Silas reappeared with a sharp inhale, as though he'd been holding his breath the entire time the teleportation spell whisked him through space. He landed softly, already within the wrought iron gates of the mansion—its towering silhouette looming ahead under the indigo sky.
"I can't get used to that…"
He chuckled to himself, voice low, almost breathless, eyes scanning the stately estate before him. Warm light spilled from tall windows like golden syrup, stretching long across the manicured courtyard as dusk bled into night. The mansion stood regal and untouched, like something off the cover of a fantasy artbook—complete with glistening spires and ivy-wrapped columns.
Though Silas knew he was technically a background character in the game's original story, the wealth of his mysterious new family was anything but subtle. It was ostentatious. Ludicrous, even. Especially considering one of the game's actual supporting characters—the famously jacked butler—worked under them. The butler's own role had more narrative weight than the entire Ravenfield bloodline.
"Time for the moment I've been avoiding this whole time."
He muttered under his breath, sighing. Steeling himself, he stepped forward, his boots crunching lightly on the gravel path. The towering double doors loomed closer. He placed his hands on the twin silver doorknobs, which shimmered faintly with arcane light. A gentle pulse traveled through the metal—identification magic. It scanned him with a subtle hum, casting brief blue glows across his palms.
For a setting based on medieval fantasy Europe…
The technology sure is advanced in this world…
He thought wryly, half-impressed and half-bewildered. Magic-infused smart locks. Go figure.
As the doors creaked open, he was greeted by a vast, echoing foyer. It welcomed him with the same quiet grandeur of an unspoken legacy. Twin staircases curled upward in a perfect split, converging like a pair of serpents rising toward the second floor. The floor beneath his feet gleamed with a sheen of immaculate marble, carved in intricate diamond patterns. Ornate candlesticks, suits of armor, and delicate figurines lined the room with decorative precision—like a gallery curated by someone with both unlimited funds and no real guests to impress.
"Now for the annoying part of finding my room…"
"At least I think it's on the second floor."
He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped onto the staircase. His boots echoed faintly against the steps as he climbed, every movement amplified by the cavernous stillness.
Before he could even start scanning the halls, a voice called out from above—calm, poised, and unmistakable.
"Is that you, young master?"
It was Lance. The butler.
His voice rang effortlessly through the marble halls, clear even from another wing of the estate. There was a faint clinking sound behind his words—perhaps dishes, or cleaning tools. Whatever he was doing, he didn't even need to stop to know who had arrived.
"Yeah, just got back home!"
Silas called back, already at the top of the stairs now, standing between two branching corridors—left and right. Both stretched endlessly, flanked by identical doors and dim wall sconces. He hesitated, eyes shifting from one hallway to the other.
Left? Right?
He had no clue where to begin.
"Your room is right on the left, young master!"
Lance's voice floated down again, eerily timed.
What the hell?
How did he know I was thinking that?
That guy gives me the creeps in a really competent way.
A chill of suspicion ran up Silas's spine, but it melted quickly into reluctant amusement.
"Whatever…"
He murmured with a crooked grin, adjusting the strap of his briefcase before turning left.
He moved down the corridor, his footsteps soft against the plush carpet that now replaced the marble flooring. Room after room passed—uniform doors with brass handles, no labels. A few had subtle signs of use—fresh linen smells, slightly ajar frames—but most felt… vacant. Strangely empty. Sterile.
Where is everyone?
The emptiness rubbed at the back of Silas's mind, subtle but unsettling.
At last, halfway down the hall, he spotted a door that broke the monotony. Slightly larger. More polished. And at the top, a gold-plated nameplate glimmered in the lantern light.
Marcus Elias Ravenfield
Etched in elaborate cursive.
"Well… bit on the nose, but it works."
He muttered, lips tugging upward. The weight of the name felt strange—familiar yet foreign. His name now, whether he liked it or not.
Silas entered the room. It was vast—almost too large for one person. Tall windows stretched along the far wall, their glass tinted rose-gold by the fading light. Velvet curtains fluttered in the breeze. A massive canopy bed dominated the space, flanked by high bookshelves, a reading nook by the window, and a dark wood desk already neatly arranged.
He dropped his briefcase on the desk with a quiet thud, the sound oddly final.
He stood still for a moment.
The room was beautiful—more than he could've imagined back on Earth. But it was also a reminder. A symbol of a life that was no longer his own.
He reached up, slowly unbuttoning his academy uniform, each movement laced with the quiet weight of contemplation.
"I guess it's about time I meet my family as the new me, huh…?"
Silas—no, Marcus—spoke aloud, voice barely above a whisper. It was half a question, half a promise. A declaration wrapped in uncertainty.
The room didn't answer. But it didn't need to.
Because tomorrow—or maybe even tonight—he would have to face the reality he'd avoided since he arrived: the family of the boy whose name he now wore.
And whatever expectations came with it.