Surgeon Reincarnated into a Magic World as a nobel's bastered son

I'm Adam, and I'm sick of my life.

It's been six years since the car accident that took everything from me—my parents, my sister, and everything that I once considered close. I was only sixteen when it happened. Now, at twenty-two, I'm a ghost of the person I used to be. The burn scar on my left cheek is a constant reminder of that night. It's ugly, grotesque, and impossible to be ignored. That's why I wear a medical mask whenever I leave my apartment. It's not just to hide the scar; it's to hide me.

I've started to enjoy the isolation. My friends stopped calling years ago. My neighbors don't even know my name. And my distant family? Well, They've moved on, living their lives as if nothing ever happened. Every day feels the same: wake up, go to medical school, come home, and drown myself in books. Books are my escape, my only solace. In the pages of fantasy novels, I can forget about my scar, my loneliness, and the pain in my chest. In those stories, I can be someone else—someone who can enjoy life.

Before the accident, I was the guy everyone wanted to be around. Popular, confident, with a future so bright but I was blind to the things that are precious to me. I had friends, potential girlfriends, and a family that loved me. But now? Now, I'm just a zombie, crawling through life on an autopilot. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of becoming a surgeon. It's not passion that drives me—it's The Promise. The promise i once made to my mother, i mean it was easier for me than others. Because, I have an excellent memory, so I don't need to study much to ace my exams. I'm one step away from getting my medical license, but even that feels meaningless.

Today was like any other day. I sat through a late lecture, took a exhausting test without a break, and dragged myself to the bookstore on my way home. It was just a habit. That's when I saw it.

The book was unlike anything I'd ever seen. It was massive, halfway between A4 and A3 in size, with a black cover that seemed to absorb the light. The pages were yellowed and brittle, as if it was from centuries ago. The title was written in a language I couldn't recognize—strange, angular symbols that looked like they belonged to another world.

"What's this?" I asked the shop owner, holding up the book.

He shrugged. "Some beggar sold it to me. Said he found it in a dark alley. Looks old, doesn't it? Probably worthless."

Worthless or not, I was intrigued. I handed over a few bills and took the book home.

Later that night, after dinner, I sat at my desk and opened the book. Me and The symbols started a staring contest, taunting me if I dare to understand them. I tried searching online for anything about the language, but I came up empty. That's when I decided to venture into the dark web.

After somehow avoiding all the disturbing content, I stumbled upon a blog. The author claimed to have knowledge of an ancient, magical language. My heart raced as I scrolled through the post. There, in the middle of the page, were a few symbols and their translations. They matched the ones in the book.

"This can't be real," I muttered, but something inside me stirred. For the first time in years, I felt something foreign but used to be familiar.... motivation.

I spent the next month translating the book. It wasn't easy—the blog only provided fragments of the language, so I had to cross-reference it with hieroglyphics, ancient Greek, and even modern languages like Arabic and Japanese. Slowly, painstakingly, I pieced together the title and the first page.

The title read: Record of the Worlds.

The first page described a place called the World of Ega—a realm of two continents separated by a gigantic ocean. It was a world of magic, where mana powered everything from candles to kingdoms. Humans, elves, vampires, dwarves, and even dragons coexisted—or rather, clashed—in a history riddled with war. According to the text, humans had risen to dominance, subjugating the other races.

At the bottom of the page was a sentence in the same cryptic language: "gerssawa mellioseda."

I had no idea what it meant, but I was determined to find out.

Another month passed as I worked on what I called my Mysterious Alphabet Pronunciation Project. I recorded every possible sound, every variation of the symbols, until I felt confident enough to try speaking the sentence aloud.
And finally I said it.

"Grrofka mobada," my voice echoed in the empty room....

Nothing happened.

"Grofka mobeda" yup, absolutely nothing.

I tried again. And again. And again.

On the 78th attempt, I finally got it right.

"Gerssawa mellioseda."

The moment the words left my lips, the room spun. My vision blurred, and I collapsed to the floor. Pain exploded in my skull, as if my brain was too big for my poor skull. Blood gushed from my nose, my ears, my mouth. I couldn't scream—I couldn't even breathe.

Then, just as suddenly as it started, the pain stopped.

I couldn't see. I couldn't hear. I couldn't feel anything except a strange, floating sensation.

Is this death? I wondered. If it is, it's not so bad.

But then, my vision returned—blurry at first, but slowly sharpening. I realized I was being held, in someone's arms. The sounds around me were muffled, like listening through water. And then I heard it: a high-pitched wailing.

It was coming from me.

I was a baby.