The hospital clock ran faster than his heartbeat.
Oban lay motionless, his eyes fixed on the weak light glimmering above him as if taunting him. He was just nineteen, and the world had already penned his death.
"Oban…" The doctor's voice was firm, professional, yet the words still lingered in the air like thunder. "I'm sorry. It's developed. Stage four. The cancer has already spread."
Oban could taste the words cut into him, more deeply than a scalpel. His chest constricted. His lips formed words, but they were unheard.
"How long?" His voice a mere whisper.
The doctor rubbed his eyes and avoided looking. "Months. Possibly less."
The rest of the world became foggy. The sound of the clock, the antiseptic scent of disinfectant, the muffled voices down the corridor—all things lost to him. For Oban, time had ceased to move that day: July 27, 2018. The day on which he was informed his life belonged to another.
That evening, in the confines of his small flat, Oban sat amidst books, scribbled notes, and unsuccessful experiments. Filled half-vials of chemicals, crude medical sketches, and scientific journals littered the work area.
He wasn't going to give up.
He worked night shifts. He attempted to build something—anything—that could stop the cancer cells consuming him alive. He blended fresh herbs with chemicals. He tested experimental mixtures on his own body, suffering pain, sickness, and bleeding. Each effort ended the same: failure.
On the twentieth attempt, he staggered onto the floor, coughing blood onto his hands. His body convulsed wildly, ribs creaking, vision fading.
He smiled bitterly with the taste of metal in his mouth."So this is it… my destiny?"
He reclined on his bed, weak, cold, and willing to give up.
It was when he saw it.
A bat.
It sat atop his window, folded wings, its black eyes shining with moonlight. It stared at him straight, fearless.
Oban blinked, and a lunatic thought flashed across his mind.
"Bats… they resist disease human beings can't. Viruses, infections… even cancer tumors." His mouth quivered, joy piercing despondency. "If I can research it… maybe…"
Hope, tenuous but fierce, flared within him.
The next few weeks dissolved into fixation.
He captured a bat, drew its blood, analyzed its immune system. His hands were shaky as he worked, not fear but weakness. Each hour lent time.
And then, as a last resort, he prepared a serum. An impure liquid distilled from bat enzymes and blended with his test compounds. It was not finished. It was not safe. But he had no alternative left.
"I don't want to die…"
He murmured the words into the empty room as he held the syringe. Tears streamed down his eyes, tears of desperation and not fear. He injected the liquid into his arm.
At first—nothing. Then fire raged in his veins. His body convulsed, blood spurting from his nose and mouth. His skin seared, bones shattering as though his body itself turned against the intruder.
He fell to the floor, chest groaning, sight fading.
"So this… is where it ends."
Darkness enveloped him.
But death did not come.
Instead, cold light flickered before his eyes. A lit screen, hovering in the shadows.
[ Welcome, Oban. ]
[ A new adventure awaits. ]
[ Make your choice. ]
Two choices glowed with the appearance of etched letters on a rock:
Die here.
Reborn as Darkness.
Oban gazed, his thoughts in a whirl. Was this a dream? An illusion? Something beyond the realm of science to explain?
"Darkness…?" He twisted his lips into a bitter smile. "I have no idea what this is… but… I want to live."
His shaking finger stretched out. He selected Option 2.
[ Choice verified. ][ Metamorphosis complete… 10… 8… 6… 4… 2… 0. ]
The emptiness heaved and convulsed. A deafening boom boomed within his head. His body burned, dissolved, and was remade.
When his eyes unfurled once more, the world had changed.
He was stretched out in the center of a street, bright lights flashing overhead, neon lights glowing on skyscrapers. Cars flashed by, people streamed past in odd dress.
"What… where am I?"
He stood, almost collapsing, his hand across his chest. The agony was gone. His body was powerful—too powerful. His senses were keen; every sound, every scent, every pulse around him chorused in his mind.
Someone elbowed his way past him. Oban gripped his arm.
"Stop! Where… where am I? Which country is this?"
The man looked at him in confusion. "Transylvania."
The name struck Oban like a sword.
"Transylvania…? This does not exist. Not anymore."
He was frozen. His eyes fell on the glowing screen that now once more loomed in front of him.
[ Year: 2083 AD. ]
His heart—or whatever now pounded within him—pounded. He was not any longer in his world. He was not even in his own time.
And looming across the alien city horizon, the blood-red moon, the voice again spoke, speaking to him alone:
"Welcome, Oban. Your rebirth begins now."