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One-Shot: Path of Reincarnation
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 10:22:04 +0000 UTCHi all,
Here’s the second chapter. The idea for this one-shot was spawned from imagining how I could do the “truck-kun” trope differently.
Chapter 1 - The Cliched Serial Killer
Ethan Reeves gripped the steering wheel of his modified Ford Mustang as he cruised slowly through the streets of Millbrook, Indiana. His eyes scanned every intersection, every side street, searching for that one vehicle that had haunted his dreams for the past two years. A black truck.
On the passenger seat beside him lay an open manila folder, its contents spilling slightly. The topmost page showed a newspaper clipping from the Millbrook Gazette. The headline read: "Local Woman Killed in Hit-and-Run". Below it was a photograph of a young woman with auburn hair and a gentle smile. Emily Lancaster, 24, had been crossing Main Street when witnesses claimed a black pickup truck had appeared out of nowhere and struck her before speeding away. She was pronounced dead at the scene.
Ethan rolled down his window, letting the cool autumn air flow through the car. His fifth town this month. Each time, following the same pattern—a hit-and-run involving a black truck, with witnesses describing impossible circumstances. The vehicle appeared suddenly, vanishing after impact.
He turned onto Oakridge Avenue, his tired eyes burning from lack of sleep. Then he saw it.
A black Ford F-150, older model, no plates, crossing the intersection about a hundred metres ahead.
Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, the Mustang's engine roaring to life as it lurched forward. This was it. The vehicle that had taken Sarah from him.
"Not getting away this time," he said through clenched teeth.
The truck turned right, heading toward the outskirts of town. Ethan followed, gaining ground with each second. He'd modified his Mustang for this very purpose—reinforced chassis, bulletproof glass, and a heavy-duty bumper. The perfect weapon against his target.
As they cleared the last of the suburban homes, the road opened up into farmland. Ethan was now only thirty metres behind the truck. Close enough to see there was no driver—or at least, no one visible through the heavily tinted windows.
Ethan swerved into the opposite lane and accelerated, bringing his car alongside the truck. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, slamming the side of his Mustang into the truck's flank. The impact sent a shudder through his car, but the truck barely seemed to notice.
"Come on!" he shouted, ramming it again.
This time, the truck reacted, swerving toward him. Metal screeched against metal as they battled for control, dust kicking up from the shoulder of the road. Ethan held firm, pushing harder, trying to force the truck off the asphalt.
And then it happened.
The truck simply wasn't there anymore.
Ethan nearly lost control of his vehicle as it suddenly met no resistance. He slammed on the brakes, the Mustang skidding sideways before coming to a stop. Through the windscreen, he saw the black truck—now over a hundred metres ahead, continuing as if nothing had happened.
"What the fuck?"
Ethan punched the accelerator again, tires spinning on the loose gravel before finding purchase. He shot forward, determined to close the gap, only to watch in disbelief as the truck seemingly blinked out of existence again, reappearing even further ahead.
He slowed his vehicle to a stop, breathing heavily. The truck was now a distant silhouette before it vanished completely.
Ethan stepped out of his car and inspected the damage. The entire right side was scraped and dented, black paint transferred onto the red body of his Mustang. Proof. Physical evidence that he hadn't imagined the encounter. The supernatural entity existed.
The one who had taken his sister from him.
Sarah had been twenty-eight when it happened. Five years older than him, always his protector growing up. She'd been crossing a street in Portland when witnesses said a black truck came out of nowhere, struck her, and vanished. By the time Ethan had flown in from Chicago, she was already gone.
That was when his obsession began. At first, it was just about finding the driver and making them pay. But as he dug deeper, he discovered more cases. Dozens of them, spread across the country. Same description. Same impossible circumstances. A black truck, no driver visible, appeared suddenly, striking a pedestrian. Except, some of the eyewitnesses had reported seeing the truck seemingly vanish into thin-air.
The authorities brushed him off whenever he tried to connect the cases. "Different jurisdictions," they'd say. "Coincidence." Or worse, they'd look at him with pity. The grief-stricken brother, unable to accept a random tragedy.
