The next morning, the seventh day and the day of his surgery, he yawned loudly and restrained his wrath. He picked up his phone off the table and phoned a number.
"If I don't make it, all of my belongings should go to charity. Since I have no successors, please be one, this is an order. Prepare the appropriate documents, utilize my signature, and manage all of my business."
Neil did not waste time and hung up, "Hope I'll still make it." He grumbled to himself while still on the bed. The door to his room suddenly opened, and four nurses in scrubs walked in, a flurry of blue and white.
"Good morning, Mr. Neil," one of them remarked, beaming broadly. "It's time to get ready for surgery."
Neil nodded, attempting to appear calm, but his heart continued to beat quicker than usual.
The nurses swiftly disconnected the monitors and IV lines and moved them to portable equipment.
"Let's get you into a surgical gown," another nurse said, holding up a clean white garment. He winced as he moved his leg over the side of the bed, and they assisted him in putting on the gown, their hands gentle yet efficient.
"Are you ready, Neil?" one of them asked as they helped him onto the gurney.
Neil nodded, taking a deep breath before responding, "Yes." His voice was firm. "Let's do this," he said with determination.
The nurses nodded, their faces set with professional serenity, and began wheeling the gurney out of the room and into the surgical theater.
Many people believe that entering the surgical theater has three outcomes: he will either come out alive, die, or slip into a coma; who knows? It all depends on fate, as death and fate do not go hand in hand.
The surgical team gathered around Neil's prone position, their expressions focused and purposeful. Dr. Smith, the lead surgeon, performed the initial incision, and the room fell silent save for the heart monitor's steady bleep...
*Beep... beep... beep...* (steady and calm)
As the procedure continued, the doctors worked with precision, their hands moving in perfect coordination like a well-rehearsed orchestra. However, despite their expertise, Neil's vital signs started to deteriorate.
"Blood pressure is dropping!" the anesthesiologist exclaimed, her voice filled with concern.
*Beep... beep... beep...* (slowing, with increasing intervals between beeps)
Dr. Smith quickly glanced at the monitors, his expression tense. "Boost the oxygen flow. We need to stabilize him."
The team hurried to make the necessary adjustments, but Neil's condition kept worsening.
*Beep... beep...* (longer intervals, with a hint of urgency)
"We're losing him!" someone shouted, panic creeping into their voice.
Dr. Smith's face set in a determined grimace. "Keep going! We can't give up yet!"
*Beep...* (a single, faint beep, followed by an ominous silence)
The room plunged into chaos.
"Code blue!" the anesthesiologist yelled, as the team sprang into action, desperate to revive him.
*Flatline...* (a steady, mournful tone, signaling the loss of Neil's heartbeat)
Despite their efforts, Neil's body remained still, his eyes frozen in a permanent stare.
The doctors exchanged somber glances, their faces etched with defeat.
"We lost him," Dr. Smith whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow.
The room fell silent, the only sound the steady flatline tone, a haunting reminder of their failure.
*Flatline...* (a relentless, mournful drone, echoing through the room)
Surrendering was the wisest choice his body could make, perhaps he would be more cautious in his next life, or perhaps not - only time will tell.
As the saying goes, Death closes one chapter, while destiny prepares the stage for the next. Will this be Neil's fate? Only time will tell.
^^^••^^^
"Wake up, my prince," a lady said as she drew back the curtains, allowing the sunlight to stream into the room and illuminate a young man lying in bed.
However, as usual, he did not stir, and she eventually gave up and left the room. After a while, the young man began to stir, shielding his face from the sun's rays.
Yawning, he stretched and mumbled, "Hmm, I suppose the surgery went well," his eyes not opening fully.
"You should open your eyes and check properly," a sweet voice chimed in.
The man nodded, then quickly opened his eyes to see who was speaking. In front of him sat a fairy with blue butterfly wings, gazing at herself in a mirror.
"What?!" he exclaimed, touching his face and then looking at his reflection in the large mirror before him.
Turning to the fairy, who was already yawning and waiting for him to collect his thoughts, he said, "But...my face looks different yet familiar. More masculine, with skin as white as snow. This is quite remarkable." He marveled at his white, long hair with a purple hue at the ends.
"Strange," Neil said as he got out of bed and walked straight to the mirror.
He noticed that his blue eyes were no longer faded like before as he touched his body.
"Wow, I look huge. Did I transmigrate? Even though I don't believe in such things, it's still funny," he muttered.
"It's not," the fairy interrupted, irritated. "Yes, you died, and I don't know why the book chose you. You're not worthy."
"What are you? And why do you say that? What book are you talking about?" Neil asked, confused.
"For some reason, I can't remember why you aren't worthy, and once again you have transmigrated into 'Dancing with Fire'," the fairy said, catching her breath.
"Hmm, this seems familiar... wait, the book I read. Wait, are you telling me I'm in Owen's body, right?" He asked, shocked.
"Exactly, you are very smart and sharp. No wonder you were a CEO. But alas, love cost you your life," the fairy said as she stood up.
Neil, now Owen, placed a hand over his heart, feeling a twinge of pain.
"I need to leave the past behind and move forward. It hurts too much to dwell on it," he murmured, his expression somber.
"Why am I in this novel? I refuse to sacrifice myself for his sister," he pondered, absentmindedly twirling his hair.
"No one is asking you to do that. I'm not sure why you're here, but perhaps our goal is to ensure your survival," the fairy replied, offering guidance and support.
"Can anyone see you besides me?" Owen asked.
"No, no one else can see me. But there might be someone who knows. Right now, everyone believes that Prince Owen is weak, foolish, and has not inherited the Royal blood magic," the fairy replied sadly.
"I am aware of that. They exploited his love for his sister and sent him on a suicide mission. It was cruel, and he endured a lot of suffering and abuse. I can feel his pain, and the scars on his body make me want to cry," he said, touching his face as he looked in the mirror.
"Fortunately, they didn't harm this handsome face of his." He smiled gratefully.
"Then I suppose an old man like me will simply disregard the plot, prepare to depart from this kingdom. I crave peace, but before I can do so, I must get re…"
Suddenly, the door of his chamber swings open, and a face timidly appears. Owen is taken aback as they bear a striking resemblance, almost like encountering his female version of him.
"I heard some noises, so I thought I'd check on you, brother. How are you?" she inquired with concern, though Owen was well aware that this lady was adept at playing the role of a caring sister.