The room's lights never truly went out.
Even when the night had passed far beyond midnight, the pale white glow continued to drip from the ceiling, reflecting off the metal surface of the bed and the IV pole standing on the right side.
The machine near the head of the bed worked with an unstable rhythm.
Beep…
a brief silence,
then another beep, slightly softer.
Dio stared at the green numbers on the screen without truly reading them. His eyelids felt heavy, as if someone had hung small weights on each lash. His hands were cold, the tips of his fingers tingling as though they had fallen asleep for too long.
An oxygen tube clung to his nose. Each breath he drew sounded loud inside his own head. Air flowed in… but it never felt like enough. His chest rose and fell, but always lagged one step behind the suffocating tightness hanging there.
"Dio…"
The voice came from his left. Soft, hoarse with fatigue.
His mother sat on a plastic chair, her back slightly hunched, her palms gripping the edge of the blanket near his waist. The corners of her eyes were red, not from loud crying, but from holding too much in.
Dio shifted his gaze slowly. That was all he could do without feeling as if he were drowning.
His mother smiled thinly. A smile that never reached her eyes.
"If you're tired, go ahead and sleep. It's okay."
He wanted to answer, "I'm not sleepy"… but his tongue felt heavy. Words that once came easily were now stuck, as if a lump in his throat kept them from moving up or down.
He tried to take a deeper breath.
His chest protested.
The machine's sound changed slightly.
Beep…
Silence.
Beep…
The sound that used to blend into the background now rang clearer. As if someone had slowly raised the volume.
The light overhead made the world feel too bright. The corners of the room looked weary—the peeling wall paint, the faded curtains, the floor that had been mopped in haste.
Everything looked… ordinary.
Too ordinary for something that would end soon.
Dio closed his eyes briefly. He wasn't sleeping—just resting his sight. Behind his eyelids, the color he saw wasn't black, but a dirty gray.
He remembered other nights:
A phone screen glowing in a dark room.
A sugary drink in his hand.
The clock past midnight.
A tired body, but a mind refusing to stop.
"I'll think about it tomorrow," he used to say.
Now "tomorrow" felt like a luxury item.
His breathing grew heavier. His chest felt bound from the inside. Not a stabbing pain, but pressure that gradually closed off all space.
"Dio…?" his mother's voice again. A slight tremble in it. "If there's something you want to say, say it now, okay?"
He wanted to speak.
Wanted to say sorry.
Wanted to say thank you.
Wanted to say he shouldn't have ignored his own body for so long.
His lips parted slightly. Air escaped, but never formed words.
The machine beside him beeped again.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Then the gaps between the beeps began to widen.
The other sounds in the room faded: footsteps in the hallway, the wheels of a bed being pushed somewhere far away, the murmurs of nurses. All of it stepped back from his ears.
What remained were his shallow breaths and his mother's rising panic.
"Dio? Dio! Sweetheart, slow your breathing… breathe in… slowly… slowly…"
His hand reached out blindly for something to hold. His fingertips brushed fabric—the back of his mother's hand. She immediately grasped him firmly, as if her fingers and her prayers alone could keep him here.
Dio's vision filled with dark specks. The room shrank from the edges, like a screen slowly powering off.
In the final moment, he saw his mother's face grow larger. The chair scraped loudly. A shout came from the doorway. Fast footsteps.
Then the machine beside him let out a long, flat tone.
Biiiiip—
The sound stretched, then drifted away. The room's lights smeared into streaks, then blinked out one by one.
His last breath slipped away. Not dramatic—just a short inhale caught halfway, then stopped.
After that… nothing.
---
"…"
No machine noises.
No forced oxygen.
No scent of medicine.
Dio opened his eyes.
He did not see the hospital ceiling. There was no square lamp with an aluminum frame above him. No cables hanging.
Instead, something rough pressed against his cheek.
