Question: If you saw a truck's headlights a few centimeters from your face, how would you feel? Happy? Because if you're a piece of trash who spends your days playing gacha games and watching anime, this is the moment you've been waiting for. Finally, you can be isekai'd to another world, gain overpowered abilities, and build a harem.

Me? I'm angry, feeling stupid for having to die so foolishly. You know, honestly, I didn't want to leave this world. My life was perfect. I was born with a handsome face, a perfect body because my father's genetics meant even a little exercise made me look great. I inherited my mother's intelligence, so getting into a prestigious university was a breeze. I'm rich my father, a politician, and my mother, a brand designer, meant money was never an issue in my life. Of course, I had plenty of girlfriends; from elementary school to college, my girlfriend was always the prettiest girl in school. Everything was perfect. So when I was crossing the street and a speeding truck suddenly hit me, I was furious. I cursed fate, God, and whatever was responsible for taking away my perfect life.

I'm in a white room, sitting at a simple wooden table. I don't remember why or how I'm here. The last thing I recall is the sound of a truck's horn, its blinding headlights, the screams of a few people, and then the truck slamming into me. The pain I felt was minimal; I was too busy being angry to notice it. I think my death was quick... death, that's right. I'm dead, so why am I here?

I try to feel my body to confirm I'm really alive. Nothing feels off, no pain, no wounds. If I was truly hit by a truck and died, is this the afterlife?

This room is white. There's nothing in it, just a simple wooden table and two chairs. One chair in front of me is empty. No windows, no doors that I can see. Just white as far as my eyes can reach. This feels familiar. I know this scene is always in the first episode of isekai anime. The protagonist dies, and because of some mistake or pity from a god or whatever power, they're sent to another world with incredible abilities. I even died by getting hit by a truck, it's too cliché.

A sudden gust of wind blows fiercely, nearly knocking me off my chair. Then a laugh echoes, the kind of laugh Santa Claus makes in movies. I try to find the source of the sound, but there's nothing, no trumpets, no banners, no sleigh pulled by a herd of reindeer.

"Hi."

"Fuck." I nearly jump out of my chair when I hear that voice. Now sitting in front of me is an old man. His long hair and beard are white, his cheeks chubby, a smile playing on his lips. His body is large, round like a ball with arms, legs, and a head attached. His massive frame is clad in a black shirt, white shirt, and a red tie. He almost looks like the Cheetos man, except his face has a normal skin tone.

"Sorry for startling you," he says kindly, his voice like a grandfather talking to his grandchild. I have to shake my head a few times because I almost think it's the voice of my grandfather, who died years ago. "I know this is sudden, but welcome to the judgment."

Judgment? So I really am dead. That damn truck really hit me. But judgment? Why does that sound bad? Like I'm some sinner who's committed countless crimes. I know I'm not a saintly person like a priest, or always patient and never angry. I've stolen before, not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. It was like an urge to do something wrong just to see what it felt like. Back then, I thought if I got caught, I could just pay it off. But am I going to be judged for stealing a pencil years ago?

"What do you mean by judgment? I don't know who you are, but, "

"My name," he interrupts, "I'm called by many names, but you can call me... Zilla."

"Zilla?"

"Yes, you know, like in the movies. God, "

"Alright, Zilla," I cut him off this time, and he doesn't seem to like it. For a moment, his gentle gaze turns intense, but he quickly replaces it with that soft smile again. "What's really going on here? One minute I'm dead, and now you're saying I'm facing judgment? Are you serious?"

"Oh, yes. You had far too much luck in your life. You didn't think it all came without consequences, did you?”

I stare at Zilla, my mind racing. Judgment? Consequences? My life was perfect, sure, but I earned it, or at least, I thought I did. My looks, my brains, my wealth, it all felt like a natural extension of who I was. But now this chubby, Santa-like guy is telling me it was "too much luck"? What kind of cosmic scam is this?

"Consequences?" I snap, leaning forward. "What are you talking about? I lived my life the way it was given to me. You're saying I’m being punished for being born lucky?"

Zilla chuckles, that deep, rumbling laugh again, but it’s not as warm this time. "Not punished, my boy. Judged. There’s a difference. Everyone gets their moment at the table, and yours is now." He leans back, folding his hands over his round belly. "You see, the universe has a way of balancing things out. You were given a lot, more than most. The question is, what did you *do* with it?"

I scoff, crossing my arms. "What did I do? I lived! I aced school, partied, dated, traveled, hell, I was planning to start a business after college. I didn’t waste my life!"

