The world did not weep for Beak Seol's death.
On an ordinary winter day, without snow or sun, a fifteen-year-old boy passed away in a hospital room whose number no one knew. The fluorescent lights flickered weakly above his bed, and the antiseptic smell completed the erasure of any trace of humanity in this place already abandoned by hope.
His heart stopped at 3:17 AM. No tears were shed. No hand came to rest upon his. Even the nurses, accustomed to the disappearance of the nameless, quickly turned the page.
He was not a genius. Not even a remarkable child. His report card displayed average results. His teachers described him as quiet, distant, perhaps a bit apathetic. As for the other students, they had forgotten him before he even disappeared.
Beak Seol had learned very young to stop expecting anything.
Abandoned by his parents at five, rejected by relatives who feared his incurable tumor, he had grown up in the shadow of others, invisible, without attachments or warmth. The doctors said the disease would progress slowly, inevitably, and that pain would eventually take everything—even memory.
But what the tumor had not destroyed was that lucid, cold, almost clinical consciousness with which he observed the world. He hated no one. He forgave no one either. He simply existed. Present. Silent. And painfully alone.
The last thing he saw was the ceiling of the room, gray and cracked.
The last thought that crossed his mind was this: "I never even had the right to exist."
Then came darkness. And in that darkness... something waited.
There was no tunnel of light, no angels to welcome him. No peace. No redemption.
He stood in an empty, infinite space, bathed in light without origin or direction. The ground was invisible, the air unbreathable, and yet he stood there, wearing the hospital gown he had worn at his death. Standing. Uncertain.
"Hm. The draw fell on you," murmured a grave and nonchalant voice.
Before him appeared an indistinct silhouette, as if sculpted from light itself. Its face was blurred, almost absent. Only its pupils, black and elusive, floated in space.
"Who are you?" asked Beak Seol, without emotion.
"You can call me Focus One," said the voice. "Let's say I'm... a god. Or something that approximates one."
Beak Seol blinked.
"Am I dead?"
"Completely. You held on longer than expected, by the way. Statistically, your disease should have taken you two years ago. Congratulations."
He didn't respond.
"Well, enough formalities. You've been chosen to be Reincarnated. Every thousand years, I randomly select a spirit to offer them a second life in another world. No merit, no destiny, none of that. Just chance. And this time, it fell on you."
Beak Seol barely raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Why not? Someone has to go. And you have nothing to lose, right?"
He thought of the hospital room. Of empty memories. Of indifference.
"No. Nothing at all."
"Perfect! That simplifies everything."
A luminous circle opened beneath his feet. The space began to vibrate.
"You're going to be reborn in a world called Polyester. Medieval, dangerous, full of monsters and gods. Have fun."
"And if I refuse?"
"Too late. It's already in progress."
The void cracked.
"One last thing," said Focus One's voice as it faded. "Your new name is Stealus van Waschbar. And you're a noble."
Then he vanished.
The cold seized him like a saber blow.
He cried out.
His lungs filled with air for the first time, and sharp pain shot through his chest. His heart was beating. Hard. Wild. He heard voices around him. Hands enveloped him. Cries of joy erupted.
"It's a boy! The marquis's third son is alive!"
Tears. But not his own.
A woman held him in her arms, beautiful, noble, dressed in white silk, her eyes moist with emotion. A man stood near her, immense, austere, his gaze hard but proud.
"He will bear my father's name," he said. "He shall be called Stealus. Stealus van Waschbar."
The baby cried. But within that child's body, Beak Seol's soul screamed in silence.
Time passed. Slowly. Months became years.
Stealus grew up in a white stone castle, surrounded by high walls and bathed in light. His father, Marquis von Waschbar, was a master swordsman, strict and respected. His mother, gentle but distant, never kissed her children more than once a week, in accordance with noble etiquette.
Magic was forbidden. Only the arts of the sword, aura, and combat were permitted in this warrior lineage. Mana? Reserved for commoners. Nobles had to strive toward divine power—that rare energy reserved for the chosen of the gods.
Stealus observed. He spoke little. Listened much.
He learned to wield a saber at age six. To kill a deer at ten. To read the great historical treatises of Polyester at eleven. But never, never did he cry. Neither from pain nor joy.
He sometimes dreamed of the hospital room. Sometimes of the void. Sometimes of the faceless voice.
But most of all, he dreamed of freedom.
At fifteen, he stood before the portrait of his ancestors in the great sword hall, in silence.
His father entered.
"Today, you will be presented to the council of families," he said. "Prepare yourself. Soon, the world will know you."
Stealus nodded. His gaze was lost in the flames of the hearth.
The world has already forgotten me once,* he thought. *But this time... I will force it to remember.