[Excerpt from Transmigration 101: A Guide for Your Second Life, Foreword]
Greetings, Valued Customer/Soul!
If you're reading this, chances are high that your previous existence has abruptly and likely nonsensically ceased. Condolences. Or congratulations? It really depends on your previous life's subscription tier and whether you managed to avoid stepping on any cosmic butterflies.
Perhaps you met the esteemed Truck-kun, patron saint of accelerated reincarnation? Or maybe you succumbed to the increasingly popular Karoshi Special (Overwork -> Nap -> Different World)? Perhaps you were struck by divinely ordained Plot Lightning?, tripped into a Conveniently Placed Portal?, or simply got bored and wished really hard on a suspicious artifact you bought online.
Whatever the method, welcome! You've officially transmigrated, reincarnated, or been isekai'd. Semantics, really. The point is: you're not in Kansas (or Tokyo, or Seoul, or Generic Earth City #47) anymore.
This guide, compiled through painstaking observation of countless protagonists (both successful and hilariously doomed), aims to provide you, the freshly minted Otherworlder, with the essential knowledge to survive, thrive, and possibly even build a harem/conquer the demon lord/find the ultimate cheat skill. Or, at the very least, figure out where the nearest non-poisonous food source is.
Consider this your mandatory orientation package. Ignore it at your peril. Seriously, the number of newbies who get eaten by slimes in the first twenty-four hours because they didn't read Section 3: Basic Monster Identification (Hint: If it Jiggles Aggressively, Don't Poke It) is frankly embarrassing.
Now, turn the page (metaphorically or literally, depending on your current interface) and let's begin with Module 1: The Grand Exit & Initial Diagnostics.
[Kevin's Story: Part 1 - The Unscheduled Departure]
Kevin blinked. Or, he tried to blink. His eyelids felt like sandpaper grinding over grit. Pain. That was the first coherent thought. A symphony of agony playing exclusively in his skull, accompanied by the rhythmic, dull thud of... something.
Where am I?
The last thing he remembered was... oh. Oh no.
He’d been walking home from his soul-crushing data entry job, scrolling through the latest chapter of "My Vampire Girlfriend is Secretly a Cultivation Grandmaster CEO." Typical Tuesday. He’d stepped off the curb, engrossed in a particularly dramatic cliffhanger involving spirit stones and quarterly reports. Then, bright lights, the deafening blare of a horn that sounded suspiciously like an anime sound effect, and a sensation best described as 'becoming intimately acquainted with several tons of rapidly decelerating metal.'
Truck-kun. You absolute cliché.
He tried to sit up, a groan escaping his lips. The world swam. Not the familiar off-white ceiling of St. Jude's Emergency Room, but... rough-hewn stone? Moss? And the smell... damp earth, stale beer, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood.
Definitely not St. Jude's. Their stale smell was more institutional bleach and despair.
With Herculean effort, Kevin pushed himself upright. He was in a dark, narrow alleyway. Grimy cobblestones slick with unidentifiable liquids stretched out before him, leading to a brighter opening where sounds of a bustling crowd – chatter, shouting, the clang of metal – could be heard. The architecture visible wasn't right, either. Timber-framed buildings leaned precariously, sporting designs that screamed "low-budget fantasy set."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Panic began its icy crawl up his spine. Okay, possibilities:
Hallucination: Severe concussion from the truck incident. Plausible.
Elaborate Prank: His friends finally got him back for that incident with the inflatable flamingo. Unlikely, they lacked the budget and follow-through.
Actual Transmigration: The kind he read about constantly. Ludicrous. Impossible. Yet...
He looked down at his hands. Small, slender, covered in grime, but definitely not his familiar keyboard-calloused digits. He patted his body. Leaner. Shorter? Wearing... rags? Actual, literal rags held together by sheer force of will and dirt. This wasn't his comfortable, slightly-too-tight office casual attire.
Okay, Kevin thought, trying desperately to channel the protagonists he'd read about. Don't panic. Assess the situation. Check for injuries. Check for a system! Every transmigrator gets a system, right? It's practically mandatory.
He closed his eyes (the ones in this new head) and focused, trying to will a translucent blue screen into existence. "Status?" he whispered, feeling incredibly foolish.
Nothing.
"Inventory?"
Nada.
"Help?"
Silence, except for the distant city sounds and the persistent thudding in his head.
Maybe I'm a background character? The thought was horrifying. No cheats, no system, just... survival in what looked like Medieval Filth: The Experience. No, no, that can't be right. Truck-kun doesn't just scoop up extras! There has to be a plot!
He took a shaky breath, the foul air doing little to calm him. His head throbbed again, and this time, a faint memory surfaced, not his own. A fleeting image: rough hands shoving him, a sharp pain in his temple, darkness.
Wait. Was this body... murdered?
Just as that pleasant thought landed, a sharp, synthesized ding! echoed directly inside his mind.
[Welcome, Host Unit #8,374,921! Initializing Soul Resonance Protocol...]
[Body Compatibility: 37% (Sub-Optimal - Recommend Immediate Upgrade)]
[Memory Integration: 5% (Fragmented - Good Luck!)]
[Error! Previous Host's Departure Protocol interrupted. Cause: Blunt Force Trauma (Amateurish)]
[System Core: 'Budget Isekai Starter Pack' v0.8 Beta Activated!]
[New User Tutorial Quest Issued!]
A translucent screen, shimmering with faint blue light, materialized in his vision. It wasn't fancy, looked vaguely like Windows 98, and had a flickering pixel in the corner.
Kevin stared, dumbfounded. Then, a slow grin spread across his grimy new face. Okay, he thought, relief washing over him in a dizzying wave. Maybe I'm not entirely screwed.
