Luke woke with a start.
He gasped as the image of the truck surged through his mind: screeching tires, blinding headlights, and the brutal force that had ended everything. But... he was breathing. Sitting.
He blinked. He was slumped against a stone wall in a narrow alleyway. Rough, uneven cobblestones pressed into his back. The scent of smoke, livestock, and sweat filled the air. Light spilled in from the open street beyond. Slowly, Luke stood, eyes scanning the foreign architecture.
It was... medieval? No glass windows, no neon lights, just timber frames and shingled rooftops, all worn by time. Something about it reminded him of the fantasy games he used to play. He ran a hand over the stone wall beside him, then knocked it with his fist.
Solid. Real.
He looked down.
A coarse tunic hung off his body, threadbare and dust-covered. Leather wraps bound his feet like shoes. What the hell?
This wasn't a hospital. No sterile lights. No beeping machines.
Was he dead?
"I got hit by a truck," he muttered to himself. "There's no way I survived that."
His heart pounded. His mind raced. He'd read enough stories, isekai, reincarnation, other worlds. But those were fiction.
Right?
He glanced at his clothes again. His hands trembled. This didn't feel like a dream. And yet...
The tournament.
"Oh shit," he whispered. "I'm going to miss it."
The realization made his stomach twist, but almost immediately, a bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"Dumbass," he muttered. "You got hit by a truck, died, woke up in some fantasy alley... and you're worried about a tournament?"
That was the truth of it, though. His drive had consumed him. Winning had taken over his life.
Maybe...
Maybe this really was a second chance.
He had never quite belonged back home. School had felt like a waiting room. Friends had drifted. Games were the only place he ever felt in control. Maybe here... he could actually live.
A distant shout snapped him from his thoughts.
Luke turned and stepped cautiously out of the alleyway. The sun blazed overhead, forcing him to shield his eyes. He squinted at the street ahead, people lined the dirt road, murmuring and pointing. At the center of it all was a sleek, black carriage flanked by armored soldiers.
Townsfolk were shouting.
"We're starving!" one shouted. "Feed us, Lord Emberlily!"
Luke edged closer as the soldiers barked orders, trying to hold the crowd at bay. Then the carriage door opened.
A man in a regal black cloak stepped out. His face was noble and well-groomed but strained. He raised his voice over the crowd.
"I promise you, I hear your woes! I am negotiating a trade with Greenreach for grain..."
"We're dying by the hour!" someone screamed.
"I hear you," Lord Emberlily said, eyes darting through the unrest.
"You hear shit!" another man roared and hurled something.
A soldier deflected the projectile with his shield, and the crowd erupted. People surged forward. The soldiers tried to push them back, but the mob overwhelmed them.
Luke stumbled backward, nearly knocked over by the chaos.
A girl leapt from the back of the carriage. She couldn't have been older than him. Long red dress lifted as she ran, her golden hair streaming behind her.
"Lady Lyra!" someone called, but the voice was swallowed by panic.
She sprinted down a side alley.
Luke saw them then, three men breaking from the mob to chase her, their eyes glinting with something cruel.
His heart pounded. His fists clenched.
This was it. What else was he brought here for?
He ran.
The alley twisted sharply before opening into a dead end. Lyra had backed herself into the corner, trembling, hands up. The men surrounded her, leering.
"You'll fetch a fine ransom..." one growled. "Or maybe we keep you for fun."
She whimpered, eyes wide with horror.
"That wouldn't be wise," Luke said, stepping forward.
All three turned.
One spat. "Get lost, kid."
"No."
The largest of them pulled a dagger. "I said, Fuck off."
Luke swallowed hard. No weapon. No clue how to fight. But when the man grabbed at Lyra's dress, she screamed, and Luke moved without thinking.
He lunged forward and tackled the man, driving him to the ground.
"Fool!" one of the others shouted. Luke barely turned before pain lanced through his side.
A dagger.
He gasped, and then another stab, and then another.
He collapsed, blood soaking his tunic. The world spun. He stared at the sky.
I already died once today... Am I going to die again? Will there even be a third time?
A sob from Lyra brought him back. One of the men had her by the arm again, laughing and boasting. Luke gritted his teeth.
No. Not like this.
With a strangled roar, he dragged himself upright, tackling the man from behind. He locked his arms around his neck, holding on with all the fury he had left.
"What the hell is this guy!?" one of them shouted, kicking him repeatedly.
Luke screamed, eyes wild.
"Run!" he gasped.
Lyra froze.
"I said run!"
She bolted.
One of the men cursed and ran after her, but Luke grabbed his leg, dragging him down. The man cursed and stabbed him again. Again.
So this is it.
"At least I saved one person..." Luke thought, vision fading.
Then galloping. Hooves on stone.
A figure in full plate armor thundered into the alleyway.
"Lady Lyra!"
The man dismounted in one fluid motion, sword flashing.
Steel cut through flesh. The thugs screamed and fell silent.
Luke winced as the armored knight approached him, sword still drawn. But Lyra grabbed his arm.
"No! Not him!"
The man glanced down, frowning. He reached up and removed his helmet, revealing short, black, rough hair and a deep scar running across his cheek. His face was rugged, worn from years of battle, but his eyes were sharp as he looked at Lyra. "Are you hurt, my lady?"
She shook her head, trembling. "No. They tried, but... he stopped them. He saved me. He's been stabbed so many times, you have to help him, Captain Thorne!"
The knight prodded one of the bodies off of Luke and paled when he saw the wounds.
"He fought with these?" he muttered.
Luke groaned.
"What's your name, boy?"
He tried to speak. "Lu...ke..."
But the name was foreign to their ears. Thorne looked to Lyra.
"Lucan," she said gently. "He must mean Lucan."
Thorne nodded.
"I'll have him taken to the infirmary with the other wounded—"
"No," Lyra snapped. "Take him to the keep's physician. He deserves the best."
Thorne blinked at her. Then bowed his head.
"As you wish, my lady."