But Ethan knew better. His apartment walls were covered with maps, pins marking each incident, red string connecting them in a bizarre, seemingly random pattern across America. No discernible logic to the locations, no common thread among the victims.
All those years of watching anime with Sarah had planted a ridiculous idea in his head. In countless stories, characters were struck by trucks—"Truck-kun", only to be reincarnated in another world. It was a tired trope, one they'd laughed about during their marathon viewing sessions.
Now, standing on a deserted country road with the evidence scraped along the side of his car, the absurd possibility seemed less like fiction and more like the only explanation that made sense.
If the truck truly was supernatural—if it was sending its victims to another world—could Sarah still be alive somewhere? The thought sustained him through the endless motels, the maxed-out credit cards, the concerned calls from his former colleagues wondering when he'd return to his job.
He had no one else. Their parents had died in a house fire when Ethan was in university. No close friends—he'd always been too awkward, too wrapped up in his own world of codes and fantasy to build lasting relationships. Sarah had been his anchor to reality.
As he stood there on the roadside, the realisation hit him like a physical blow. He sprinted back to his car, yanked the door open, and threw himself into the driver's seat.
"You idiot," he hissed at himself, spinning the car around in a tight U-turn. The tires kicked up gravel as he accelerated back toward Millbrook.
The truck wasn't finished. It was still in town because it had another target. Someone else was about to be struck—sent to wherever Sarah might be—and Ethan had wasted precious minutes with his head in the clouds.
He pressed harder on the accelerator, the needle climbing past 80, past 90. If he couldn't stop the truck, maybe he could at least save its next victim.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Ethan slumped in a booth at Millie's Diner, his gaze continuously drifting to the window as he shovelled forkfuls of meatloaf into his mouth. After returning to town, he'd spent hours driving up and down every street in Millbrook, searching for the black truck until darkness fell. No luck.
His stomach had finally forced him to stop. He couldn't remember his last proper meal—probably that vending machine sandwich at the motel yesterday morning.
"...poor Emily, not the first one either," a voice said from the booth behind him.
Ethan froze mid-bite.
"Reminds me of that little Harding boy this morning," a second elderly voice replied. "Black truck came out of nowhere, they say. Lucky he only got clipped."
Ethan set down his fork, straining to hear more.
"Doctor said he's fine, just a few scrapes. Parents took him home straightaway," the first woman continued. "Do you think there's a connection? Same truck, maybe?"
Ethan slid out of his booth and approached their table. Two grey-haired women looked up at him, conversation halting abruptly.
"Excuse me, ladies," he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a fake detective badge and showed it to them. "Detective Reeves. I'm investigating Emily Lancaster's death. Can you tell me about the incident involving the boy?"
Their suspicion melted away immediately.
"Oh, thank goodness," the woman with a floral blouse said. "We were just saying how similar it was to what happened to Tommy Harding this morning."
"Tommy Harding?" Ethan pulled out a small notebook. "Can you tell me what happened? And where might I find him?"
A few minutes later, Ethan tossed a twenty on his table and headed for the exit. He couldn't believe how easily they'd accepted the fake badge. Years of watching police procedurals had finally paid off.
The Harding house was a modest ranch-style home on the outskirts of the town. Ethan parked across the road and approached the front door. No sign of any suspicious vehicles lurking nearby. He pressed the doorbell, hearing chimes echo inside.
The door swung open to reveal a stocky man in his forties.
"Mr Harding?" Ethan flashed his badge quickly. "I'm investigating the incident involving your son today."
The man's brow furrowed. "I already spoke to Officer Jenkins this afternoon."
"Just following up," Ethan said smoothly. "We need to correlate Tommy's account with another case. May I speak with him?"
"It's nearly nine o'clock," Mr Harding said. "He's resting. Come back tomorrow."
Before Ethan could respond, the door slammed in his face.
"Shit," he muttered, retreating to his car.
If he couldn't speak to the boy, he'd have to watch the house. The truck would come back. He settled into the driver's seat and pulled out his phone, scrolling to his music playlist. He popped in his earphones and selected "Cruel Angel's Thesis," slouching down to get comfortable.
