Jack jolted awake with a shout, his high, girlish voice ricocheting around the little wooden room. "Aaaaaaaaa—what the fuck! Wait—did I just speak Portuguese?" he thought, blinking hard.
Where the hell am I?
He lay on a straw-stuffed mattress that crunched every time he breathed, staring at a warped plank ceiling instead of the dark sky where Sam had—by accident—stabbed his motherfucking heart. That last memory pulsed hot and then cooled, like a knife dunked in snow.
Alive. Somehow. Breathing. Thinking stupid shit. Definitely alive. Just… not the same.
He raised his hands to his face. Small. Delicate. Soft. No calluses, no scars, no ropy veins full of protein and hormonal rage. The voice he'd just screeched with was all wrong too—high, reedy, like a young boy's… or a girl's.
Jack wasn't a bodybuilder—never had been—but he sure as hell hadn't been this tiny and gay in appearance since before he found the gym. And even then, he'd always been a good-looking bad motherfucker.
He turned his head. A young couple hovered beside the bed, wide-eyed and worried, the way people look at a dropped baby or a drunk god.
Late twenties, maybe.
Then—bam—like a floodgate kicking open, random cutscenes started playing in his skull: faces, places, names that weren't his but stuck like burrs.
His father's name was Jesus. Tall, broad-shouldered, a shipbuilder and sailor with long dark-blond hair and a thick beard. He looked like a buff version of the biblical Jesus, if that Jesus could bench a fishing boat.
His mother—Mary—was twenty-six, though she barely looked past her teens. Petite, maybe one-fifty centimeters, with a generous bust—tits, breasts, whatever—wrapped in a calm, elegant beauty. A former nun of the Church of Sighard who'd ditched her vows to raise a family because some bearded bastard named Jesus had knocked her up during a northern crusade in a freezing cave beside a single fire. Or something like that—his head served the memory in glitchy chunks.
She still clung to a strict devotion to her already ruined chastity, which meant Marino was their only child and Jesus was probably sexually frustrated as hell.
Seeing them now, feeling memories that were clearly not his knit themselves into place, he couldn't stop his mouth from moving.
"Jesus? Father? Mother Mary? What the hell is going on? Why do I know this?"
Jack—now Marino—furrowed his brows, rifling through the mess in his skull. Two sets of memories.
One belonged to Marino Colombo—a mentally fragile twelve-year-old with no friends, a twisted sense of humor, and bizarre obsessions involving fish, breasts, and milk (don't ask). His grand finale? Choking on his own tongue after dreaming he was a king commanding armored bunnies in a war against knights made of olives.
The other belonged to Lieutenant Jack Fritz—a navy officer who'd died in the opening hours of World War III. Explosion. Blood. Darkness. Then… this?
The other belonged to Lieutenant Jack Fritz—a navy officer who'd died in the opening hours of World War III. Explosion. Blood. Darkness. Then… this rebirth?
"Was it because of the big-titted angel? Or Sam's wish?" he muttered. "If that dark world even existed… or if it was just some fever dream."
He vaguely remembered ghosts, fire, a demon whispering in the dark. Sam saying something heroic. A dagger. Pain. Then nothing—until now.
The memory was distant, blurred around the edges, like a half-remembered hangover.
He didn't want to think about it. Too weird. Too impossible. And if he was alive, then Sam couldn't be dead either… right?
"I mean, come on—since when does the chosen hero get isekai'd by a freaking demon? That can't be right… can it? Fuck me, man. I don't know."
Before he could spiral further, a warm hand touched his own.
Mary leaned in, her brown eyes full of worry.
"Are you well, my son? You missed breakfast and wouldn't wake up. We feared the worst."
Marino blinked. "Nah. Just trying to break the world record for holding my breath."
Jesus and Mary traded a look—half concern, half confusion.
Jesus chuckled awkwardly. "That's my boy. Practicing diving already? Next time, we'll do it together—in the sea, eh?"
"Yeah, sure," Marino muttered.
His parents, unconvinced, pressed their hands together in blessing.
"May Sighard give you strength and guard you from evil," Mary whispered.
"And may it be so," Jesus added. "Praise Sighard, the Hammerer!"
Jesus clapped his hands once, smiling as if the blessing had solved everything.
"All right, come down when you're ready, my son. Breakfast is still warm."
The door closed gently behind them.
Marino sat in stunned silence, staring at the wood, then up at the ceiling. He was alive. But he wasn't Jack anymore. Not fully. Not in body, anyway. He was something in between—like a less-handsome, fun-sized version of his old self.
