chapter 2: The Last breath of John Smith
John Smith sat alone in the hospital room, the pale fluorescent lights humming softly above him. The sterile white walls felt cold and empty, pressing in like the weight of a thousand forgotten dreams. He was wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, frail and thin—his body a fragile shell that had been battered by years of relentless sickness.
Cancer.
The word still tasted bitter on his tongue, though it had become his constant companion. The diagnosis had come as a crushing blow, but it wasn't the first time life had knocked him down. No, John had been fighting all his life.
He was an orphan.
From the very beginning, the world had shown him its harshest face. He had no mother's lullaby to calm his fears, no father's hand to guide him through the dark. The orphanage was both sanctuary and cage—its cold floors and faded walls a constant reminder of all he lacked.
But John had learned to survive.
In the silence of lonely nights, he buried himself in books, desperate to find meaning beyond the cracked windows and barred gates. He studied harder than any child should have to, driven by a fierce hope that education could be his escape.
When he was old enough, he left the orphanage with nothing but a small suitcase and a heart full of dreams. The world outside was cruel and unforgiving, but John did not falter. He worked tirelessly, taking any job he could find, learning quickly, and climbing step by step.
Eventually, a small IT company gave him a chance—a desk, a computer, and the opportunity to prove himself. He poured his soul into his work, often staying late into the night, eyes burning from exhaustion but spirit refusing to break.
And through it all, he never forgot where he came from.
Every paycheck he earned, he sent back to the orphanage. For the children still trapped in those same cold halls, for the ones who dreamed of a better life just like he had. It was his way of giving back, his way of keeping hope alive.
But then fate dealt its cruelest hand.
The cancer was aggressive, unrelenting. It ate away his strength, his vitality, the very essence of who he was.
At first, despair swallowed him whole.
John found himself lost in a dark place, a shadow of the fierce boy who had once refused to give up. The loneliness deepened, the pain multiplied, and the future he had fought so hard for slipped farther and farther away.
He stopped going to work. He stopped answering calls. The world became a blur of hospital visits, medications, and endless nights.
Then, one day, in the quiet moments when the pain subsided just enough, John reached for a notebook he'd kept tucked away—a small refuge from the chaos.
He began to write.
At first, the words were simple, fragmented—reflections of pain and hope tangled together. But slowly, the story grew.
A world where a weak human-dragon hybrid struggled against destiny. Where heroes rose from ashes.
John poured his soul into the pages, weaving his own battles and fears into the fabric of the tale. It became more than fiction; it was a mirror of his own fight, a secret message wrapped in myth and metaphor.
If I cannot change my fate, he thought, maybe I can rewrite it for others.
His novel, The Rise of the Dragon Sovereign, touched hearts far beyond the walls of his hospital room. Readers around the world found in its pages strength, courage, and hope.
The royalties began to flow—suddenly John's quiet world shifted. For the first time, he had something more than pain: the means to make a difference.
True to his nature, John sent every penny back to the orphanage—the place that had shaped him, the place that still needed him most.
He never sought fame or fortune. His story wasn't about himself—it was about giving others a chance to dream.
Now, lying on the thin hospital bed, John's breathing was shallow and uneven. The pain was a constant, dull ache that no medication could fully dull. But in his heart, a fragile spark still burned.
He thought of those children in the orphanage—faces he might never see again, but whose futures he had helped shape.
He thought of the story he had left behind, a legacy written not in grandeur, but in quiet determination.
And he thought of what might come next—though he could not yet know it.
The final breaths came slow and steady, a gentle goodbye to a life defined by struggle, love, and unyielding hope.
Far beyond the confines of mortal existence, where time and space lose all meaning, the eternal threads of fate began to twist anew.