyone did.

After two long years, he decided he had had enough. He made this decision after receiving news that his mother had passed away and left a decent inheritance for him.

He figured he would take it easy now.

Lead a life of peace and quiet before the clamor of war would rob him of his ability enjoy it.

John had always wanted to be a writer, so maybe he would take it easy and push out a couple of manuscripts, though he sort of doubted mainstream publishers would take his light novel and web serial style writing seriously.

Unfortunately, John's aspiring future as a writer never came to pass as on his final day on the job, sitting in his camp and reading yet another transmigration story, a military truck beside him had blown up from a rigged bomb.

Of all the things to die from, a flying tire had broken John's neck and taken him out right then and there in a stroke of colossal bad luck.

There was only darkness after then. At first, John had only thought of what he could have been and what he could have done with his life.

Then, the unexpected.

Light dispelled the darkness, driving it away in great swathes until it revealed an enormous hallway of pristine marble and golden pillars. Before John rose up a resplendent staircase of alabaster white carved with floral patterns of shining gold.

At the top of the staircase, there was a great golden throne, and upon it, a giant of a man, maybe three meters from head to toe, sat dressed in pristine white robes. A flowing grey beard cascaded down from his rugged chin like a majestic waterfall, signifying to all his breadth of wisdom and age.

His hands were clasped together on his lap and his wizened, wrinkled eyes were closed in focused, solemn meditation.

An aura of golden light emanated from the man, projecting awe and majesty.

"Welcome, noble, fallen soul, to the Solarium!" came a woman's resonating voice.

John saw as said woman materialized in front of him in a shower of golden sparks. She too was dressed in glowing white robes that bared toned arms and legs dotted with scars.

Her face was conventionally beautiful to near perfection, even a scar running across her glowing blue left eye and down to her chin only adding to her appeal. Twelve brilliant, feathery white wings fluttered from her back, and a fiery halo flickered above her scarlet haired head.

"Where...where am I?" said John. He looked down at his body and found that it was translucent and see-through.

"The Soularium, like I said," said the angel, as if she was making the most obvious point in the world.

"Well, yeah, I guess you're right, but- you know what I mean," said John.

"You stand before Deus the Supreme One, lord of the Aether and the Cycle of Souls," said the angel, ignoring John.

She talked with an almost bored voice, as if she was being forced to recite a textbook passage in front of an equally bored class. "You, as a fallen soul with great potential that has had his life cut short, are now granted a chance to enter the Cycle of Souls once more through Reincarnation."

Reincarnation? John almost jumped for joy and surprise. So, death had not been the end after all.

John was no stranger to tropes about reincarnation. He had read countless novels and seen countless shows about random dudes dying suddenly and being transported to fantasy worlds.

Often with tons of cheats and systems and whatnot to their name, letting them experience a new life on easy mode.

Hell, John had even killed by a truck, sort of. He checked all the boxes for the reincarnation trope.

"I shall now grant you audience with Deus. A single minute you shall have with the Supreme One, for unto him countless souls must be monitored, and time is not his domain," said Sarael.

She bowed her head and waved John towards Deus. "In this minute, you shall ask of Deus requests for your new life. You may ask for great power. To be born into great wealth. To know love true and passionate."

"Will I get to keep my memories?" asked John.

"Your potential in life has granted you, uhm, hold up, let me check," said Sarael as she squinted her eyes and looked down at her palm, at a rectangle of golden light filled with a script John could not read. "Ah yes, 100 points with which to ask Deus for favors.

Retained memories cost...uh...30 points, so yes, theoretically, you could.

Just know that you can't ask to return to your original world. Causes some kind of disturbance."

"Okay, got it," said John. He clapped his hands together in determination as he stepped forwards to Deus. "Let's do this. If it's a new life I'm getting, I'll make sure I'll live it up to its fullest. With as many cheats as I can get, of course."

John stopped when he was below the staircase reaching up to Deus. The man's aura was so powerful that John could not approach any further.

"O great Deus," said John, trying to speak as formally as possible. "I beseech you to tell me if I may be born with my memories in a rich, wealthy family with incredible powers in a relatively peaceful world! Just chaotic enough for me to flex my strength but not crazy enough for me to really die!"

John bowed his head and waited a solid ten seconds, for he knew he only had a minute with the Supreme One.

But Deus did not answer.

"Okay, then, sorry to ask for so much," said John. "Then, great Deus, I need not live in complete peace. Just grant me wealth and power so that I may bring a warring world to peace myself!"

Again, a long pause with no answer.

"Uh...well if that's too much, then I need only great power, for I know with it I can earn money plenty!" said John.

Again, a long pause with no answer.

John waited, nervous, until he heard...a snore. He whipped his head up to see that yes indeed, Deus the so-called Supreme One, was asleep.

Deus's supposed closed eyes of serious meditation had in fact just been him dozing off.

"What the hell is this!?" John turned around to Sarael, and she stared blankly first at him, and then at Deus. She put her face in her palm with a groan.

"The Supreme One has entered his Supreme Nap," said Sarael, defeated.

John pointed at Deus. "Can you wake him up!?"

"Er, no, his Supreme Power is untouchable by an archangel such as me," said Sarael.

"My one minute counter isn't going down, is it?" asked John, though by know, he kind of guessed what the answer would be.

Sarael checked her wrist where timer of golden sigils counted down. "Huh. It's going down. My deepest apologies, I started it without checking whether he was awake or not.

You have...thirty seconds left."

"Excuse me? So what happens now!?" said John, his voice rising.

"I-I don't know, okay!" said Sarael with a huff. "I'm covering this dumb shift for my sister. I'm a battle angel, mind you - I have no idea how this stuff works. At the very least, you should still get a second life.

Shouldn't you be grateful enough for that?"

"You have got to be kidding me. This isn't what I was promised!" said John. "What about all the powers? The favors? My memories? Heck, without my memories, would it even count as me living a second life? It'll just be a completely different person out there!"

"Okay, okay, I get you," said Sarael. "And this was my mistake. I'm sorry. But there's nothing I can really do. I truly have no idea what will happen to you. I guess...I guess I can do this."

Sarael held out an open palm towards John, and above it, a shining triangle seal of light emerged. The seal floated towards John, resting in his own hand.

"Wherever your soul goes, that seal should go with you. That is my seal, and I have no idea how weakened it will be, but it should still protect you somewhat," said Sarael. "Unfortunately, this is the most I can do.

Your soul IS still special, so there is a high chance things will be alright.

Regardless, I wish you only the best of luck on my end. And if you do retain your memories, please never mention where that seal came from, or else bad things might happen to you and me."

John held the seal tight. This was the only special thing he was going to get, after all. He was about to say something more, but there was no point.

Sarael had done what she could, and time was running out.

"Thanks, I guess," said John with a sigh, and those were his final words before darkness invaded his consciousness once more.