Reincarnated as a Fisherman and a Dad

[Pujimaki]

After being reincarnated in a parallel world eerily similar to Earth, Karlos Alejandro starts a new life as a humble fisherman. In just two years, he finds love, marries, and becomes a father to two children.

With a deep sense of responsibility and love for his family, Karlos braves the sea each day, working tirelessly to provide and protect. In this second life, survival, simplicity, and family take center stage.

 

[Pujimaki]

Reincarnated as a Fisherman and a Dad Chapter 1

A truck cruised down the road at a steady speed, its tires rolling steadily over the concrete. The driver, focused and alert, kept his eyes on the road while a K-pop song played on the radio.

As a truck driver, he knew that defensive driving was the key to getting home safely every day. He valued his life and the lives of others. He wasn't reckless. He respected traffic laws, checked his mirrors, and always stayed in his lane.

He also knew there were assholes out there. People who treated traffic signs like suggestions and drove like they had a death wish.

He was a changed man now.

Unfortunately for him, his truck was currently possessed by the spirit of Truck-kun, the infamous isekai maker. And Truck-kun was waiting patiently for the perfect moment to complete his mission.

"The driver's in a pinch. He just doesn't know it yet," Truck-kun muttered internally.

He'd been sent by the gods and goddesses to fulfill a mission, something about balancing the laws of the universe or whatever.

The target this time: an office woman who needed to be reincarnated to another world.

She was a depressed office worker with hollow dreams and just enough energy to survive each monotonous day. No love life, not even a casual fling. Her free time was consumed by romance novels, manhwa, and visual novels.

Truck-kun's job was to send her to a fantasy world, where she would become the villainess in the very novel she had just finished reading yesterday.

"For some reason, this is the meta lately. A strange trend among the gods. They keep sending these women into romance novels they've read, what's it called again? Otome Isekai?"

Truck-kun liked to talk to himself. He didn't get many opportunities to chat with other otherworldly entities, so monologuing had become second nature. He talked like a schizophrenic philosopher, and at this point, it felt normal.

Such was the lonely life of an entity tasked with possessing vehicles to carry out divine missions.

He was the Isekai Maker. The Grim Reaper on wheels.

"Where was I again? Right, Otome Isekai. So the genre goes like this: some girl gets reincarnated into a fantasy world, usually based in some kind of pseudo-European society, and ends up in the body of a noble villainess. Since she's read the story before, she tries to change the plot, rewriting her own fate like a rogue author."

"Sometimes she reincarnated a princess or a noble, but the concept is the same. Look, I don't write the damn things. I just hit people with trucks. I don't make the rules, I just follow them."

The villainess usually ends up entangled in a love story with a cold-hearted Duke, a tyrant Emperor, or some other traumatized man-child with six-pack abs, a tragic past, and a ridiculously huge "stick". Same trope, different hair color, but mostly men of red flags.

The gods, it seemed, had developed a taste for magical romance with a side of trauma.

This time, Truck-kun's target would be transmigrated into the body of a villainess known for causing scenes at royal banquets. The spoiled daughter of a rich Count who never loved her right.

"The plot's so damn predictable, I could guess what happens next with my headlights turned off."

While the driver remained calm and focused, Truck-kun was lying in wait, ready to seize control of the vehicle.

Once the truck made a left turn, it would all begin.

And there it was, the turn.

"Now!"

The truck suddenly went off course, speeding onto the sidewalk like a homing missile.

A woman with tired eyes stood there, holding a cup of coffee. She wasn't doing anything extraordinary. Just trying her best to keep going, even though life had lost all its color.

Her love life? Nonexistent. Her job? Soul-crushing. Her boss dumped impossible tasks on her without thanks or bonuses.

All she wanted was to stay in bed, reading novels and manhwa to escape her bleak reality. Fiction was the only place that made her feel anything at all.

"Miss! Run!"

A young man in his early twenties saw the truck barreling toward her. Acting on instinct, he sprinted forward and shoved her with everything he had.

