The first thing Si Cen noticed was the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind—the kind people wrote poems about, filled with wind chimes and distant birdsong—but a heavy, suffocating stillness that pressed against his ears and made even his breathing feel too loud.
Then came the smell.
Antiseptic. Clean to the point of cruelty.
He didn't need to open his eyes to know where he was.
A hospital.
Again.
A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. Of course.
The steady rhythm of a heart monitor ticked beside him—slow, dragging, like a clock that had grown tired of counting. Every beat felt like it had to fight its way through something thick and unseen.
His body was heavy.
No—not just heavy.
Wrong.
There was a dull ache deep inside his skull, like something pressing outward, trying to break free. It wasn't sharp anymore. It hadn't been for a long time. Pain, at some point, had stopped being an enemy and become… background noise. A constant companion.
He shifted slightly, and the effort alone sent a wave of exhaustion crashing over him.
Three years.
It had been three years since the diagnosis.
Brain cancer.
At fifteen, the word had sounded unreal—like something that belonged to news reports and tragic stories, not his own life. People had cried. His parents had cried. His classmates had cried.
Si Cen hadn't.
Not because he was brave.
But because, back then, it hadn't quite registered.
It did now.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
White ceiling.
Soft fluorescent light.
A thin crack running along the corner, like a line someone had tried to erase but failed.
He stared at it for a while, unfocused.
Then, faintly—
"…Cen'er?"
The voice trembled.
He turned his head, just a fraction.
His mother sat beside the bed, her hands clasped so tightly together her knuckles had gone pale. Her eyes were red, swollen, like she hadn't slept in days.
She tried to smile when she saw him looking.
It broke halfway.
"You're awake… that's good… that's good…"
Her voice wavered on the last word.
Si Cen blinked slowly.
He wanted to say something reassuring.
He always did.
But his throat was dry, and his voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper.
"…Mom."
Just that.
And she broke.
Tears spilled over instantly, silent at first, then shaking her shoulders as she leaned forward, gripping the edge of his bed like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…" she murmured, over and over, like a prayer.
Si Cen didn't understand why she was apologizing.
She hadn't done anything wrong.
No one had.
Illness didn't care about fairness.
He lifted his hand—slow, trembling—and placed it gently over hers.
Her skin was warm.
Alive.
"I'm okay," he said softly.
It wasn't true.
They both knew it.
But it was what she needed to hear.
That was enough.
---
The door opened quietly behind them.
Footsteps.
Measured. Hesitant.
His father.
A man who had always stood straight, shoulders squared, voice firm and steady. The kind of man who didn't bend, didn't break.
But now—
Now he looked older.
Smaller.
Like something invisible had been steadily carving pieces out of him, and what remained was only a shell trying to hold itself together.
"Cen," he said, his voice low.
He didn't come closer immediately.
As if he was afraid.
Si Cen smiled faintly.
"…Dad."
That was all it took.
The man who had never cried in front of anyone turned away abruptly, pressing a hand over his eyes.
For a moment, the room was filled with nothing but quiet grief.
---
Time passed strangely after that.
It stretched and folded in on itself.
Sometimes there were doctors.
Sometimes nurses.
Sometimes familiar faces—classmates, neighbors, even people he barely remembered.
They all said similar things.
"You'll get better."
"You're strong."
"Don't give up."
Si Cen nodded every time.
He thanked them.
He smiled.
It wasn't their fault they didn't know.
---
"The Living Saint."
He had heard that nickname so many times it had long since lost its novelty.
He didn't remember when it started.
Maybe it was when he returned a lost wallet and refused a reward.
Or when he spent weekends volunteering instead of going out.
Or when he quietly paid for a classmate's school fees without telling anyone.
Small things.
They had always felt small to him.
Things anyone would do.
But people had looked at him differently after that.
Like he was… something more.
He never understood it.
He just did what felt right.
Even now, lying in a hospital bed with death sitting quietly at his side, he didn't feel like a saint.
He just felt… like himself.
---
Evening fell.
The sky outside the window dimmed into a muted blue, then darker still.
His mother had fallen asleep beside the bed, her head resting near his arm. His father had stepped out, saying something about making a call.
For the first time that day, the room was quiet.
Truly quiet.
Si Cen turned his gaze toward the window.
There was a faint reflection of himself in the glass.
Pale.
Thin.
Eyes too large for his face.
He studied it for a moment.
Then looked away.
"…So this is it," he murmured softly.
