The air in the rehab center was thick with antiseptic and the steady hum of machines. Morgath lay in bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, each square identical to the last. Days blended into nights, each as monotonous as the one before. The only variation of the day was the rehabilitation classes, but according to him, they lasted far too short a time to get rid of the boredom that was overwhelming him. His body felt heavy, a prisoner within his own body. He imagined his legs beneath the thin white sheet, though he hadn't felt them in weeks. He hated the silence, the stillness of his limbs, the long hours of waiting.

They told him the accident was a freak event, a tragic twist of fate. Sleepwalking? It seemed impossible to Morgath that something so innocuous, so laughably ordinary, could have brought his entire world crashing down. He barely remembered any of it: one moment he was dreaming, wandering through corridors of shadow and fog, and the next he was falling, tumbling down into a pit of darkness.

Then, pain.

It was a sharp, sudden shock—like lightning striking his spine. After that, only fragments remained. The panicked cries of his parents. The flashing lights of the ambulance and the sound of rescue helicopter propellers. The cold, clinical faces of doctors. And then, nothing but numbness.

When Morgath woke up in the hospital, he couldn't move his legs. At first, he thought it was just temporary—a side effect of whatever drugs they had pumped into him. But as the hours turned into days, and the days into weeks, the reality began to sink in. His spinal cord was damaged. They said it wasn't completely severed, which meant there was still a chance he could walk again. But the word "chance" was the cruelest part of all. It dangled like a thread, just out of reach.

Everyone told him to stay hopeful. "You're young," they said. "Your body can recover." But the looks on their faces, the fleeting glances filled with pity, told a different story.

Morgath tried to stay positive at first. He tried to keep that spark of hope alive, to tell himself that he'd be walking again in no time. But as the days crawled by, that spark dimmed, flickered, and nearly went out. He had begun to lose faith in his body, in himself. And the waiting—oh, the endless waiting—was the worst part of it all.

"Patience," the doctors would say. "Rehabilitation takes time."

But Morgath was tired of patience. He was tired of waiting for his legs to respond to the commands his brain sent them. He was tired of lying in the bed, watching the world move around him while he remained frozen in place.

"Everything okay, Morgath?" a voice interrupted his thoughts.

He blinked and turned his head slightly to see Nurse Aria standing beside his bed. She was one of the few people in the rehab center who didn't look at him with pity. Her dark hair was tied back in a tight bun, and her eyes, though serious, always held a hint of warmth.

"Yeah," Morgath replied quietly. "Just thinking."

Aria smiled slightly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "It's normal to feel frustrated. But you're doing great in therapy. Remember, this is a marathon, not a sprint."

Morgath nodded absently. He had heard those words too many times for them to mean anything anymore. Aria gave him the medicines, checked his vitals, before giving him a brief nod and leaving him alone once more.

He stared at the ceiling again, feeling the weight of time pressing down on him. The hours of therapy each day were grueling. He spent most of it strapped into machines, attempting exercises that should have been easy but now felt like monumental tasks. There were small signs of progress, the faintest sensation in his calves, but they were fleeting, unreliable. And every time he failed to notice something which indicates that he was getting better, the frustration deepened.

Sometimes, Morgath wondered if he'd ever walk again. What if the doctors were wrong? What if his body couldn't recover? The thought terrified him, but he pushed it away, refusing to let it take root. He had to believe in something. Without that belief, what was left?

The day dragged on, and the afternoon sunlight began to stream through the windows, casting long shadows across the room. Morgath closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the sun wash over him, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

In his dream, Morgath was running.

His legs felt strong, powerful, each step a surge of energy and freedom. He sprinted through an open field, the wind rushing through his hair, the earth firm beneath his feet. He laughed, reveling in the sensation of movement. There was no pain, no weakness, no fear. Just the pure, exhilarating joy of running.

But as he ran, the ground beneath him began to shift. The sky darkened, clouds swirling ominously above. The grass withered, turning to ash, and the earth crumbled away, leaving nothing but an endless void below. Morgath's feet faltered, and suddenly, he was falling again,plummeting into the darkness, helpless to stop it.

He woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. The room was dim, the sun having long since set. The steady beeping of the machines was the only sound. For a moment, Morgath lay still, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. He hated how real it had felt, the fall, the terror.

He sighed and glanced at the small digital clock on the nightstand. It was almost midnight. He shifted uncomfortably in the bed, trying to find a position that didn't make his body ache. Sleep was elusive these days, but he couldn't bring himself to call for the nurse just yet.

As he lay there, staring into the darkness, something strange happened.

At first, Morgath thought his tired mind was playing tricks on him. A faint glow appeared at the edges of his vision, as though some distant light was seeping into the room. But when he blinked, it didn't go away. In fact, it grew brighter, more distinct. It wasn't coming from the room, it was coming from within him, as if the light were blooming in his mind. His heart raced as the glowing intensified, forming a shape, something familiar, yet alien. A screen. It was as if a computer screen had materialized in his thoughts, hovering there like a window into another world.

"What the hell?" Morgath whispered, his voice shaky.

The screen flickered to life, and text began to scroll across it, bright and bold against the darkness. The words seemed to echo in his mind, not spoken aloud but imprinted directly into his consciousness.

System initializing...

Morgath's breath caught in his throat. He had no idea what was happening. Was this some kind of hallucination? A side effect of the medications? But it felt too real, too vivid to dismiss.

The text continued:

Welcome, Morgath. You have been chosen.

Chosen? For what? His mind raced, but before he could even begin to process what was happening, the screen flashed again.

I am System. I will not only help you regain your health, but also help you survive the changes that are to happen to your universe.

Morgath's mouth went dry. He stared at the words, trying to make sense of them. Was this some kind of dream? Another cruel trick of his subconscious? But the clarity of it, the precision of the words, made it feel disturbingly real.

The screen flickered, and more text appeared.

Your journey begins now. I won't be able to help you directly, only give you advices and knowledge about what is happening and cultivation. Also I can show you your status which will indicate the stats of your body and you skills.

A shiver ran down Morgath's spine. His thoughts churned in confusion and disbelief. Was this some kind of sick joke? His rational mind screamed at him to reject it, to ignore the strange apparition in his head. But something about the message pulled at him, a flicker of something he hadn't felt in a long time—hope, hope for achieving his two biggest dreams, recovering and escaping mundane life. 

"Then let me see my status."