But it was too late.

Though his push moved her slightly, she still got struck by the truck.

And the young man, brave, foolish, and selfless, was caught in the full impact.

Both died instantly, as horrified bystanders screamed and ran toward the scene.

"Shit! Shit! Fuck!"

Truck-kun was livid. His mission had been to hit one person, not two. But thanks to the wannabe hero, the situation had spiraled out of control.

To ensure success, he'd swerved wider than intended, catching both of them.

"Why the hell did you do that!? Now you're dead too, idiot!"

His spirit slowly faded from the mangled truck as the sound of approaching sirens filled the air. The truck driver, stunned and pale, sat frozen behind the wheel.

Truck-kun didn't feel sorry for him. The driver had a dark past, despite his law-abiding behavior. Only the gods knew how many people he'd truly harmed. Maybe this time, he'd finally face justice.

Truck-kun looked at the young man's broken body and sighed.

"Poor kid. You had a whole life ahead of you. Love, chances… maybe even a redemption arc."

He knew the guy didn't deserve to die. He was just trying to help, pure-hearted, brave, and tragically in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But Truck-kun never failed his missions, no matter how messy they turned out.

As the crowd dialed emergency services in a futile attempt to save them, Truck-kun vanished.

This wasn't his first rodeo and it wouldn't be his last. Good Samaritans tried to interfere sometimes, but he couldn't let that stop him. The plan was sacred, and collateral damage, while unfortunate, was part of the job.

"If the gods take pity on you, maybe you'll get another chance. Maybe you'll be reborn. But hey, I just crash trucks to people."

With that, Truck-kun was gone. He already had his next assignment: to possess a train and send a rule-following Japanese salaryman to another world as a young female soldier, because he'd pissed off a god.

 

[Pujimaki]

Reincarnated as a Fisherman and a Dad Chapter 2


A man in his early twenties was scraping barnacles off the hull of a raised yacht under the scorching sun. With a metallic scraper attached to a long pole in his hands, he worked diligently to remove the stubborn, toxic barnacles that clung to the bottom of the vessel like parasites.

The barnacles gave off a foul odor. A nauseating mix of diesel, decay, salt, and sun-baked rot.

Karlos wiped the sweat from his brow using his shoulder, grunting from exhaustion. His arms were smeared with bits of barnacle shells and tangled seaweed that clung to his skin like glue.

The stench clung to him, too, foul and pungent enough to make even a stray dog back away. He knew he'd need a proper shower later, no matter how tired he felt.

"Looks like you're done. Here's some cold water and bread before you go."

"Thanks," Karlos replied.

A Western man approached and handed him a liter of chilled water with ice cubes bobbing near the surface, along with a freshly baked loaf of warm bread. Karlos offered a tired smile and wiped his arms with an old rag before taking his first bite.

It had been two years since Karlos was reincarnated into this world. He had died while trying to save a woman from an oncoming truck, never knowing it had been the legendary Truck-kun. His good deed had ended in tragedy.

After his death, he'd met the deities responsible for the reincarnation process. Their expressions flickered between guilt and indifference as they explained that Karlos had not been the intended target. He was just a background character swept into someone else's story. As a form of compensation, they offered him a second life in a different world.

Now, Karlos lived in a parallel universe that resembled Earth but was also vastly different.

This world was called Thera. A planet with its own history and culture, much of which fascinated and confused him every day.

"Here's your pay," the Western man said.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," Karlos replied.

The man, whose pale skin was sunburned around the neck, handed him 150 pesos. It was 50 more than they had agreed upon. Karlos raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You cleaned the yacht quickly. I'm impressed. Also, take the rest of the bread. You mentioned you have kids, right?"

"Yes."

Karlos smiled, deeply grateful. His twins were starting to eat soft solids, though they still struggled with harder textures. Soft bread soaked in milk or water was perfect for them.

He packed the bread into his worn-out backpack, its faded fabric patched and zippers barely holding on. With a respectful nod, he said goodbye.

