The Pain Transfer System

When I opened my eyes, I was backback to the day my brother Ian was about to sign up for the international boxing tournament. This time, I snatched the form and wrote my own name over his.

In my past life, Ian had a system that let him transfer all his pain to me. Every blow he took, I felt. It made him a $25 million-per-fight champion, while I became a walking case of chronic pain, covered in bruises no one could see.

My family dismissed my suffering. When I told them the truth, they said I was just jealous, cracking under pressure. "Pain transfer? If that were real, cancer patients wouldnt need morphine," theyd say.

Each of his fights was my hell. Once, the agony sent me to the ER with a cerebral hemorrhage. Doctors were baffled; they thought I was self-harming.

It ended the day Ian, drunk on fame, took on five opponents at once. He wonspectacularly. But I was the one who paid. My body gave out, my skull fractured, and I died right there in the crowd.

Just before he was supposed to register, Ian spammed the family group chat with videos of his training sessions. As I watched, a phantom bruise bloomed around my left eye, and a deep, bloating pain radiated from my stomach. It was Saturday morning. I had just woken up, planning to go downstairs for a quiet breakfast.

Even reborn, it seemed, my fate was still tethered to his.

Anytime he got hurt, the wounds and the agony manifested on me.

A tremor ran through me, my scalp prickling with dread. In the group chat, Ian kept posting. There he was, in a workout tank, eyes feral as he unleashed a flurry of blows on a punching bag. He looked like a god of war.

[Dad, Mom, I was born for this. One opponent is a joke. Watch me show you what I can really do.]

He followed up with more arrogant texts.

My aunt immediately chimed in, fawning like a groupie.

[Ian, you're incredible! If my son were half as driven as you, I'd be living the high life by now.]

Then came a photo: Ian, holding the boxing registration form to his chest, boasting that he was about to spar with two opponents at once. I threw on my clothes and raced to his training gym.

If he kept this up, I was a dead man walking.

In the car, I pulled up the news on the international tournament. Reborn, I wouldn't let myself be a victim again. And I would uncover the truth behind my death.

When I walked into the gym, my parents were already there, their faces glowing with pride as they cheered Ian on.

The moment their eyes met mine, their expressions curdled into contempt.

"Alex, we told you not to bother your brother while he's training," my father snarled. "You're just a paper-pusher with a dead-end job. You're not even in the same league as him. Get out."

"Your brother has a major competition coming up," my mother added, her voice sharp as glass. "This is the most critical time for his training. If you distract him, I swear I'll have your hide!"

In my past life, after Ian graduated from the sports academy, my parents pinned all their hopes on him. They secretly transferred my entire life savings, thirty thousand dollars, to his account. He needed it, they said, for "proper nutrition" to fuel his grueling training.

When I demanded my money back, my father slapped me across the face.

"Your brother is making this family proud! So he used your thirty grand? If he wins this fight, the prize is twenty-five million dollars! What's your pathetic savings compared to that?"

Back then, Ian's training videos were all over social media and the family chat. Even if I tried to ignore them, I couldn't escape.

But then things got strange. After every match, every sparring session, my body would erupt in crippling pain. Sometimes I couldn't even walk.

Then came the cerebral hemorrhage.

The doctors told me it was the kind of injury caused by a severe impact, and they warned me to avoid all strenuous activity.

I tried talking to my parents again. They just rolled their eyes, convinced I was consumed by jealousy. They had become his managers, negotiating his contracts and appearance fees. They were terrified I would sabotage their cash cow.

More than once, I collapsed at home, convulsing in agony, only to be found by a neighbor who rushed me to the hospital. The doctors would lecture me, assuming I was some fitness fanatic who was pushing my body to its breaking point.

It all culminated in that final fight. Ian, in a fit of showboating, demanded to fight five opponents simultaneously. The referee agreed, announcing that a victory would double his prize money.

That day, my body was pulverized. My soul drifted upwards, and I watched as my parents embraced Ian, tears of joy streaming down their faces. He was the world champion. They moved into a mansion, draped themselves in gold, and lived a life of luxury. They never even bothered to claim my body, letting it be disposed of in an unmarked grave.

Back then, I couldn't understand what I had done to deserve such a fate. But now, I didn't care. He wanted my life? Fine. I'd drag him to hell with me.

I stormed into the training room, ripped the registration form from his hand, and tore off my shirt, throwing it to the ground.

"Ian," I said, my voice thick with false emotion, "you're my brother. Seeing you work this hard for the competition... it breaks my heart. I've decided I'll fight in your place. I'll take on all the hardship. You just stay home and enjoy your life."

Ian froze, his fist hovering in mid-air. He stared at me, bewildered. "Alex, the fight is next month. I'm training. This isn't some game. You, fight for me? Are you trying to be funny?"

I ignored him and strutted in front of his coach. My well-defined eight-pack immediately caught his eye. I'd always been a gym rat, and my physique was naturally more imposing than Ian'staller, with leaner, more powerful muscles. And frankly, I was better looking.

At this point, Ian was only a local gym hero, hyped up by family and friends. The coach's eyes, however, were on me now. He nodded slowly, a look of appreciation on his face. "Alright," he said. "Let's see what you've got."

Ian respected his coach too much to argue. He stepped out of the ring, giving me the floor.

I tossed aside the headgear, the gloves, the mouthguard, and the groin protectorall the gear Ian never fought without.

I was all in. I needed to know if this system worked both ways. If I took a beating, would the marks appear on him?

