Chapter 1 - Isekai'd

Jesse


My head aches. A dull, pounding throb right behind my eyes. Instinctively, I raise a hand to massage my temple. It’s only when my fingers brush against skin that the thought collides with me like a shell: What hand?

I look down.

Where there should be nothing - only a mangled stump wrapped in gauze, blood, and memory - there is an arm. My arm. Whole. Intact. Pale skin under the dim light, not even a scar. For a moment, my thoughts jam together, grinding like stripped gears.

What the hell is going on?

I force myself to breathe and glance around. I’m still inside the tank. At least, it looks like my tank. But the power is off. The command seat cradles me, familiar padding pressing against my back, yet everything feels… wrong.

It’s too clean.

The shattered monitors I watched flicker into darkness are pristine. The acrid smoke that clawed at my lungs is gone. No blood slicks the walls. No fire hisses in the vents. The key still sits quietly in the ignition, turned to “OFF” as though the vehicle has been resting here all along. My headband sits lightly on top of the dash, waiting for me to put it on.

My eyes dart to the gunner’s seat. Empty. No mangled corpse, no twisted body slumped lifelessly in its harness. Just vacant leather and waiting controls. The driver’s position is out of view, but deep down I already know I’ll find nothing there either.

A cold tremor works its way up my spine.

Slowly, carefully, I raise both arms - both arms - to the hatch above. Fingers fumble at the latch, metal biting cold against my palms. With a gentle push, it swings open.

Sunlight floods in.

Not the leaden, snow-muted gray I remember, but a dazzling, warm gold. I blink against the sudden brightness, eyes watering. When they clear, I’m left staring at a sky painted in colors I almost forgot existed: blue, endless and rich, with fat white clouds drifting lazily overhead.

I climb out, boots scraping the edge of the hatch.

The world that greets me is… impossible.

I stand in the middle of a vast, open field. Grass sways in the breeze, soft green blades bending like waves across an emerald ocean. To my right, a thin stream glimmers, sunlight catching on its rippling surface. Beyond it, a line of trees marks the edge of a forest, leaves shimmering with life. Everything looks alive - fresh, untouched. No smoke. No craters. No bodies.

My mind reels.

What the hell is going on?

Movement tugs my gaze.

A rabbit. Small, plump, gray. It hops lazily down to the stream, ears flat against its back, as if the nineteen-ton beast of war beside it were nothing more than a fallen log. It drinks, water rippling around its whiskers, then lifts its head and looks at me.

Its black eyes lock onto mine.

For an instant, I swear it sees me. Sees through me, into the marrow of my soul. Then, as though deciding I’m irrelevant, it hops away, vanishing into the tall grass.

I stand frozen, watching it go, until thirst pulls me back to myself. My throat burns, raw and dry. I swing my legs over the side of the hull and drop down. My boots squish against damp earth, blades of grass bending under my weight.

I kneel by the stream, scoop water into cupped hands, and drink. It’s cold, startlingly so, but fresh - refreshing enough to clear some of the haze clinging to my mind. When I stand again, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve, my eyes find the tank.

She sits where I left her, silent, dark gray against the field’s green.

A reconnaissance vehicle, lightly armored, squat and lethal. Four-point-six meters wide, two-point-eight tall, seven meters long. Sharp edges and hard angles, her glacis plate sloping forward like the edge of a blade. She doesn’t resemble a tank so much as a weapon sculpted into the shape of one.

The turret is built into the crew compartment itself, flush with the hull, rotating as one with the cabin. The cannon crowns the vehicle like a king’s scepter - one hundred and five millimeters of high-velocity promise. When people first see this vehicle, their first comment is normally Hey, your gun has a nice tank. At first I hated it: an unmanned design, the breech exposed to the elements, floating above the rear deck like some ugly afterthought. But I’d learned to respect it. Learned to love its speed, its reliability, its unwavering bite when ordered to strike.