He blinked. His vision was blurry—not from exhaustion, but like a camera still trying to focus. The incoming light wasn't sterile white, but pale yellow, warm, gently shifting.
It took a few seconds before he realized:
the light came from a window.
Not a hospital window.
A wooden one, half-open, letting sunlight spill in at an angle.
The sky outside was pale blue. Leaves swayed at the edge of his vision.
Dio blinked once, twice.
Only then did he realize his cheek was against wood. The floor.
He was lying on his side on a wooden floor.
No blanket.
No tubes.
No IV.
He suddenly sat up. The movement was reflexive, and he startled himself with how easily his body obeyed. No tightness in his chest, no dizziness from sitting up too fast.
He looked at his hands.
No needles.
No tape marks.
His fingers weren't the sickly pale-greenish color from the past few days—they looked healthier.
He bowed his head, paying attention to his breath.
In.
Out.
Air flowed with no wheezing. His chest moved steadily. No sinking feeling at the edge of every inhale.
The room slowly settled in his awareness.
Wooden walls made from imperfect planks, small gaps between them. A support pillar in the corner. On the right side, something like a simple bed: a wooden frame with crossbars and a thin mattress wrapped in worn cloth.
The floor beneath him was made of the same planks—rough at the edges, smooth where feet had passed often. The air smelled of old wood mixed with a bit of damp earth.
In the center of the room sat a wooden chest. Rectangular, its surface roughly smoothed. A speck of dust floated above it, dancing in the light.
Dio heard something:
a passing breeze outside, carrying the rustle of leaves.
No other sound.
He tried to stand.
His left foot pressed firmly to the floor. No trembling. No slipping. As he straightened his body, his back offered no complaint. His muscles felt… normal. Like the body of someone used to moving, not someone bedridden for weeks.
He rubbed his face. His skin felt foreign—not because it had changed, but because it was no longer sticky with sick sweat. No weakness hiding beneath every motion.
For a moment, he simply stood there, waiting for something logical to appear.
Medical equipment.
A nurse.
His mother's voice.
Nothing.
Only a small room with a window facing a forest.
He walked to the window. His bare feet met the wood, then stopped at the frame. The outside air slipped through the cracks, carrying the scent of wet leaves and a trace of soil.
Outside, the trees stood close together, their trunks thick, some covered in moss. Their branches formed a green canopy that broke sunlight into small pieces on the ground.
No buildings.
No road.
No cars.
Only forest.
Dio pressed his fingers on the window ledge. The wood was cool, but not biting. He took a long breath, searching for an explanation.
A coma dream?
A hallucination in the moments before death?
A brain stitching together leftover memories of forests from movies, games, and the internet?
As he exhaled, the breath left him normally. No catching, no restraint.
A dream too detailed.
He turned back inside.
The chest waited.
His steps approached, slow but steady. He knelt in front of it. The hinges were slightly rusted but sturdy enough to hold the heavy lid.
No lock.
He slipped his fingers into the seam and pulled.
The lid opened with a soft scrape.
Inside, the items were neatly arranged:
A short sword with a rough leather sheath.
A small round wooden shield reinforced with an iron ring.
A thin metal chestplate shaped to fit a torso.
A simple helmet with no decoration.
And a small leather pouch tied with a cord.
On top of them lay something folded.
Dio picked it up. A thin sheet, like dried skin or rough paper. There was writing on its surface.
Not letters he recognized. Shapes like a mix of foreign characters, lines, and curves he had never seen in books or online. But as he stared, the shapes slowly twisted in his mind, rearranging into words he could… understand.
"For twenty-four days since your eyes open here, your body will not die."
He read it twice.
"Not die" was not an easy phrase to process after having just felt the final seconds of his previous life.
Below it, another line:
"Pain remains. Fear remains. Exhaustion remains. Sanity can still break. Only death is withheld."
Dio's fingers tightened along the sheet's edge.
