Ravin exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that didn't come from frustration or pain, but from acceptance. The ceiling above him was the same sterile white he had stared at for months, yet this morning it felt strangely different or maybe it was his imagination he didn't know.
"I guess this is it," he whispered, not to anyone in particular. Then, with a faint smile, "No regrets." He meant these words or at least, he had spent long enough convincing himself that he should.
The monitor beside him kept up its rhythm. He didn't pay much attention to it anymore. Machines had replaced so many parts of his daily awareness that he only noticed them when they stopped being background noise. But today, even the beeping seemed gentler, as if they were preparing for his final moments.
His thoughts drifted backward, not in sharp flashes or dramatic montages, but in small pieces—scenes, really—strung together loosely.
He was thirteen again, standing on a roadside lit by ambulance lights. He didn't remember crying right then. Shock had a way of pressing everything into silence. His parents and little sister… gone. His world emptied out in a single evening. After that, the years blended together in shades of grey and necessity. School when he could manage it and work when he couldn't. Odd jobs, long hours, and the constant haze of just trying to stay afloat had driven him to depression but he still persevered.
At least he had music with him, the memories of his first time touching a piano—how unsure his hands were, how quickly they found their place. The way the sound felt warm, like something finally clicked into position inside him. People called him talented, but it was his obsession.
Hours turned into years, competitions, performances, practicing until his fingers stung—those memories were brighter. Music was the one chapter of his life that felt full.
Then memory moved forward again, and he found himself sitting in that small doctor's office, listening to the words "amyotrophic lateral sclerosis." There was no dramatic shouting; he'd just simply gone quiet, trying to understand what it meant. The doctor had explained gently and he had just nodded absentmindedly. Later, alone, he'd looked it up and the weight of what he read left him blinking at the wall hoping it was all a dream.
At eighteen, he felt old for the first time.
The disease moved through him like an impatient sculptor, chipping away at strength, precision, independence. His once-nimble fingers trembled and his legs betrayed him. Then the hospital stays and the long stretch of days that blurred into each other made his memory hazy.
He didn't resent it, at least not anymore. Maybe he had at the beginning, when losing the piano had felt like losing a piece of himself. But time….time just made him numb. Eventually, all that remained was acceptance.
The only thing that kept him company were novels. Fantasy worlds, reincarnation tropes, cultivation arcs—stories where characters broke past limits or escaped fate entirely. He read them not because he believed in miracles, but because they made his otherwise empty life a bit fuller.
Now, lying here, he wasn't thinking about what could've been. He was thinking about how remarkably ordinary this moment felt. If this was the end, he accepted it. He had lived, he had suffered, he had fought and now he had no regrets.
At least… that's what he told himself as the world slowly, gently, faded to black.
The last thing he felt was the softness of the pillow and the faint warmth of morning light on his face, before everything slipped into a peaceful, simple dark.
————
Ravin was sure that he'd already died but he opened his eyes in a dark alley, his back hurting against the hard concrete.
He blinked, confused. The air smelled faintly of dust and garbage. His throat burned. His body was cold. His stomach cramped so violently he had to bite back a sound. Instinctively, he lifted an arm—and froze.
His arm was thin and almost had no fat, his body felt so weak that walking felt like a chore but before he could panic, something crashed into his mind—a rush of memories not his own. Sleeping on the street on cold nights and constant hunger. Sixteen years of pure suffering, neglect, fear, and small, exhausted attempts at survival.
He squeezed his eyes shut until the wave settled. When he opened them again, the truth was plain but he still needed some time to accept it.
He'd transmigrated… into the body of an orphan who had died of starvation.
"I… need to find something to eat or I'll die again," he muttered, voice barely holding itself together. He placed a hand on the wall and pushed himself upright, legs shaking under his weight. Every step felt like the body was deciding whether it wanted to cooperate.
He managed one step, maybe two when suddenly the air in front of him shimmered—a white screen snapped into existence, edged with faint gold light. Strange symbols formed across it, written in a language he had never seen… yet somehow understood perfectly.
The letters rearranged themselves into clear text:
[ Initiating Standard Awakening Protocol ]
[ Age Confirmed: 16 ]
[ Mandatory Trial Commencing ]
[ Select Difficulty:
— Easy
— Hard
— Nightmare
— Hell ]
After seeing the screen in front of him he thought it was his cheat but… sighing he stared at the options, thinking what would be the best choice in this situation but before he could even think about choosing—
The letters flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then they collapsed into chaotic symbols, the screen glitching like a broken projector. Lines of golden text warped into jagged streaks, characters twisting into incoherent words:
[¥#∆… SYSTEM—ERROR… ≠ AN0MALY DETECTED…
∂COSMIC FAULT–LEVEL ????…
—NO SIGNATURE FOUND—]
He stepped back instinctively, his heart thudding weakly in his chest.
The screen shuddered, then forcibly stabilised with a harsh chime.
[ Auto-Selecting: Impossible Level Difficulty ]
[ Destination: Prison of ????:
A tower sealed away from the known worlds.
It holds "????," a being erased from most records.
Each floor shifts unpredictably, hiding both lethal danger and extraordinary opportunities.
Few dare enter. Even fewer return. ]
Ravin's mouth went dry.
His vision trembled.
The final line printed itself slowly, as if the system itself hesitated:
[ Goal: ????? ]
A faint hum filled the air—building, vibrating, pulling.
Ravin barely had time to exhale before the world around him dissolved into light.