I climb back onto her roof, boots thudding against steel, and stand beside the long gun. From up here, the horizon stretches in every direction, vast and unbroken. Still, I see nothing - no roads, no smoke, no sign of civilization.

And honestly, I don’t know what I’m hoping to find.

Two possibilities churn in my head, circling like vultures. Either everything I experienced - the battle, the blood, the death - was a dream. Weeks of it, vivid and cruel. Or… I’ve been thrown into a different world entirely. Neither seems believable. Yet the more I stare at this vibrant sky, at the untouched earth, the more one of those options starts to make sense.

The sun looks right. The trees sway as they should. The rabbit was real enough. But the air… the air feels wrong.

Lighter. Thinner. Subtle, but noticeable. As if gravity itself has relaxed its grip, just a fraction. I’ll get used to it, I tell myself. Give it a day or two.

I take one last long look at the horizon. Then, like a dancer spinning into step, my mind begins to form a plan.

Step one: check the tank over, make sure she’s intact.
Step two: try to get her started.
Step three: find civilization.

A sudden thought hits, sharp and merciless.

Fuel. Ammunition.

If this really is another world, where will I find diesel for her engine? Where will I scavenge shells for the cannon? What happens when she runs dry?

The idea of abandoning her twists my gut. The thought of being alone, stranded in some alien world with nothing but the clothes on my back, gnaws like hunger.

I shiver.

No. Not yet.

Focus on the now. The rest can wait.

Happy with my decision, I slide down the angled armor until my boots hit the earth beside the engine deck. The air smells clean - shockingly clean compared to the chemical stench of battlefields.

I reach for the latches, four quick snaps, and swing the heavy cover open. It squeals on its hinges, a dry, rasping protest. Needs oil. I file the thought away, one of those soldier’s habits - always making mental maintenance notes, even when the world itself has gone insane.

The engine sits before me like an old friend. A V8 diesel, compact but brutally efficient. She can pump out five hundred horsepower and sustain it for days without complaint. On the move, she’ll push eighty kilometers an hour across open ground, faster than most things that dare carry a gun this size. But her speed comes at a cost: thirty-eight millimeters of armor at best, just enough to shrug off rifle fire and autocannons from certain angles, nothing more. We were taught never to trust the plating. “Speed is your armor,” the instructors always said. Quick strikes, unseen flanks, a hit before the enemy even knew we were there - that’s how she was designed to fight.

Not as a rear guard. Not as the last line, buying time for others.

I feel a bitter smile twist across my face at the memory. But it fades as quickly as it came. My hand lingers on the cover before I close it with a metallic thunk.

And then the silence presses in.

My crewmates. My friends. Where are they?

I see their faces in my mind, laughing at our barracks table, clapping me on the shoulder after a long day. We were inseparable - brothers, really. Our families mingled, their wives conspiring endlessly to find me a partner. We were a unit, known even beyond the front. We made the news once or twice, posed for smiling photos that boosted morale for the people stuck at home.

My throat tightens. My eyes sting.

If I’ve been pulled into another world, why am I the only one here? Why not them? They were right beside me, an arm’s length away when they died. Was that the difference? Did death keep them tethered while I was dragged away?

Questions swarm, louder than the engine ever could. How did I get here? Why is the tank here? Why is she untouched? Why is my body whole again? What happened to Earth? Is this even a planet that humans belong on? And if there aren’t any people here… am I just going to wander until the fuel runs out? Until I starve?

I squeeze my eyes shut and force the spiral away. None of those answers matter now. Not yet.

I move to the rear and unlatch the double doors, heavy hinges groaning as they swing open. Inside, the ammunition rack gleams like treasure. Rows upon rows of shells - familiar, solid, the very same rounds I trained with and fought with. Armor-piercing darts, neatly arranged in mechanical racks. I check the drum autoloader too, and my heart skips: full. Completely stocked.

I close the doors carefully, letting them click into place. For a second, I rest my hand on the cold metal.

