The ceiling above him was cracked and dull, stained by years of flickering fluorescent light and silence. The hum of machines barely registered in his ears anymore. Not that it mattered. He had stopped counting the days since his diagnosis, stopped asking the nurses for time, for news, for miracles.
At twenty-four, Arin Yusei had spent more time in hospital beds than lecture halls. He was supposed to be a mechanical engineering graduate by now, building drones or writing code for exoskeletons. But his body had its own blueprint. A failing one.
The only thing that remained untouched by the tubes and wires was his mind. And with that, he devoured fiction like it was medicine. Novels, web serials, old anime reruns—anything that could help him forget the slow deterioration of muscle and time.
Today, his fingers shakily held a worn-out e-reader, the screen scratched and smudged. The story he had been following for the past two years—"Chronicles of the Crimson Star"—was about to end. The final chapter had dropped that morning.
He had read it all. Every arc. Every kingdom war, every betrayal, every heart-wrenching death. He knew the characters better than he knew the nurses who changed his IV bags. But there was one thing that always bothered him. One inconsistency. One phantom detail.
The story had been a rollercoaster of adventure—clashing swords under burning skies, betrayals that cut deeper than blades, kingdoms rising and falling in the span of a few pages. Arin had felt every victory, every loss, like he was there alongside the protagonist.
But the ending came suddenly. No final twist. No dramatic climax. Just Cael Estervale, the hero, standing alone amidst the ruins.
It felt... hollow. Like something vital had been left out.
He read the final paragraph.
"And as Cael Estervale's blade pierced the heart of the Demon God, the sky cracked open, and the rift that had devoured half the continent began to collapse. Around him, the battlefield was aflame—fallen heroes, the echoes of magic fading into ruin. The Demon God let out one final roar, shaking the heavens, before vanishing into golden light. And there stood Cael, scarred, broken, victorious—alone, as the last champion of a dying age."
Arin stared at the screen.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
And then he laughed.
"That was it. After all that struggle. No salvation, no return, no one waiting. Just victory… and silence."
His thumb hovered over the comments section, but fatigue won. The device slid from his fingers and landed on the blanket with a soft thud.
The edges of his vision darkened. Not dramatically. Just gently, like curtains being drawn.
He had made peace with death a long time ago. But still, he found himself murmuring, "It would've been cool to be in that world."
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, there was nothing.
No machines. No pain. No sterile air.
Then—a voice. It wasn't human. It wasn't robotic either. It echoed.
◇ ◇ Initializing restoration protocol... ◇ ◇
His body floated in blackness. Weightless. Silent. It wasn't cold or warm. It simply was. Time didn't exist here — just fragments of thought and fading echoes of the world he left behind.
His name. His regrets. That final line of the novel. They flickered like static in a broken feed.
◇ ◇ Cross-dimensional signature verified. Host soul linked. ◇ ◇
A sudden jolt surged through his core — not pain, but recognition. Like something foreign being accepted by the world's fabric.
◇ ◇ WARNING: Narrative coordinates unstable. ◇ ◇
◇ ◇ Synchronization failed: World ≠ Source Timeline ◇ ◇
◇ ◇ Proceeding with parallel iteration... ◇ ◇
He didn't know what came next. But something deep within him stirred — not fear, not hope. Something older. Something ready.
◇ ◇ Beginning Transfer... ◇ ◇