The neon glow of Akihabara bled into a perpetual twilight, reflecting off the rain-slicked streets. He was a low-tier manga assistant, a cog in a machine that churned out fantasies for others, while his own existence was a monotonous grind. His artistic dreams, once vibrant, were now faded sketches in a forgotten notebook. The ghosts of past aspirations haunted him, whispers of a time when he was someone. Popular, athletic, admired… but that felt like a lifetime ago, a cruel illusion shattered by circumstance and misfortune. Now, he was just… that manga assistant. The outcast. The invisible man.
The shriek of tires cut through the downpour. A girl, no older than twenty, stumbled into the street, her face contorted in fear. Two shadowy figures pursued her, their intent clear. He, despite his weariness, despite his ingrained habit of avoiding conflict, found himself moving. He shoved the girl aside, a surge of adrenaline momentarily eclipsing the apathy that had consumed him.
A searing pain erupted in his abdomen. The world swam, the neon lights blurring into abstract streaks of color. He crumpled to the ground, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth. As the darkness closed in, fragments of his past flashed before his eyes. His triumphant days on the soccer field, the envious gazes of his classmates, the warmth of his mother's embrace… and then the slow, agonizing slide into obscurity. The injury that ended his athletic career. His family's financial ruin. The relentless bullying. The crushing weight of failure. He had become the very thing he once pitied: the loser.
The rain intensified, washing away the blood, erasing his existence. So, this is it, he thought, a bitter smile playing on his lips. A meaningless end to a meaningless life. Then, everything went black.
The abrupt transition was disorienting, a sensory overload that threatened to overwhelm his newborn consciousness. Gone was the cold, sterile scent of rain and exhaust fumes. Instead, he was assaulted by the primal odors of woodsmoke, fur, and something undeniably… animalistic. The air hung thick with the aroma of herbs, tanned leather, and the faint, coppery tang of blood.
Light flickered before his unfocused eyes, casting dancing shadows on a rough canvas. He tried to move, but his limbs were unresponsive, clumsy. A strangled cry escaped his lips – a sound far too high-pitched to be his own. He was lying on a bed of furs, coarse but surprisingly warm. As a devoted otaku, his first thought wasn't "where am I?" but rather, "This is totally like one of those isekai manga! Did I get reincarnated?!"
Looming above him was a face, etched with lines of worry and exhaustion, yet radiating a fierce, protective love. A woman. Her hair, the color of spun moonlight, was braided with feathers and beads. Her eyes, a startling shade of blue, held a depth of emotion he couldn't comprehend. She murmured something in a language he didn't understand, but the tone was soothing, reassuring.
Then, a massive hand gently scooped him up. He was lifted into the air, his vision swimming as he was brought face to face with a towering figure of muscle and bone. The man wore a headdress crafted from the skull and fur of a massive bear, the empty eye sockets staring blankly ahead. It was straight out of a barbarian manga! His face was scarred and weathered, a testament to countless battles. A thick beard, interwoven with bone beads, obscured his jaw. He carried himself with a quiet authority, the aura of a leader, a protector. He was everything he, the manga assistant, was not: strong, confident, respected. And suddenly, the otaku brain kicked in, "Wait, is he the Chieftain? The protagonist's dad?!"
The man's gaze, though stern, held a flicker of… something. Pride? Hope? He spoke, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the small body in his arms.
"You are born in the darkness of the night," the man boomed, "and the rain washed over the land when you take a breath. You are born in storm. You are Nyx."
He was then brought to the old woman. The old woman came towards him she put runes a blue and circle that glow that feel power to change and Nyx feel a strange energy flowing through his body, Nyx felt weird
The Shaman, the wise woman, the keeper of the tribe's ancient lore. Her eyes, though clouded with age, seemed to pierce through him, assessing him with an unnerving intensity. She wore a necklace of teeth and claws, and her voice, when she spoke, was raspy and guttural, like the wind whistling through a mountain pass. "It is done," she croaked, "the boy is named, and blessed." Nyx felt a tingling sensation on his forehead. When it was over it faded into his skin.
The "tent," he realized, was more of a yurt – a circular structure made from animal hides stretched over a framework of sturdy wooden poles. The interior was surprisingly spacious, though dimly lit by the flickering fire and a small opening at the top. The walls were adorned with crude paintings of animals and symbols, depicting hunts, battles, and rituals. Weapons lined the walls – axes, spears, and bows crafted from wood and bone, each bearing intricate carvings. It wasn't ugly, not exactly. It was functional. Everything served a purpose, from the furs that provided warmth to the weapons that ensured survival. It was the kind of rugged, practical aesthetic you'd see in a well-researched historical manga. "Wait a minute... are those runes carved into the weapons? And the Shaman just gave me a blessing... Is this world... is this world has magic?!" The otaku brain screamed internally.
He now, Nyx, closed his eyes, surrendering to the unfamiliar sensations, the chilling reality of his new existence. He was no longer that manga assistant. He was Nyx, son of the chieftain, born in the darkness, blessed by the shaman. And now, he knew, thanks to the runes and the blessing: magic was real. The isekai was real, and it just got a whole lot more interesting.