He lifted his gaze, looking at the sword and shield inside the chest. They had no magical shine. Just metal and wood meant for use.
His eyes returned to the text.
The next line was brief:
"This world counts time by months of four weeks, six days per week."
The final line:
"The nearest city lies toward the rising sun. On foot without stopping: twelve days."
The rest was blank.
No signature.
No divine symbol.
No royal seal.
Only information.
Dio stood still for a long moment. The sheet folded in his hand, its edge trembling slightly. Not for effect—just a body still adjusting to a new reality: dying in one world, waking in an impossible place.
He closed his eyes briefly. Not to deny reality, but to confirm it.
When he opened them, the walls were still there. The window still faced the forest. The chest was still open.
He exhaled softly.
No voice from the sky.
No "welcome to a new world."
No system chiming in his head.
Just himself, simple equipment, and a forest.
---
He picked up the chestplate first. The metal felt cold in his hands, but not like the sharp medical tools that often touched his skin before. The leather straps on the sides were stiff but could be pulled tight.
It took several tries before it fit properly across his chest and back. The weight was… present, but well distributed. He could breathe without too much squeeze.
Next was the helmet. He placed it carefully, adjusting it so it didn't block his view. It was a bit loose, but not enough to wobble.
He lifted the shield last. The grip on the back fit his right hand. When he raised it, a small pull tugged at his shoulder. Not heavy, but promising soreness if carried all day.
He sheathed the sword at his waist.
His movements were stiff.
His body knew how to wear clothes, but not how to carry metal.
He stood in the room fully equipped with gear that belonged to… someone.
He folded the sheet with the strange writing and slipped it into the leather pouch. The pouch hung at his left side, light in weight.
Outside the window, the sun had risen a bit. Shadows shortened.
Twelve days without stopping, the sheet said.
He saw no reason to force himself that way.
But the distance gave a picture:
for the next several days, the forest would be all he saw.
He approached the door.
The wooden handle was worn, touched often. He felt its surface briefly, then pulled.
The door opened with a quiet scrape.
Air outside brushed his face. Colder, but fresh. The ground before the door was covered with a thin layer of fallen leaves. When he stepped on it, they crumbled with a soft crackle.
The sky above the forest wasn't entirely blocked by the canopy. Through gaps between branches, pale blue appeared. The sun hadn't reached its peak, still leaning to one side.
He glanced back.
The hut's exterior was small—a single-room wooden structure with a slanted roof. No sign of who built it. No garden, no fence, no clear footprints.
If he left it, the place could disappear from anyone who didn't walk directly toward it.
Dio recalled one sentence from the sheet:
"Twenty-four days."
He didn't know what would happen on day twenty-five.
Maybe he could die normally.
Maybe he would remain as he was.
Maybe something else.
No explanation.
He raised the shield slightly, feeling its weight. The sword's grip at his hip pressed coolly against his hand as he checked it.
He inhaled.
Forest air filled his lungs.
No pain.
His feet moved.
He chose a direction:
wherever the sun rose.
The first step away from the hut felt heavier than the distance deserved. Not because of the ground, but because of what he left behind—like the hospital bed that felt safe even when it hurt.
The second step was easier.
The leaves responded with faint sounds. The large roots jutting from the ground forced him to lift his feet higher. In the distance, a short bird call echoed, then faded.
No clear path.
No signposts.
But the sun… always rose from the same place.
With no grand vow to save the world or avenge anything, Dio tied only one small resolve to his journey:
He did not want to die like before—
lying down, waiting, quietly giving up.
If he had to break again, he wanted to break while moving.
The forest slowly swallowed the sound of his steps.
The wooden hut behind him shrank between the trunks, then vanished.
Between the last breath of the old world and the first step in a new one, there was no music.
No applause.
No witnesses.
Yet deep within the dense trees, something shifted softly.
Not approaching.
Not yet.
Just enough to mark that a new human had begun walking.
And the world took note.
In silence.