The room smelled of antiseptic and fading hope.
Faint beeps pulsed from the heart monitor beside the narrow bed. The sound was steady, fragile—like the ticking of a clock counting down a life that had been borrowed too long. The curtain was drawn halfway, letting in a sliver of sunlight that cut across the white sheets and illuminated the thin wrist of the young man lying beneath them.
Elias Kwon was twenty-five years old.
He had spent more than half his life in hospitals like this, where the walls echoed with quiet footsteps and the murmurs of nurses who'd long since memorized his name. The world outside was vibrant—crowded subways, children shouting at playgrounds, the electric buzz of Seoul—but in this small, sterile room, time stood still.
His breathing was shallow. Each inhale felt like dragging a blade across his chest. The oxygen mask hissed softly, misting over with every exhale before clearing again.
The nurse who tended to him that morning had left a small gift—a paper cup filled with chrysanthemum tea. It had long since gone cold.
Elias stared at the ceiling. Cracks formed delicate constellations above him, and he traced them with his eyes the way other people might trace memories. His own memories were scattered things—moments that burned bright before fading into pain.
He remembered his childhood, the way other kids ran barefoot across the dusty schoolyard, chasing after a tattered football. He'd wanted to join them so badly. But his lungs had betrayed him that day, the first of many. One kick, one small sprint, and he'd collapsed. The next thing he remembered was the harsh smell of disinfectant and his mother crying softly beside the hospital bed.
He had been told he wouldn't live past fifteen.
He did. But survival was not living.
Elias chuckled weakly, the sound dry. His voice had lost its strength years ago, but his mind still wandered to the same place—football. The only thing that had ever made him feel alive. He had memorized every statistic, every famous player, every breathtaking goal. Messi, Ronaldo, Mbappé, Neymar, Haaland… names that shone brighter than stars. He worshiped them, not out of envy, but out of reverence. They represented everything he wasn't—strength, freedom, glory.
He'd promised himself that if he were ever born again, he'd become someone who could step onto that field. Someone whose legs didn't tremble with pain.
The television mounted opposite his bed flickered to life with a quiet click. It was an old model—grainy, faintly humming. The late-night Champions League broadcast had just begun. Real Madrid versus Manchester City. He'd been waiting all week for this match.
The camera panned across the stadium, over the roaring crowd, the flash of camera lights, the banners waving high above the stands. The sound filled the small hospital room, spilling life into the silence. Elias closed his eyes and imagined himself there—on the pitch, surrounded by the echoing chants of thousands.
He could almost feel the wind on his skin.
He reached for the remote, turning up the volume. His frail fingers trembled, bones like brittle glass beneath paper-thin skin.
Just one more match, he thought. Let me watch one more match before I go.
---
Flashback – A Boy Who Couldn't Run
In another time, a much younger Elias sat by the window of his parents' small apartment. Outside, kids played on the street, kicking around a torn ball made of tape and cloth. Their laughter drifted through the air like a melody. He pressed his hand against the glass, feeling the vibration of their joy on the other side.
His father had once brought him a real football—a small one, light enough for a child. He remembered the man's tired smile, his words soft.
> "You can't play too hard, Elias. Just hold it, feel it. That's enough, okay?"
Elias nodded, even though he didn't understand why something so beautiful had to come with limits. He'd spent that night hugging the ball to his chest, whispering to it as if it were alive.
Someday… we'll play for real.
But dreams don't always wait for permission. On his tenth birthday, he snuck out while his parents were asleep. The neighborhood kids welcomed him with cheers. He took one clumsy kick—and felt his world blur. Pain ripped through his chest, sharp and sudden. The next thing he saw was the worried face of a paramedic leaning over him.
That was the day Elias learned what weakness really meant.
---
The Final Match
Back in the hospital, his breathing was shallower now. The heart monitor's rhythm had slowed, but he didn't notice. His attention was fixed on the screen.
It was the 89th minute. The score was tied 1–1. The stadium was alive with tension, a thousand hopes held in every breath. The ball moved like poetry—passes weaving, tackles flying. And then, one man took the shot. A perfect curl. The net rippled. The crowd erupted.
Elias smiled faintly. Beautiful…
Tears welled in his eyes as the commentator screamed the player's name, his voice trembling with excitement. It was the kind of moment that lived forever.
If only I could've been there, Elias thought. If only once, I could've been the one to score…
The screen blurred. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but everything was turning hazy. The oxygen hissed louder. His heartbeat faltered. The nurse wasn't there. The hallway outside was quiet.
He whispered softly, to no one in particular.
> "Please… let me try again. Just once… let me play."
The world dimmed.
His vision tunneled, and the ceiling above him dissolved into darkness. The sound of the crowd faded into a distant echo, replaced by silence—pure and heavy.
Then the monitor flatlined.
---
The Space Between
There was no pain.
No sound, no breath—only stillness. Elias floated in the dark, his body weightless. He thought death would feel like falling, but this… this was peace.
Until a faint hum reached his ears.
It was mechanical, rhythmic. The sound grew clearer, more defined—like gears turning somewhere in the void.
> [SYSTEM INITIALIZATION SEQUENCE… COMPLETE.]
A voice echoed through the emptiness—cold, digital, yet strangely familiar. Elias tried to open his eyes, but he had none. The voice continued.
> [Welcome, Elias Kwon.]
[Detected: Expired Lifeform. Cause of Death – Multi-organ Failure.]
[Commencing Soul Transference Protocol.]
[Destination World: Parallel Dimension #09 – "Aurelia."]
[Transfer medium located: Jaeven Moretti Han, age 16.]
[Adapting host body… Complete.]
[Initializing system core – FOOTBALL SYSTEM (ALPHA).]
Light exploded through the darkness.
He gasped.
---
The Beginning of Jaeven Moretti Han
Air rushed into his lungs. It was fresh, rich, and alive.
Elias—no, Jaeven—opened his eyes. A ceiling of intricate designs came into view, carved wood and golden patterns that shimmered under morning sunlight. Curtains of deep blue swayed beside a window that looked out onto a private garden.
He sat up slowly, his body unfamiliar—strong, warm, vibrant. His heart pounded, not from pain, but from energy.
Where… am I?
The room was far too luxurious to be a hospital. The bed beneath him was soft, draped in silk. A mirror stood across the room, and for the first time, he saw a reflection that wasn't frail or dying. The face staring back was that of a young man—dark hair slightly messy, eyes sharp and golden-brown, skin healthy and smooth.
He blinked. His hands trembled as he touched his face.
This… is me?
A knock sounded at the door.
"Jaeven! Breakfast is ready!" a cheerful female voice called from outside.
He froze.
Jaeven…?
The name rolled off his tongue like it belonged to him. Somewhere deep within, memories flickered—faces, names, moments he didn't recognize but somehow knew.
Then—
> [SYSTEM ONLINE.]
A translucent blue screen appeared in front of him, glowing softly.
Lines of text began to scroll.
> [Welcome, Jaeven Moretti Han.]
[Reincarnation Protocol: Complete.]
[Football System Activated.]
[Main Objective: Become the Greatest Footballer in the World.]
[Tutorial Mode – Begin? Y/N]
Jaeven stared, wide-eyed.
His pulse quickened. Every part of him screamed disbelief, yet the voice in his head was real. He clenched his fist, feeling the strength in it—something Elias Kwon had never known.
He looked toward the window, where sunlight spilled across the room, painting everything in gold.
For the first time, he smiled.
> "Yeah," he whispered, voice steady. "Let's begin."