As the familiar anime theme played in his ears, he closed his eyes, just for a moment, the day's exhaustion finally catching up with him.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Ethan jerked awake as sunlight hit his face. He'd dozed off in his car, stiff neck protesting as he straightened. A quick check of his watch showed 7:30 AM. Movement at the Harding house caught his eye—Tommy, a skinny kid with a mop of brown hair, trudged down the front steps wearing a blue backpack that seemed too large for his frame.
He waited until Tommy was halfway down the street before starting his car. He kept a careful distance, following as the boy walked three blocks and turned onto Cedar Avenue.
"Come on, you bastard," Ethan muttered, scanning every side street for the black truck. "Show yourself."
His research had revealed a pattern. The truck never attacked in private—always in public, always making the hit-and-run seem like a tragic but ordinary accident. No teleporting into bedrooms or materialising in school hallways. It maintained the illusion of normalcy, even as it defied reality.
Tommy continued his journey, stopping occasionally to kick at pebbles or inspect something in a garden. The boy seemed blissfully unaware of both his pursuer and his pursuer's quarry.
As they approached an intersection near the school, Ethan's skin prickled. Traffic had picked up, parents dropping off children, and buses rumbling past. The perfect cover for an "accident."
That's when he spotted it—the black truck, idling at a side street, engine growling low and menacing. Tommy was about to cross at the zebra crossing, his attention fixed on a group of friends waving from the school yard.
Ethan slammed his car into park and threw open the door. He sprinted toward the boy as the truck suddenly lurched forward, accelerating toward the crossing.
"Tommy!" Ethan shouted. "Stop!"
The boy turned, confused. Twenty metres to impact. Fifteen.
Ethan pumped his legs harder. Ten metres. Five.
He lunged, arms outstretched, slamming into Tommy with enough force to send them both flying backwards onto the pavement. The truck roared past, missing them by centimetres.
But instead of continuing down the road, the truck screeched to a halt. It reversed, impossibly fast, bearing down on them again.
"Run!" Ethan shoved the boy toward the school gates. Tommy scrambled away, terrified and bewildered.
The truck changed direction, still targeting the boy. Ethan didn't hesitate. He threw himself into its path.
The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Ethan flew backwards, his body crumpling onto the tarmac with a sickening crunch. Dazed, he stared up at the clear blue sky as chaos erupted around him. People shouted. Someone screamed for an ambulance.
He tried to move but couldn't feel his legs. Warm wetness spread beneath him, and he knew without looking that it was his blood.
A woman's face appeared above him, her features twisted with concern.
"Don't move, love. Help is coming."
Ethan wanted to laugh. Help? He was already a dead man. He could feel it.
A small crowd had gathered. Someone placed a jacket under his head. Pain began to register in waves, then curiously receded, replaced by a spreading numbness. That was bad, he knew.
"The boy," Ethan managed to whisper. "Is he safe?"
"He's fine," the woman assured him. "You saved him."
At least there was that. The truck was nowhere to be seen—vanished again, its mission thwarted.
Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision. An absurd thought bubbled up through the haze of his fading consciousness. Would he now get the chance to see Sarah again, or was he dying in vain?
He tried to keep his eyes open, but they grew heavier with each second. The sounds around him—voices, the school bell ringing in the distance—began to fade.
"Sarah," he whispered with his final breath.
The darkness swallowed him completely.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Ethan jolted awake, becoming aware of his uncomfortable position. Chains jangled as he struggled, trying to free himself. He was hanging on the wall, wrists and ankles bound by heavy iron shackles. Where the hell was he? Hadn't he died?
He squinted through the gloom. He was in some kind of cell, the sort found only in medieval dungeons or the most notorious prisons. The stone walls wept with moisture, and the floor was covered in layers of filth he couldn't identify. A foul stench hit his nostrils—a mixture of waste, decay, and something sulphurous burning nearby.
Screams from outside the cell had his head jerking towards the door. It had only a small window with bars, which meant he couldn't see beyond his immediate surroundings. The wails sent chills down his spine—not just cries of physical pain, but sounds of absolute despair.
Ethan tried to make sense of his current situation, but his thoughts scattered like frightened birds. When he glanced down, he froze.