The smell of sun-baked barnacles and diesel clung to him, but Karlos didn't care. He had earned money today and that was what mattered.

He stood on the pier where hundreds of luxurious yachts bobbed gently in the tide like floating palaces. Thanks to his fluency in English from his past life, Karlos could easily communicate with the many foreign retirees who lived aboard these yachts. His accent was stiff, but it didn't matter.

This pier was filled with foreigners living out their dream retirements, sun, sea, and slow days. Compared to the locals, who struggled to make ends meet, their lives seemed far better.

Luckily for Karlos, the languages of Earth and Thera were nearly identical. He used that to his advantage, offering his services to foreign yacht owners such as cleaning, minor repairs, and odd jobs. The work wasn't glamorous, but the pay was decent.

At a nearby gas station, he took a quick shower to rid himself of the grime and salt sticking to his skin. Thankfully, these public restrooms near the pier were accessible to workers and even used occasionally by yacht owners when their desalinators broke or fresh water ran out.

Karlos sealed his dirty clothes in a plastic bag before tucking it into his backpack, careful not to let them mix with the clean ones. He changed into a fresh set, then gave himself a hopeful sniff.

The strong odor was mostly gone, though a faint trace of diesel still lingered. He'd probably need another rinse once he got home to feel truly clean.

He waited by the roadside for a bus, watching traffic crawl by under the heavy sun. After about ten minutes, a rusted bus screeched to a halt in front of him. Karlos boarded, and a few women glanced his way before looking away just as quickly.

He found a seat and stared out the window, letting his mind wander. Sometimes, he still felt like he was back on Earth just set in a different era. The scenery outside was similar, even if the names and places were different.

The ocean stretched to the far right, glistening under the sunlight, while the land to the left was a patchwork of green and brown, rolling gently like a painted landscape.

Soon, the bus arrived in the town where Karlos now lived. From there, he still had to walk for half an hour to reach his home at the town's edge.

The streetlights flickered on as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in warm hues of red and orange.

"Babe, I'm home."

Karlos stepped inside their bamboo house, his voice soft and warm. The faint hum of a radio filled the room, crackling with static and music. He removed his shoes and walked barefoot out of habit and respect for the floor.

Each step on the aged bamboo creaked like old bones. Some slats were soft with rot and needed replacing. One of these days, he would cut fresh bamboo by the river and repair the floor.

Their home, a traditional kubo, stood about one to two feet above the ground. Elevated to keep the bamboo dry, especially during rainy seasons. It was humble but warm, made from bamboo and nipa palm, typical near the shore.

"Hm. You're back."

Karlos saw his wife, Maya, nursing Arabella in the dim golden glow of sunset coming through the window. The baby girl's eyes were closed, but her mouth latched onto her mother's breast like it was her life's purpose.

Maya rocked her gently, smiling as she looked at her husband.

Karlos returned the smile and kissed her forehead, a quiet joy swelling in his chest. He leaned down and kissed baby Arabella with equal gentleness.

The little girl frowned slightly in her sleep but continued feeding without pause.

Next, Karlos approached the crib where their son was sleeping soundly, curled up like a kitten. He carefully picked the baby up and kissed his forehead.

"You're adorable," he whispered.

Two years had passed since he'd been given this second life, and finally he wasn't alone. He'd found his home, his purpose, his family.

"I brought fresh bread for them."

"They've had such big appetites lately, like tiny bottomless pits. Even formula isn't enough to keep them full," Maya said with a chuckle.

She gently placed Arabella beside her brother, tucking both into worn but clean blankets.

"I'll start on dinner. Watch the kids for a while," she added, stepping outside. Their kitchen was beneath a makeshift roof made of tarpaulin.

Karlos sat beside the crib, watching his twins sleep peacefully, side by side like mirrored souls. He smiled from the bottom of his heart.

Even on the hardest days, they gave him a reason to keep going.

+++++

Illustration of Kubo

 

[krahe]

It's so peaceful. Don't trust it at all