Laying back, he groaned.
"Great. Reincarnated as a kid. Just how the hell am I supposed to get laid like this?"
He sighed, staring at the ceiling.
The universe, apparently, had a dark sense of humor.
"Wait—Sighard? Wait, what?"
Marino blinked, sitting upright in bed. His mind scrambled to catch up with the flood of new, alien memories.
Apparently, in this world, the Church of Sighard reigned supreme across most of Europe. There was no Jesus nailed to a cross, no Holy Trinity—just Sighard, the divine, hammer-wielding savior who, according to legend, fell from the stars.
Thousands of years ago, during something called the Age of Darkness, humanity had teetered on the brink of extinction. People lived in scattered forest enclaves, highland fortresses, and deep caves—while the lands between were overrun by creatures of the night. Monsters. Flesh-eaters. Beasts that hunted humanity like livestock.
Then came the Yellow Comet.
From it descended Sighard, riding a colossal gryphon and wielding a war hammer said to shake mountains. He united the two greatest tribes of men—the Germans and the French—and forged them into one unstoppable empire: The Empire of Man.
Under Sighard's banner, the armies of mankind rose again. City by city, they purged the darkness from the land. For a hundred glorious years, Sighard ruled, and humanity flourished. It was a golden age—an age of rebuilding, peace, and unity. Cities rose from ruins. Fields bloomed. People once more walked under open skies without fear.
But that was long ago.
Now it was the Year 1050 After Sighard.
The Empire was gone. Its borders had shattered, its unity forgotten. Sighard had left behind no heir, and the continent splintered into bickering kingdoms, each clinging to the faded glory of a legend they could no longer live up to.
Still, humanity endured.
Life continued in a fragile sort of peace. But in the East… shadows were stirring.
There were rumors—whispers of horrors returning. Tales of vast, bloodthirsty hordes and undead legions marching once more. The old darkness, it seemed, was crawling back.
"Damn," Marino muttered under his breath. "This world's metal as hell."
He wasn't wrong. It was grim, brutal, and dangerous—but also full of potential.
Human progress had stagnated over the centuries. Most kingdoms focused on survival and rebuilding rather than invention. Only the dwarves—reclusive mountain folk who had once fought beside Sighard—had continued advancing. Their cannons and muskets were whispered about in awe, though few humans had ever seen one up close.
This world looked and felt like late medieval Europe, but with its own strange flavor. The dominant cultures were Germanic and French; their tongues, the languages of power. And across the western sea lay Albion—a fog-shrouded island said to be crawling with monsters and ancient magic.
As for Marino?
He was a peasant boy from a modestly well-off family—educated enough to read, dumb enough to get in trouble, and far too curious for his own good. His grasp of history was shaky, but this was one hell of a world to wake up in.
Like Jack Fritz back in Alaska, who'd grown up helping with the family's fishing boat—knew the tides, knew the nets, swam well, and was lazy as sin—Marino, too, came with useful skills. His father, Jesus (not that Jesus), was a master shipwright. The family lived off his reputation and craft, and some days it felt uncanny—like the old man had been blessed by a god.
Sifting through inherited memories of wind and water, Marino noticed something off. The stars were wrong.
Constellations bent into unfamiliar shapes, glittering in patterns that didn't belong to Earth.
"What the hell is up there?" he whispered. "And what's looking back down?"
Maybe one day he'd find out. Maybe he'd even reach them.
For now, the mysteries were closer to home.
Down at the docks, sailors whispered their usual "friend-of-a-friend" epics: battles in the East; endless green tides—probably orcs and goblins; and darker rumors still—dead legions of the old Empire, marching again.
Then there was faith. The Church of Sighard preached salvation through devotion; in moments of true desperation, the devout could be granted Sighard's strength—courage like a storm, a jolt of divine power enough to turn the tide.
"Sounds like bullshit," Marino muttered. He'd seen no miracles—only stories.
But other stories ran colder: necromancers, witches, forbidden rites—power at a price that rotted the soul. The Church hunted such things without mercy.
Marino? He found it…interesting.
He didn't know how to tap any of it—if it even existed—but if anyone was going to stumble into hidden power, shouldn't it be the isekai protagonist? Probably. Hopefully.
Either way, the world was ripe for discovery—and he had a plan.
His family name was Colombo. They built ships.
And in all his memories, there was no mention of a New World.
So… maybe in this life, Colombo would be the one to find it.