His body was tiny and completely red. His mind reeled. What the bloody hell was going on? He wasn't human anymore. His hands—no, his claws—were barely recognisable. Stubby fingers ended in sharp black talons, and his skin was dyed crimson.
Had he died? Or was he lying in some hospital bed, trapped in a coma-induced nightmare?
He winced as the chains chafed his wrists. The pain felt real. Too real. The bite of metal against his skin sent jagged flashes of pain shooting through his arms.
He shouted, in the hopes of alerting someone to his predicament, but what came out was a squeaky growl. When he ran his tongue over his teeth, he discovered rows of sharp fangs.
So this was where Truck-kun had sent him. Not to Sarah. Not to an afterlife he recognised. But here, wherever "here" was.
A sparkle of light in his uppermost vision caught his attention. When he moved his head, the sparkle followed him, like a blemish on his eye.
"Whazzat?”
He cringed at his voice. His words emerged mangled, barely comprehensible even to himself. His tongue felt thick and swollen in his mouth, and the fangs transformed his speech into something alien.
Ethan turned his attention back to the sparkle of light. The longer he stared at it, the more it seemed to command his attention. Suddenly, the tiny point expanded, becoming a translucent blue window that hovered in front of him.
Ethan's eyes widened as he read the text that materialised:
[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Reeves
Race: Imp (Lesser Demon)
Level: 1
Titles: Path of Reincarnation: Outcast
Stats: Strength: 5 Dexterity: 8 Constitution: 3 Intelligence: 5 Wisdom: 4 Charisma: 1
Skills: Demonic Sight: Can see in darkness; Flame Resistance (Level 1): 20% resistance to fire damage
Status Effects: Bound (Chains): Movement restricted by 90%.
"Whazziss? Game? Notza game!" Ethan thrashed against his chains, panic rising in his chest. The screen flickered but remained floating before him, mocking him with information that made no sense. An imp? A demon? This couldn't be real.
Heavy footsteps approached his cell. Clank. Clank. Clank. Like metal on stone.
"Lezz me go! Dun belong here!" he growled, struggling harder against his restraints, ignoring the fresh pain as the chains bit deeper into his red flesh.
The footsteps stopped outside his door. A shadow fell across the small barred window, blocking what little light filtered into the cell. Ethan froze, staring at the door.
The lock turned with an ominous click, and the door began to swing open.
The door swung open with a rusty whine. A hulking figure filled the frame, silhouetted against the dim corridor light. Ethan blinked rapidly, his new demonic eyes adjusting to the change in brightness.
The guard stepped forward—if you could call it a guard. The creature stood nearly eight feet tall, its grey-green skin covered in rigid plates like natural armour. A single curved horn protruded from its forehead, and yellow tusks jutted from its lower jaw. It wore crude iron armour and carried a spiked mace that looked capable of crushing Ethan's tiny imp body with a single blow.
"Quiet, vermin," the creature grunted. Its voice sounded like rocks tumbling down a mountainside. "Save your strength. You'll need it in the pits."
"Whazz pits? Where am I?" Ethan demanded, his mangled speech barely coherent.
The guard laughed, a sound like gravel in a metal drum. "New arrival, eh? Figured as much. You're in the Ninth Circle, maggot. Demon Lord Azarath's domain."
The guard stepped closer, eyeing Ethan with contempt. "Most imps know to keep their traps shut. But you? You smell... different." It sniffed the air.
Ethan stiffened. "Not demon!"
The guard roared with laughter. "That's so? Take a look at yourself, runt."
It produced a jagged piece of reflective metal from its belt and held it in front of Ethan's face.
The reflection confirmed his worst fears. Crimson skin stretched taut over a tiny, misshapen body. Bulbous yellow eyes with vertical slits for pupils. Two stubby horns protruded from his forehead. A mouth full of needle-sharp teeth.
"No food today," the guard said, tucking the makeshift mirror away. "Lord Azarath wants the fresh meat hungry for tomorrow's games."
"Wait!" Ethan called as the guard turned to leave. "Need water!"
The guard paused, then reached for a filthy canteen at its hip. It unscrewed the cap and splashed foul-smelling liquid onto the floor, just out of Ethan's reach.