Zilla raises an eyebrow, his smile unwavering but sharp. "And the pencil? The one you stole, not because you needed it, but because you *could*? Or the times you used your charm to manipulate others? The people you stepped over because they weren’t as ‘perfect’ as you?"

My jaw tightens. How does he know about the pencil? Or any of that? "That was nothing," I say, but my voice wavers. "Kid stuff. Everyone messes around when they’re young."

"Perhaps," Zilla says, tilting his head. "But small choices ripple. You had the world at your feet, yet you chose to take more than you needed. Why?"

I open my mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. Why *did* I steal that stupid pencil? Or toy with people’s feelings just to see if I could? It wasn’t about need, it was about power, about proving I could bend the world to my will. I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

Zilla’s eyes soften, but there’s a weight to them. "You’re not here to be condemned. You’re here to choose what comes next. The universe doesn’t care about your anger or your perfection, it cares about balance. So, tell me, what do you want now?"

I blink. "What do I want? I want my life back! I don’t want to be dead, sitting in some creepy white room with a guy who looks like he moonlights as a mall Santa!"

He laughs again, louder this time. "Oh, I like you. You’ve got spirit. But your old life? That’s gone. The truck saw to that. What I’m offering is a choice: stay here, in the in-between, and face the void of your own making, or take a chance on a new world. Not quite the isekai you’re thinking of, mind you. No harems or cheat codes guaranteed. But a chance to start fresh, to prove you’re more than your luck."

A new world? My heart pounds. It’s cliché, sure, but the idea of a fresh start, somewhere I could be more than just the guy with the perfect life, stirs something in me. But I’m still pissed. "And if I say no? If I don’t want your stupid cosmic deal?"

Zilla’s smile fades, and for the first time, I feel a chill. "Then you stay here. Forever. Just you, this table, and the white. No pain, no joy, no nothing. Eternity’s a long time to be angry, kid."

I swallow hard, glancing around the endless white. The thought of being stuck here, alone, makes my stomach twist. But a new world? What if it’s a trick? What if it’s worse than this? I lean forward, locking eyes with him. "What’s the catch? You’re not just handing me a shiny new life out of kindness. What do you get out of this?"

Zilla grins, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes me uneasy. "The universe gets its balance. You get a chance to earn what you were given so freely before. And me? I get to watch. Call it... entertainment."

I clench my fists. This guy’s playing games, but what choice do I have? Stay in this void or roll the dice on some unknown world. My perfect life is gone, and as much as I hate it, I’m not ready to give up. Not yet.

"Fine," I say, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "I’ll take the new world. But I’m not doing this for you or your ‘balance.’ I’m doing it for me."

Zilla claps his hands, the sound echoing like thunder. "That’s the spirit! Oh, this’ll be fun." He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Just one thing: don’t expect it to be easy. The universe doesn’t do ‘perfect’ twice.

Not your typical isekai with harems and cheat codes, mind you. This one’s... different.”

“Different how?” I ask, suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

Zilla grins, and there’s a glint in his eye that makes my skin crawl. “Your old life was too perfect, too easy. The universe doesn’t like that. So in this new world, you’ll get *some* debuffs, think of them as... handicaps to level the playing field. You’ll still have a shot to shine, but you’ll have to work for it. No more coasting on luck.”

“Debuffs?” I growl. “Like what? You gonna make me ugly or broke?”

He laughs, loud and booming. “Oh, I won’t spoil the surprise. Could be physical, mental, social, maybe all three. The universe decides, not me. My job’s just to watch the show.”

I clench my fists. Stay in this empty void forever or roll the dice on a new world where I’m not guaranteed my usual perfection? I hate this. My life was mine, and now I’m being punished for it? But the thought of eternity here, with nothing but this table and my own thoughts, makes my stomach churn. I’m not done yet.

“Fine,” I say, glaring at him. “Send me to the new world. But I’m not doing this for your ‘balance’ or your entertainment. I’m doing it for me.”

Zilla claps, the sound like thunder. “That’s the spirit! Just one warning: those debuffs? They’ll make you earn every victory. No more perfect life handed to you on a silver platter.” He leans in, whispering, “Good luck, kid. You’ll need it.”

Before I can snap back, the white room blurs, a gust of wind engulfs me, and everything goes black. Zilla’s laugh echoes as I’m pulled into the unknown, my perfect life gone and something tells me this new world’s gonna be a lot less forgiving.

I blink, or at least, I think I do. Everything's a blur of colors and sensations slamming into me like a bad hangover after one of my legendary college parties. No white room. No booming Santa laugh. Just... wet? Cold? And a whole lot of screaming that isn't mine.