Then it’s back onto the roof, checking the breech. Nothing unusual. Nothing missing. The machine is whole, ready, as though it had never known war.

I stand with my hands on my hips and stare at her, my chest tight.

What the hell is going on?

The world gives no reply.

I swing back down into the commander’s seat, leaving the hatch open above to let the light in. The padding hugs me as though it remembers me. I shift in it, familiar motions returning like instinct, and face the dead dashboard.

I grab the headband, and slide it on, so that it sits at an angle from behind my ears to just above my forehead. It fits snugly, tight but not uncomfortably so.

Fingers find switches, muscle memory guiding them. The battery comes alive with a click, and the panel bursts into a constellation of colored lights. No errors.

Fuel, ignition, throttle - set. My hand hovers above the key.

I whisper a prayer I don’t really believe in, then twist.

The starter motor whines, struggling, metal teeth grinding as pistons try to wake. For a moment my stomach knots, bracing for silence. Then-

With a clattering roar, the engine catches. The whole tank vibrates with life, gauges leaping as the throttle settles back to idle. The smell of diesel filters faintly through the vents, warm and reassuring, the heartbeat of a friend.

I exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Fuel gauge: full. Of course. I should be surprised. But somehow, I’m not.

The engine purrs, eager, waiting. I flick the power control to “FULL,” and the screens hum awake, their glow washing the cabin in pale light. My headband vibrates once as cameras feed me flawless images - no distortion, no damage.

I grip the right control stick, testing. The turret responds instantly, servos whining as it sweeps left, then right. I elevate the cannon, then depress it, metal whispering against its stops. Smooth. Perfect.

Satisfied, I tap the reset and let the gun return to neutral.

Now the left stick. My hand rests on it for a heartbeat. Then hesitation grips me.

Instead, I thumb the seat control. With a soft electronic hum, it rises, lifting me toward the hatch. Sunlight and wind hit me as my head clears the roof. Out here, vision stretches wider, clearer. It’s the best way to drive, though in combat it’s suicide.

I grip the left stick again, gently easing it forward.

The engine growls, tracks clank, and the tank lurches into motion. Dirt churns beneath the treads, grass folding under their weight. She rolls, smooth and steady, as though nothing had ever happened.

I keep the speed low, watching every dial, listening to every sound. Everything is perfect.

Alright. Next step - find civilization.

If it exists here.

The engine roars as I ease the throttle higher. Confidence builds with every second. The ground blurs beneath me, the wind pushing hard against my face until a small smile escapes. This is my space - the only place that feels effortless. My legs don’t tire here, and my wrists move with precision, guiding the controls like extensions of thought.

The engine sings, a happy hymn of metal and fire, while the tracks hammer out their rhythm below. I glance back at the streaming trail I’ve carved through the grass, then forward again, where a flock of birds skims the rolling plains in a sudden burst of flight.

The speedometer climbs. In ten seconds, it touches sixty kilometers an hour. I hold it there - no sense pushing too far, too soon. The seat hums beneath me, the vibration constant. The gun sways faintly with the motion of the suspension, its stabilizer switched off to save power. Sunlight warms my shoulders as my thoughts begin to unmoor.

Why am I here?
Was I chosen somehow? Or was it pure chance - the universe misfiring and dropping me into another reality? Because it doesn’t feel alien. Not like a distant planet. More like an alternate reflection of Earth itself… or some crafted dimension that shouldn’t exist at all.

A shiver climbs my spine. Was I sent for a purpose? Some mission? Am I being watched by a god right now, waiting for me to realise? I half expect a voice to answer, but the only reply is the growl of the engine and the bounce of the treads.

I sigh. Thinking too hard again. If I stop, though, my mind drifts where it hurts most - back to my friends. My hand rises instinctively, brushing the spot where blood had spattered my cheek. It still feels unreal. My shoulder throbs faintly. So does my head. Phantom pains, maybe. Or memory gnawing its way into the body.