"There's your water, imp." It laughed again. "Reach it if you can."
The door slammed shut, the lock clicking back into place with finality.
Ethan stared at the puddle on the floor. The cruel taunt sparked something within him—a surge of anger that felt different in this new body. Hotter. More primal.
He yanked at his chains, putting all his strength into the effort. The metal cut into his wrists, but he didn't care. He pulled and pulled until his muscles screamed in protest.
[Strength +1]
The text flashed briefly before his eyes, startling him into stillness.
Curious, he pulled at the chains again, straining until his vision blurred and his arms trembled from exertion.
Nothing happened.
Ethan sagged against the wall, panting. So it wasn't that simple. He couldn't just spam the same action and expect results. He needed a different approach.
His gaze fell on the chains binding his wrists. They were secured to the wall about two feet above his head, giving him some limited mobility. Not enough to reach the puddle of water, but perhaps...
Ethan gripped the chains and pulled his body upward, performing a crude pull-up. His new form was lighter than his human body had been, but his muscles were pathetically weak. He managed one complete pull-up before his arms gave out, and he crashed back against the wall.
He tried again. And again. And again.
By the twentieth attempt, his arms felt like they were on fire, but he persisted. If his theory was correct—if this world operated on video game logic—then repetitive exercise should eventually increase his strength.
"One," he growled, heaving himself up. "Two." Another pull. "Three."
Time blurred as he settled into a rhythm. Pull up. Drop down. Pull up. Drop down. The chains rattled in a steady cadence that matched his laboured breathing.
[Strength +1]
The notification appeared after his seventy-third pull-up. Ethan bared his fangs in a grotesque smile and continued with renewed determination. His muscles adapted more quickly than should have been possible, fatigue receding as his strength attribute increased.
Hours passed. Or perhaps days—it was impossible to tell in the windowless cell. Ethan's world narrowed to the burning in his arms and the clanking of chains.
[Strength +1]
[Strength +1]
[Strength +1]
Each notification spurred him onward. By the time his strength reached 10, the chains no longer felt like immovable restraints. At 12, he could feel them giving slightly when he pulled with all his might.
The puddle of water had long since evaporated, and his throat burned with thirst. No matter. Escape first, water later.
When his strength hit 13, Ethan decided it was time. He gripped the chains firmly and braced his feet against the stone wall. With a guttural roar, he pulled with everything he had. The chains creaked, strained, and finally, with a sharp crack, the metal rings securing them to the wall fractured and broke.
Ethan tumbled to the floor, free hands still bound in manacles but no longer tethered to the wall. He immediately set to work on the ankle chains, wrapping the length of broken chain around the metal ring and using his newfound strength to wrench it apart.
[New Skill Acquired: Improvised Weaponry (Level 1)]
Another notification. Ethan ignored it for now, focusing on his ankles. The second set of restraints took less time to break, and soon he stood wobbling on unsteady feet, rubbing his chafed wrists.
"Yesss," he hissed. "Now get out."
He approached the door, studying it carefully. Solid iron with no visible hinges from this side. The small barred window was too narrow for even his diminutive body to squeeze through. The lock was a heavy mechanism that would require a key or lock-picking skills he didn't possess.
Ethan glanced around the cell, looking for anything he could use. His gaze settled on the broken chains. Perhaps with enough force...
He wrapped the end of the chain around his fist, creating a crude knuckle duster with the jagged end of the broken link protruding between his fingers. Then he pressed his eye to the barred window, checking for guards in the corridor.
Empty.
Ethan positioned himself beside the door, chain-wrapped fist at the ready. He'd wait for the guard to return—hopefully the same brute who'd taunted him—and when the door opened, he'd strike fast and hard. One blow to the throat should be enough to incapacitate it long enough for him to slip past.
From there... Well, one problem at a time. First, escape the cell. Then find his way out of wherever this "Ninth Circle" was.
Ethan settled into position, muscles tense and ready. The waiting game began. But this time, he had a plan—and the strength to execute it.
So, what do you think? Had fun writing this chapter.
Thanks for reading.