Wait. The screaming is mine. High-pitched, wobbly, like some pathetic mewling kitten. My throat burns from it, and I can't stop. Why can't I stop? Panic hits harder than the truck did, oh God, not again, and I flail, tiny fists punching at nothing. Tiny? What the actual fuck?

The world sharpens just enough for me to make out shapes: a thatched roof leaking rainwater onto a dirt floor, walls of cracked mud bricks that look one storm away from collapsing. A woman, no, a girl, barely out of her teens, hovers over me, her face gaunt and streaked with tears, cradling me against a threadbare cloth that's doing double duty as a blanket and a bandage for her own wounds. Her eyes are hollow, like she's seen too many winters without enough food. "Shh, little one," she whispers in a language I somehow understand, raspy, desperate. "Mama's here. You'll be strong. You have to be."

Strong? Lady, if this is my "fresh start," Zilla's got a twisted sense of humor. I crane my neck, ow, neck? Why does everything feel so floppy?, and catch my reflection in a puddle on the floor. Puddle? No, that's a cracked clay bowl half-filled with murky water. Staring back at me is... not me. Not even close.

Freckles everywhere, like someone sprinkled cinnamon on a potato. A nose that's crooked, probably broken at some point and left to heal wrong. Hair that's a mousy brown tangle, sticking up in every direction like I lost a fight with a bird's nest. And my eyes, beady, too close together, the kind that make you look shifty even when you're innocent. Which I'm not, but still. I'm a goblin. A literal goblin in human skin. If my old girlfriends saw this, they'd laugh so hard they'd snort their lattes.

The debuffs. Oh, they're here, alright. Not subtle, either. I try to sit up, baby body, duh, and my arms give out like wet noodles. Weak as hell. I bet I couldn't lift a spoon, let alone bench-press fate. And my brain? Foggy. I rack it for memories of my old life: Dad's yacht parties, Mom's designer closet, that one time I charmed my way out of a speeding ticket with a wink. They're there, but jumbled, like someone's shuffled the deck and hid half the cards. Concentration? Gone. I try to remember basic math, something I used to do in my sleep, and it slips away like water through fingers. 2 + 2? Uh... fish? What the hell?

A cramp hits my gut, sharp and unrelenting. Hunger? No, worse, something's wrong inside. I wail again, and the girl, Mama?, winces, pressing a rag to my forehead. It's hot. Feverish. Great, add "chronically ill" to the list. Zilla said physical, mental, social. Check, check... and oh boy, social's gonna be a riot.

The door, more like a flap of hide, swings open, letting in a gust of wind that smells like smoke and regret. A burly man stomps in, his face weathered like old leather, arms like tree trunks scarred from what looks like beast claws. Villager? Farmer? He glances at Mama, then at me, and his lip curls. "Another mouth to feed, and it looks half-dead already. What curse did we piss off this time, Mira?"

Mira, Mama, flinches but holds me tighter. "It's a boy, Garr. Strong lungs, see? He'll pull through."

Garr snorts, hawking a glob of spit into the corner. "Lungs don't pay debts. Or fight off the raiders. Look at him, scrawny whelp with those buggy eyes. Mark my words, he'll be beggin' scraps by five." He doesn't even touch me. Just looms, like I'm a stain on his boot.

Social debuff: activated. Instant pariah status. In my old life, people flocked to me like moths to a flame. Here? I'm the flame that's already guttered out. Awesome.

Days blur into a haze of colic and crap. Can't be more than a week, but it feels eternal. Mira feeds me what she can, sour goat milk that tastes like defeat, and whispers stories of heroes who rose from nothing. Yeah, right. Heroes with my luck get trucked into oblivion. I try to focus, to bring some OP skill into existence like in those animes, but nada. Instead, I soil myself for the third time that morning, and Garr's mutter of "useless runt" echoes from the next room.

By the time I can roll over, milestone, whoop-de-doo, I'm maybe two months old, give or take. The village is a shithole: mud huts clustered around a muddy square, folks in rags trading turnips for tools that look forged by a blind smith. No magic academies, no elves with pointy ears offering quests. Just grind and grit. And me, the debuffed disaster, drawing stares like I'm a walking bad omen.

One night, as Mira rocks me by a pitiful fire, she hums a lullaby about the gods balancing scales. I want to laugh, or cry, the same difference. Zilla, you fat bastard, this your idea of entertainment? Fine. I'll earn it. I'll claw my way up from goblin-baby to something resembling a winner. But if I ever get back to that white room, I'm shoving that red tie where the sun doesn't shine.

Little do I know, the real fun's just starting. Because out in the dark, beyond the village palisade, something howls a beast with eyes like the truck's headlights. And it's hungry.