He wasn't the bravest guy, sure. But with a stout hull under his feet and a few good muskets aboard, he figured he could handle whatever this world threw at him—raiders, monsters, the unknown beyond the map's edge. Swagger? Maybe. But it beat staying small.
Marino smirked. "This could get interesting."
He stood, pulled on a roughspun tunic, leather boots, and a salt-stained belt, then headed downstairs for breakfast.
The world was waiting.
Outside, dawn crept over the edge of the world, spilling gold across the rugged cliffs and rolling hills of Sagres. The sea below gleamed like polished steel, its waves breaking in slow, deliberate rhythm against the black rocks—whispering secrets only sailors and gods could understand.
Far from the heart of the little coastal town—where fishermen hauled dripping nets and monks shuffled between chapel and garden—stood a modest two-story home perched near the cliffs. It watched the ocean with quiet confidence, a lonely sentinel defying the wind and time.
Built from pale limestone and dark, polished wood, the house creaked softly with every salty gust off the sea. The lower floor was solid stone, cool and enduring; the upper, framed in timber and latticed with windows that caught the sunrise like fractured stained glass. A low white fence ringed a humble garden of hardy herbs, squat vegetables, and a few stubborn flowers clinging to life in the salt-heavy air.
It was the kind of place that felt old—even if it wasn't—because everything here aged fast: wood, stone, and people alike.
Inside, the kitchen glowed with morning light.
At a rough-hewn table scarred by years of meals and work, a family of three sat in silence.
Jesus, the father—broad-shouldered, thick-fingered, his skin burnished by sea and sun—was halfway through gutting a pickled mackerel with the steady patience of a man used to shaping ships from raw timber. Each cut was clean, deliberate, as if even breakfast required craftsmanship.
Across from him sat Mary, straight-backed and composed, her greying hair pinned neatly beneath a linen wrap. Her hands rested folded in her lap, eyes closed in quiet reverence even long after grace had been spoken.
And between them sat Marino.
Marino had kicked off his boots; now he sat barefoot at the table, elbows planted, visibly trying not to fidget. The warm, briny air drifting through the shutters felt strangely familiar—comforting, even. Nothing else did.
This is so weird, he thought, eyes roaming the spread. Beyond weird.
For a modest household, the table was generous: boiled cabbage, pickled onions, black olives, hunks of smoked fish, fresh goat cheese, coarse brown bread. A wooden bowl of hard-boiled eggs—slightly overcooked, flecked with soot. Off to the side, dried lamb strips and a clay pot of honey.
Everything looked fresh. Everything looked… untouched.
Not because no one was eating—because no one had done anything to it.
Marino watched, quietly horrified, as his new parents consumed each item like a sacred object in a ritual: a bite of fish. A bite of bread. An olive. A sip of rainwater from a clay cup. Repeat. It was like watching people chew puzzle pieces instead of building the puzzle.
Where's the flavor? The creativity? Hell, where's the salt?
To be fair, the food wasn't bad. It was just aggressively humble. Piety on a plate.
Mary, eyes closed, chewed a raw radish like it was fine wine. Jesus—bless him—was trying to sneak a second helping of smoked fish while she wasn't looking. Marino almost smiled.
Still, his soul wept. This could be great. It wasn't—not because it couldn't be, but because nobody had tried.
That decided it. Lieutenant of the United States Navy in another life, twelve-year-old Portuguese shipwright's son in this one—Marino reached for the bread knife.
Carefully, like a man on a holy errand, he split a thick slab of crusty loaf. Layered on warm flaking fish. Torn strips of dried lamb. A smear of goat cheese. A scatter of chopped cabbage. He crushed an olive with the knife's butt and added that, then, for balance, a thin thread of honey.
It wasn't neat. It didn't need to be.
It was a sandwich. A revelation.
He lifted it with both hands and took a massive bite.
Salt, sweet, sour, fat—crunch and chew. Pure ingredients. No additives, no preservatives, no plastic tray or government rations. Earth-food at its most elemental—and he had just elevated it.
A sound escaped him—half delight, half involuntary—a low, indecorous groan that rumbled through the quiet room like a prayer answered a little too loudly.
Mary's eyes snapped open. Jesus froze mid-chew.
"What," Mary said slowly, her gaze narrowing, "was that noise?"
Marino froze, the sandwich hovering halfway to his mouth.
"What noise?"
"You groaned," she said, scandalized. "Like a… like a pig in heat."
"That's not how pigs—"
"Don't speak with food in your mouth!"
Jesus leaned forward, brow furrowed, staring at the monstrosity in Marino's hands.
"My son… what is that?" he asked, equal parts curious and alarmed. "What have you made?"
