Why not?
His father was perhaps one of the richest men in the world, a business tycoon with a fortune that could buy anything imaginable. Lavish mansions, fleets of luxury cars, and a lifestyle of unending opulence surrounded Travis.
Yet none of it mattered.
'What's the use of all the money if I can't even stand from my bed?' he thought, his dry lips trembling as a sharp pain flared through his chest. His body was pale, almost ghostly white, and his eyes were perpetually swollen from sleepless nights—nights filled with the torment of his condition. The antiseptic scent of the hospital room filled his lungs with every shallow breath, an ever-present reminder of his fragile state.
Travis was suffering from ischemic heart disease, a cruel ailment that had shackled him to a hospital bed for most of his life. For years, he endured the whispers of the household staff, the biting comments they thought he couldn't hear.
"How could such a useless boy be so lucky to be born to such a wealthy man? I'm sure Master Eddie would be very much disappointed."
"Disappointed? Tch, he'd probably be cursing his sperm glands for shooting out such a disgrace."
Those words cut deep, but Travis never let them show. He had stopped expecting kindness a long time ago. Most of the household staff treated him as an afterthought, a burden. All except Brandon, his personal assistant. The older man—with his neatly pressed butler's uniform and calm demeanor—was the only one who showed Travis respect.
"Brandon," Travis called weakly, his voice trembling as his teeth chattered despite the warmth of the room.
The door creaked open, and Brandon entered, his presence steadying as always. "Yes, young master Travis?"
Brandon's face, lined with age but full of kindness, was a rare sight of comfort in Travis's bleak world. Unlike the others, Brandon had never ridiculed him or shown disdain. He had been there through every breakdown, every sleepless night, and every agonizing flare of pain.
Travis let out a shaky breath, summoning the resolve he had been building for weeks.
"Tell the doctors I'm ready for the surgery. And inform my father as well."
Brandon's eyes widened in alarm.
"H-huh? But young master, this surgery is no simple one! It only has a single-digit percent chance of survival!"
Travis managed a faint smile.
The old man's concern touched him more than words could convey, but his mind was made up.
"Brandon, please don't make this harder than it already is. I know you're worried, but it makes no difference if there's a one percent or a fifty percent chance. At the end of the day, I'll still die."
"Young master, please do not speak like that," Brandon implored, his voice tight with emotion.
Travis sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment.
"Let's not talk about this any longer. Just… please, tell my father and call the doctors."
Brandon stood silently, torn between his duty and his affection for the young master. But he knew better than to argue further. "Very well," he said finally, bowing his head before leaving the room.
In a brightly lit hallway, a group of young doctors huddled together, their faces etched with anxiety. Their supervisor had left them in charge of Travis's surgery, a procedure with razor-thin odds of success.
"Why did it have to be now?" one of them muttered, wringing his hands nervously. "The seniors aren't here, and we're the only ones available."
"If Mr. Eddie finds out we're delaying the surgery, he'll take his son somewhere else. And we'll have to refund the money!" another whispered, panic in his voice.
"We can't refund the money!" a third doctor hissed. "It's already been used to cover other expenses."
A heavy silence fell over the group as they contemplated their dire situation. Finally, one of them spoke up. "I have an idea…"
Back in his hospital room, Travis lay on the bed, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The pain had become a constant companion, an unrelenting reminder of his condition. He coughed, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he wiped it away with trembling hands.
"Just a little longer," he whispered to himself. "Just a little longer, and it will all be over."
The door opened, and a group of doctors entered. The lead doctor, a young man with glasses, approached him with a syringe.
"Mr. Eddie, your surgery will begin shortly," he announced, injecting the sedative into Travis's arm.
As the medication coursed through his veins, Travis's eyelids grew heavy. Darkness began to claim him, and he let out a final, weary sigh.
'Finally, I can put an end to all of this,' he thought as he succumbed to the void.
******
In the sterile, white operating room, the blinding lights above flickered slightly. Travis's consciousness stirred, dragging him back from the darkness.
His eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry and unfocused. Confusion gripped him as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.
He wasn't supposed to be awake.
The muffled voices of the doctors reached his ears. One voice stood out, hesitant and uncertain. "Hmm, so this is what I'll have to do next?"
Travis's heart sank. He forced his gaze downward, his vision clearing just enough to see the doctor holding a smartphone, a training video playing on the screen. The realization hit him like a thunderbolt.
They were watching an internet tutorial.
Panic surged through him, his pulse racing as he tried to process what he was seeing. The surgeon performing his life-or-death procedure was using a video guide. His mind reeled.
This wasn't just incompetence—it was madness.
He wanted to scream, to protest, but his body was too weak to respond. The fear and disbelief overwhelmed him. His already fragile heart couldn't take the strain.
In that moment, everything went black.
When Travis awoke again, the antiseptic scent and bright lights were gone. The sterile hospital room had been replaced by something entirely different.
He found himself lying on a smooth, polished surface, surrounded by towering shelves filled with musty books. The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment and dust.
Confusion washed over him as he sat up, his hands trembling.
"Where am I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.
Memories of the surgery flooded back to him. He remembered the doctor, the video, the panic… and then nothing. "Is this… reincarnation?" he whispered, his eyes widening.
Before he could make sense of his surroundings, a sharp pain lanced through his skull. He clutched his head as images, memories, and thoughts that weren't his own flooded his mind. It was overwhelming, chaotic, like a storm raging inside him.
"Ah! This pain!" he cried out, wincing as he tried to process the influx of information. Gradually, the memories began to organize themselves, revealing the life of someone else—a young mage named Lysil Romarc.
As the memories settled, Travis pieced together Lysil's story. Born into privilege, much like Travis, Lysil had once lived a life of comfort and promise. But tragedy had struck, and everything had fallen apart.
"Hell even in death I'm still this unlucky, how can I....."Â