Somewhere in a lost timeline of the ancient world, on the highest balcony of a glorious stone castle, stood a great figure. A man of patience and benevolence. He was a king. A king by fate.
Born into royalty, sculpted to perfection—every virtue, value, belief, principle, talent, skill, ounce of knowledge, and shard of judgment was hammered into his soul. And he ruled with compassion, leading an era of peace and prosperity.
He would often ask his advisers, "Am I doing well? Is there anything I should change?"
But they would always answer, "No, Your Majesty. All is perfect."
Yet even a ruler like him harbored a silent hollow space in his heart. A wish buried deep in the unconscious—a wish so improbable, even fantasy would not dare whisper it.
He wished he could change his birth.
Time passed, and his reign ended not with rebellion, nor old age, but with mystery. He died young, at just twenty-three, without injury, illness, or poison. No wound, no mark. Even the technology of a far future might fail to explain it. It was as if his soul... simply left.
They said he had passed in peace. But they did not know: his story was far from over.
*
In the general ward of a district hospital, patients lay across many beds—some with broken bones, others doubled over from stomach pain, some with unspoken injuries, and a few elderly souls quietly awaiting time. The room stank of medicine and sanitizers, humming with life and discomfort.
In one quiet corner lay a man, nearly lifeless—not from illness, but from sleep. He had been sleeping so much that even his teachers sent him to the hospital. There too, he dozed off, waiting for the doctor.
And then... he simply didn't wake up.
He had exhausted his time on Earth sleeping. He was send to the underworld to continue his slumber.
*
"I feel a severe headache—ugh..." thought the king.
A foul stench filled his nose. Slowly, he opened his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Before he could grasp what was happening, the sounds of the hospital ward invaded his senses.
The king—who had never slept anywhere but in royal comfort, let alone in a room filled with so many strangers—was too stunned to speak.
Shaking, he pulled the blanket over his head and whispered to himself:
"It's just a dream—just a dream..."
"This cannot be real. I went to bed in my chamber last night. Yes, this is only a dream."
"Haha, when I wake, I'll tell this absurd story to Maha. He'll have a good laugh. Maybe even write it into the royal records. That'll give my descendants something entertaining in that dry old book of lineage..."
But just as he lost himself in thought, someone yanked the blanket away.
Startled, the king shot up, staring wide-eyed at the culprit—a mischievous boy, likely the child of another patient. Before the king could speak, the boy laughed and ran off to his next victim.
The king leaned to retrieve his blanket but forgot—his legs were numb from long slumber.
He collapsed, face-first.
The pain was real. Too real for a dream.
His senses screamed this was reality, but his mind resisted. A battle of reason and denial waged within. He crawled back into bed, covered himself, and sank into silent thought.
"The records may have to wait another eternity. History could've been kinder... alas~"
Eventually, he calmed. Slowly, he peeked from beneath the blanket. The room was still full of patients. The smell still lingered. It was all real.
And yet—he accepted it. Perhaps because he was a king, sculpted in mind to perfection, even a change so shocking could not shake him for long.
He observed his surroundings quietly.
Some time later, a voice echoed through the ward.
"Rain! Rain!" a man shouted.
The other patients looked around, confused. There was no rain—only clear blue skies and bright sunlight.
Even the king mused, "A madman, surely... Not that I'm much better. Sigh~"
But to his surprise, the man ran up to him, shouting:
"Hey you brat! I'm talking to you!
Did your brain cells die from all that sleeping?!"
The king blinked in awe. And then, quite calmly, answered:
"Certainly, they did."
*
The madman—still panting from his dramatic entrance—spoke quickly:
"Anyway, you didn't forget, right? You need to go back to college today. I bet the professor would love to see your reports."
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the king's face. "So... what did the doctor say? Any incurable illness?"
Too much information. Too fast. The king's mind could not keep up.
"College... profe... what?" he mumbled.
The madman leaned in, squinting. "Yo bro... your brain cells really didn't die, right?"
The king stared at him, bewildered. "And... who are you?"
The madman gave his own head a light thump, then shook it as if trying to knock loose any malfunctioning screws.
But it clearly didn't help.
Because the king asked again, even more seriously,
"And who is Rain?"
The madman froze. Eyes wide, expression twisted in panic.
"Oh no. Oh no no no... Something actually happened to him!"
Without another word, he turned and bolted out of the ward, shouting for the doctor just as loudly as he had arrived.
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