Marino was about to say that it was a sandwich, but he hesitated. Somewhere in his head, imaginary warning sirens wailed. Witchcraft. Heresy. Culinary blasphemy.
He'd been so caught up in his moment of genius that he'd forgotten how superstitious people here could be.
"I—uh—it's called…" He thought fast. "Colombo bread. My invention. Not magic. Just food. Completely safe. Totally holy."
Jesus raised a skeptical brow. "Colombo bread?"
"Yes. Very Christian," Marino said quickly. "Blessed by salt. Invented this morning."
Mary eyed the sandwich like it might start chanting. After a long pause, she sighed and leaned back.
"Well… if it's just bread," she muttered, "then cut me a piece. A small one."
Marino grinned, victorious, and sliced the sandwich into thirds. Jesus took his portion eagerly; Mary accepted hers as though handling a sacred relic—or possibly a cursed one.
They bit in.
Silence.
Then a soft, involuntary moan—from both of them.
Mary's cheeks flushed. Jesus's eyes went wide.
"My stars," Mary breathed. "Is this… cabbage?"
"And fish," Jesus said, wonderstruck. "And lamb? Together?"
"This is delicious!" Mary exclaimed, covering her mouth. "Why has no one thought of this before?"
Jesus stared down at the half-eaten sandwich, then at his son. "So let me understand… you just put the meat inside the bread?"
"And some fish, and greens," Marino said, trying to sound nonchalant. "It's about balance. You layer it. Portable, efficient, and way tastier than chewing leaves or dry crusts."
Mary blinked at the strange little construction. "It's… not bad," she admitted at last. "Strange. But not bad."
Marino leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes sparkling with a fire far too intense for a twelve-year-old.
"But this isn't just food," he said. "It's a business, Mama. A real one. We could sell these to sailors, dockworkers, travelers—anyone who needs a quick, tasty meal on the go."
Jesus raised an eyebrow. "You're saying people would pay for this?"
"They'll line up for it," Marino said confidently. "We'll keep it simple. Fresh bread every morning, a few fillings to choose from. You walk in, you say what you want, and boom—Colombo Bread, ready to go."
"Colombo Bread?" Jesus echoed.
Marino nodded. "Named after us! Sounds noble, right?"
Jesus stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Hmph. Has a ring to it."
Inside, Marino was already ten steps ahead.
Of course, Colombo Bread was just the start—the first shop, the first spark. But the real dream, the one he dared not speak aloud, was far greater.
One day, when he was old enough, strong enough, rich enough—he would leave this place.
He would build ships.
He would cross the seas.
He would find the land of his former life.
America.
The United States.
Home.
It was still out there—untouched, unknown to these people—and he would be the first to reach it.
He swallowed the thought like the last bite of his sandwich. Best to keep quiet. If he spoke of lands no map had ever shown, people would talk. A child claiming knowledge of worlds beyond the sea? That kind of talk drew suspicion—and maybe worse.
No. Better to play the eager boy with big dreams and a funny new bread.
"Of course," he said aloud, "I'll still be a shipbuilder. That's what I'm learning, right? I'll study hard. Build ships better than anyone. But while I learn, we can run the shop. Mama, you can help with the food. Papa, you can help with the construction."
Jesus chuckled, a deep, rich sound. "You want me to build you a shop?"
"Just a small one," Marino said quickly. "Near the port, maybe. A stall to start with—nothing fancy. Just… efficient."
Mary frowned gently. "And who will work there, hmm? You can't expect me to do all the baking and the selling."
"We'll hire help," Marino said, as though the answer were obvious. "A few kids. Smart, hardworking ones. They can serve, clean, smile at customers—simple stuff."
Jesus gave a low whistle. "You've thought a lot about this."
Marino grinned innocently. "I think while I eat."
Mary crossed her arms. "And what will these children be paid?"
"Something modest," Marino said quickly. "A few coins and a meal. Most of them probably don't get much at home anyway. And we'll give them uniforms! Make it feel official."
Jesus laughed again, the sound booming through the small kitchen. "You've got your father's heart, that's for sure. Big dreams and a sharp tongue."
Marino beamed. "It's just a small dream, Papa. For now."
He reached for the last olive, popped it into his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully as the next idea bloomed in his mind.
SubColombo.
That would be the real name. But that could wait.
First, he'd win them over with Colombo Bread.
Then build the first shop.
Then a fleet.
And someday—someday when the time was right—he would cross the ocean and return home.
Not as a soldier.
But as the founder of an empire.