No fear.
No panic.
Just a quiet acknowledgment.
He had known for a while.
The doctors didn't need to say it.
His body had been telling him.
Slowing down.
Shutting off.
Piece by piece.
It wasn't sudden.
It wasn't dramatic.
Just… an ending that had been approaching for a long time.
His fingers twitched slightly.
There were still things he hadn't done.
Places he hadn't seen.
A future he hadn't had the chance to build.
But strangely—
He didn't feel regret.
Not the kind that hurt.
Because every moment he had lived…
He had lived it the way he wanted.
Helping people.
Staying kind.
Being… himself.
If that was all his life amounted to—
Then it wasn't so bad.
---
The monitor beside him stuttered.
A slight irregularity.
Then another.
Si Cen noticed it.
He turned his head slightly, watching the line on the screen dip and rise.
Slowly.
Unevenly.
"…Ah."
So it was now.
His breathing grew shallower.
Not painful.
Just… distant.
Like his body was becoming something separate from him.
He shifted his hand slightly, careful not to wake his mother.
His fingers brushed against her hair.
Soft.
He hesitated.
Then, gently, he smoothed it back.
A small, habitual gesture.
"…Take care," he whispered.
He wasn't sure if she heard.
Maybe it didn't matter.
---
The room grew quieter.
The monitor's sound stretched, the intervals between each beat growing longer.
Si Cen's vision blurred slightly at the edges.
The ceiling above him seemed farther away.
His thoughts slowed.
Not fading—just… softening.
Like drifting.
He thought, briefly, of all the people he had met.
Faces flickered through his mind.
Smiles.
Laughter.
Small moments.
They didn't hurt.
They felt warm.
"…That's enough," he murmured.
And for the first time—
He let go.
---
The monitor flatlined.
A long, continuous sound cut through the silence.
His mother jolted awake.
"Cen…?"
No response.
Her eyes widened.
"Cen—?!"
Panic.
Hands shaking as she reached for him.
"No… no, no, no—!"
The door burst open.
Doctors rushed in.
Voices overlapped.
"Code—!"
"Prepare—!"
"Clear—!"
The room erupted into chaos.
But on the bed—
Si Cen lay still.
Peaceful.
As if he were simply… asleep.
---
Darkness.
Not cold.
Not frightening.
Just… empty.
Si Cen drifted.
There was no sense of time.
No body.
No pain.
For a while—if "while" even existed—there was nothing.
Then—
A voice.
---
[Candidate detected.]
---
Si Cen stirred.
Not physically.
But something within him shifted.
The darkness rippled.
---
[Compatibility: 100%]
[Emotional Stability: High]
[Moral Alignment: Extreme—Deviation Detected]
---
"…?"
If he had a body, he might have frowned.
The voice was neither male nor female.
Flat.
Emotionless.
Yet precise.
---
[Initiating binding.]
---
A faint pull.
Like something reaching for him.
Si Cen didn't resist.
Not because he trusted it.
But because—
There was nothing to resist with.
---
[Binding successful.]
---
Light burst through the darkness.
Blinding.
Overwhelming.
For a moment, everything shattered—
---
And then—
Silence again.
---
When awareness returned, it came all at once.
Sensation flooded back into him.
Weight.
Warmth.
Breathing.
A heartbeat—steady, strong, nothing like before.
Si Cen's eyes snapped open.
The world tilted.
Not a hospital.
Not white walls.
Instead—
A ceiling painted with intricate patterns.
Gold accents.
Luxurious.
Unfamiliar.
He lay on a large bed, soft beneath him, surrounded by silk curtains that swayed slightly in a breeze he couldn't feel.
"…Where…?"
His voice was clearer.
Stronger.
He froze.
Slowly, he lifted his hand.
Slender fingers.
Unmarked skin.
No IV lines.
No tremors.
No weakness.
He sat up abruptly.
His body responded instantly—too easily.
Too lightly.
Like something was… off.
"…This isn't…"
Not his body.
Not his room.
Not his world.
---
[Welcome, Host.]
---
The voice again.
Inside his head.
Clear.
Unavoidable.
Si Cen stilled.
"…Who are you?"
---
[Vicious Cannon Fodder System.]
---
A pause.
Then, calmly—
"…I think you have the wrong person."
---
For the first time—
There was a flicker in the voice.
A delay.
---
[…No.]
---
And then, with quiet certainty:
---
[You are exactly the right one.]