I started sparring with one of the guys and quickly gained the upper hand. The coach clapped, impressed. "You're not a pro, but your form is solid. You've got real potential."

I shot Ian a smug look. "See? Even your coach thinks so. I bet I can win this thing. And if I do, you can have all the prize money. How about it?"

My parents had invited all our relatives to watch. Now, their attention was entirely on me. Ian's face darkened with humiliation.

I studied him, looking for any sign of pain from the punch I had just taken.

Nothing. He was just glaring at me, looking like he wanted to rip my head off.

Was it because one punch wasn't enough?

"Let's get the other three guys in here," I announced. "I'm ready for all of them."

Ian panicked. "Alex, what if you get killed?"

"How about this," I proposed, "You and I fight. Winner takes all. The loser quits boxing for life."

He started to put on his headgear and climb into the ring, but I pushed him back down.

"Ian, I'm doing this for you," I said, my voice dripping with concern. "Mom and Dad love you. You're my baby brother. What would they do if you got seriously hurt? Haven't you seen what happens to boxers? Guys go blind, some even die in the ring. It's brutal."

I wrapped my arm around his shoulders, secretly pinching my own thigh hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. "Boxing can be your hobby, but I can't let it destroy you."

The relatives were moved. Some of them were actually crying. They applauded me, calling me a wonderful, caring brother. They told Ian to sit down and let me take his place.

Ian pleaded with our parents, but they had already heard the coach mention the possibility of "double the prize money." Their eyes were gleaming with greed. All they cared about was the payout. Who actually fought didn't matter. The fact that I, the "failure," had more potential than their professional son was just an unexpected bonus.

But after a few rounds, I was getting dizzy from the blows. I glanced over at Ian. He was just standing there, face a mask of fury, showing no signs of discomfort.

This wasn't right. I was taking a beating, and he was completely fine.

So, it was a one-way street. My injuries didn't affect him at all.

Only the pain he was supposed to feel transferred to me.

Once I was thoroughly exhausted, I called a stop to the session. "That was a great training session, guys. Thanks for your cooperation. That last hook taught me a lot about my defensive reflexes. Let's call it a day and pick this up tomorrow."

With that, I made a quick exit. As soon as I was out of sight, I collapsed in an alley, gasping for breath.

It was three in the morning, and I couldn't sleep.

If I didn't figure this out, I was going to die, and I wouldn't even know how.

On my way to the bathroom, it felt like a sledgehammer slammed into my head. Stars exploded behind my eyes.

I steadied myself against the wall, only for a nauseating pain to erupt in my stomach. My temples throbbed, and it felt like a dull knife was twisting between my bones, tugging at my organs with every movement.

I fumbled for the painkillers and swallowed two, but the familiar relief never came. Instead, the pain crashed over me in a fresh wave, more intense than before.

A sickening feeling washed over me. I unlocked my phone, and the first thing I saw was Ian's latest social media post.

It was a picture of him in front of a bar, his foot planted triumphantly on the chest of a one-eyed man. The caption read:

[Just doing my civic duty. Can't stand bullies who prey on the weak, especially when they're harassing women!]

He then started a video call in the family group chat. On the screen, the one-eyed man broke free and lunged at Ian, plunging a knife into his shoulder. I screamed, the pain so blinding I nearly passed out.

My hands shaking, I furiously typed in the chat. [Are you an idiot? See a hero, be a hero, but know your limits! Call the cops! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!]

My warning did nothing. Ian just rolled up his sleeves, smashed his fist into the man's face, and ripped the knife out of his own shoulder, throwing it aside.

[I'm not just taking him down. I saw his wallet. It's full of pictures of abused young women. These guys are traffickers. I'm going to take down their whole operation and put them all behind bars!]

As he spoke, a group of muscular men surrounded him. They were skilled fighters. They beat him to the ground. I felt every blow, my body screaming in agony, feeling like it was about to tear itself apart.

[RUN! You're the one getting hit, but I'M the one in pain! Do you have a death wish?!]

[JUST RUN! I ALREADY CALLED THE POLICE FOR YOU!]

I sent message after message, but Ian didn't move. He just stayed there, a wicked smile spreading across his face as he stared into the camera.

A heavy, pounding sensation hammered at my skull, a sharp, explosive pain wrapped in a dull ache. My vision blurred into a sea of red.

I managed to dial 911. "Help me..." I choked out, before my consciousness faded to black.

Just like in my last life, I was rushed to the hospital for a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The doctors pleaded with me to avoid any and all strenuous activity.

As they examined me, one of them shook his head in disbelief. "This is bizarre. You said you were home all day, but your injuries are severe. Bruises and internal bleeding all over, two broken ribs... what happened to you?"

I said nothing. Later that night, I snuck out of the hospital and went home. I was going to make Ian pay.

The moment I walked in the door, I pulled out a knife and pressed it to his throat.

"Alex, are you crazy? I'm your brother!"

I gritted my teeth, a murderous rage boiling inside me. "Cut the crap. Tell me the truth. Why is it that when you get hit, I'm the one who feels the pain?"

He blinked, his face a mask of perfect innocence. "Bro, are you delirious? What are you talking about?"

I pressed the blade deeper into his skin. "Still playing dumb? You really want to die, don't you?"

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. "No, bro, don't! Okay, okay, I'll tell you everything I know."

But the moment I let my guard down, he shoved me aside and sprinted upstairs.

"Mom! Dad! Alex has lost his mind! He's trying to kill me!"