Then something cuts through the haze - a band of color streaking across the plain. I squint, and a spark jolts through my chest.

A road.
A dirt road, yes, but still a road.

I swing the controls. The tracks squeal in protest, and I wince at the sharpness of the turn. Easy. If anything breaks, I’m done. Mechanic training or not, I can’t fabricate a tread out of thin air.

The tank settles onto the road, its packed earth rough but navigable. No wheel ruts, but no weeds either - still in use. My hands tighten on the controls as I coax the machine forward again, keeping steady at sixty.

Time passes in long stretches. Nearly two hours by my guess before the horizon shifts. The fields flatten, and there - something unnatural rises from the distance. At first my mind blanks. Then recognition slams into me, heartbeat doubling.

A house.

I crest a rise and the world opens up. A village sprawls below, maybe forty, fifty buildings gathered in the wide field, ringed by farmland. My eyes drink in every detail. Wood. Plaster walls, pale beige against the green. Medieval.

My pulse thunders. Have I been isekai’d? A real fantasy world - magic, monsters, dragons? The thought makes my chest buzz with sudden, impossible hope. Dragons. I’d give anything to see one.

The engine growls, eager as my hands push the throttle. The tank lunges forward, charging straight toward the village.

As I draw closer, movement resolves into people. Farmers bent over crops, women carrying baskets, children tumbling through the dust of the road. The children are the first to notice me - the grind of my tracks, the thunder of steel on earth. They stop mid-step, frozen as if staring down a predator.

Their clothes are simple, patched but serviceable. Peasant garb. A few of the braver ones gape openly, but most stare in mute horror. I raise a hand, motioning for them to clear the way. The gesture seems alien to them - half a heartbeat too long passes before instinct wins and they scatter, shrieking toward the cluster of houses.

Adults emerge at the sound, faces tight with alarm. And then they see me. The same paralysis grips them. For one terrible instant, I wonder if they’ll charge, if pitchforks and stones will fly. But they clutch their children tighter and pull them to the side instead, eyes never leaving the hulking mass of iron I ride.

The tank growls down the main street, and the entire village seems to hold its breath. An inn leans on the corner, timbered and warm with age. A few stalls stand abandoned in the market square. A warehouse squats at the edge of the road, its doors barred. Wooden carts sit idle, waiting for horses that never come near me. Every face I pass is pale, every mouth slack with disbelief. The only sounds are the churn of my engine and the rattle of steel teeth chewing dirt.

Do I stop? Do I try to speak, to ask questions, to find a thread that ties this place to something familiar? My hand twitches on the controls, but I don’t adjust them. Instinct tells me the moment I step down, panic will ignite. This is not awe. This is fear. The kind of fear that could stampede into chaos.

So I keep moving, steady and deliberate. Eyes track me until I reach the far edge of the village, and then vanish from view as the tank climbs the next rise. Not a single person dares move until I’m gone.

I glance back once, catching the still tableau in the distance. A ghost town, even though it’s full of life. A sigh escapes me. If this is how it’s going to be everywhere, I can’t avoid it forever. At some point, I’ll have to bite down on the nerves and make contact.

My gaze flicks to the fuel gauge. Seventy-six percent. My stomach knots. Not catastrophic yet - but it’s a number that counts down, every kilometer eaten away like a clock ticking toward doomsday. The tank is my lifeline, and without it, I’m nothing but another lost soul in an alien land.

The road carries me onward, through the rolling fields until the land rises again and a dark band of trees fills the horizon. A forest, thick and sprawling. Sunlight dapples the fringe, but the deeper boughs look heavy, oppressive. Cursed, almost. The kind of place where stories say people vanish.

My hands tighten on the controls. For a moment I hesitate, searching for any sign, any omen that might tell me whether to turn away. But the road only points forward.

So I push the throttle. The tank growls. And with steel teeth biting the dirt, I drive into the shadows beneath the trees. But not before I lower my seat and close the hatch back over my head.