The room was still—dim, quiet, and heavy with the faint, bitter scent of scorched blood.
Sylarion sat on the edge of his bed, his shirt clinging to him with sweat and tar-like stains. Each breath dragged fire through his lungs, but even through the pain, he could feel it—his body had changed.
He flexed his fingers.
They didn't just move—they responded. With control. With power.
[Predator System]
"Whew. You look like you lost a fight with a blender. But I gotta say… you feel more dangerous now."
He ignored the system's snide remark, eyes fixed ahead as a soft, pale-blue projection shimmered in the air before him.
Virela's internal scan had finished its sweep of the room.
"Current diagnostics," she began, her voice neutral. "Muscle fiber density has increased by eighteen percent. Reflex pathways have become more complex. Bone marrow shows structural reinforcement."
"Your biological structure," she added, "is no longer purely human. There is… layering. Something primal. Unclassified."
His gaze narrowed.
"What does that mean?"
Virela hesitated.
"It means what you are becoming now exceeds the capacity of baseline human potential."
[Predator System]
"Well that's poetic. Want a cloak and a throne with that?"
Sylarion leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"This is just the beginning."
"I would recommend rest," Virela said. "However, if you are intent on continuing—"
He cut her off with a nod. "No more for now. Just monitor me."
"As you wish, Father."
Sylarion stood slowly.
His movements were smooth. Balanced. Faster.
Even his hearing had sharpened. The faint ticking of hidden machinery behind the walls, the whisper of air from the vents, the soft scuttling of something unseen in the ceiling—he could hear them all.
[Predator System]
"Congratulations. You're officially past the tutorial stage."
He walked to the mirror in the corner. His reflection stared back—pale skin, faintly flushed; eyes darker at the edges. Subtle. But unmistakable.
Something else was looking back now.
Not just Sylarion Drekkh.
He smirked slightly.
"Virela," he called.
"Yes, Father?"
"I want to run a full physical trial. Strength, speed, control. Somewhere secure."
There was a short pause.
"I would recommend the hidden lab. It has reinforced testing lanes and adaptive monitoring. And," she added, "you designed it for this."
Of course he did.
He crossed the room to the sealed panel near the closet. The surface shimmered as Virela scanned his bio-signature. It peeled open with a mechanical hiss.
He stepped into the dim corridor. Cold metal and sterilized air greeted him like an old memory.
He moved down the hall—past flickering diagnostic screens and idle terminals. The walls pulsed faintly with stored energy. Unlike the rest of the mansion, this place felt… alive.
He entered the testing chamber.
It was enormous. Floors reinforced for impact. Ceiling sensors. Target dummies on motorized tracks. Gravity adjusters embedded in the walls.
Everything stood waiting.
The door sealed behind him.
"Ready when you are," Virela said.
He rolled his neck. Cracked his knuckles.
Time to see what this body could really do.
⸻
Sylarion stood at the center of the testing floor. Energy pulsed beneath his boots, triggering soft rings of light with every step.
"Begin with strength calibration?" Virela asked.
"Yes."
"Initializing. Target dummies deploying."
From the far side, a set of synthetic humanoid dummies emerged—heavy-jointed, armored, built to withstand peak human strikes. Their glowing eyes activated and locked onto him.
He inhaled once—then moved.
Not fast enough to defy physics, but beyond any normal man. His speed came from instinct, not training.
His fist slammed into the first dummy's chest with a crack. The torso dented. The frame skidded back five feet. Smoke curled from the impact point.
Another dummy lunged. He slid aside, swept low, and drove an elbow upward. The construct's head snapped back—then exploded into sparks against the far wall.
"Strength output: 4.8 times baseline human," Virela reported.
He didn't respond.
This wasn't about numbers. It was about control.
He faced the third dummy—paused—then exhaled.
Three strikes followed. Neck. Knee. Chest.
The dummy collapsed—intact but disabled.
[Virela]
"Target neutralized without overkill. Precision improving."
[Predator System]
"Oho. Not just brute force—style. We might make a real predator out of you yet."
Sweat formed along his brow. He smirked.
"Now run perception test," Virela requested.
"Yes."
The room darkened—then strobe lights activated. Mechanical limbs shot out from the walls at random angles, each tipped with blunted ends meant to tag, not injure.
Sylarion narrowed his eyes.
Whispers. Not words. Not thoughts.
Just shifts.
He moved without sight—ducked a strike, twisted aside, caught one limb and ripped it free. Three more darted in. He bent low, arched back, spun to avoid them all.
His breath stayed calm. The world wasn't slower—just clearer.
[Virela]
"Perception reaction time: 0.18 seconds. You're tracking pre-contact. That shouldn't be possible."
[Predator System]
"Guess what? It is."
Sylarion dropped to one knee.
Not from fatigue—but exhilaration.
It was working.
His power wasn't flashy. It didn't scream.
It whispered.
Precise. Quiet. Like a blade under velvet.
"Stop now," he ordered.
The machines retracted. Lights dimmed.
And for the first time since the pain, he smiled.
⸻
He stretched out his arms, cracking his knuckles.
"Not bad," he murmured. "Still human… just a better one."
Still not ready for the world yet.
The lab's glowing panels hummed in response. Virela's voice followed, steady as ever.
Then came the familiar whisper in his mind.
[Predator System]
"Congratulations. You've officially reached the level of a gym rat with a superiority complex."
Sylarion rolled his eyes.
He glanced around the lab again—consoles, sealed chambers, forgotten experiments and dormant code.
"Virela," he said, "before I cut you off from the world… were any of my projects still running?"
Faint clicks echoed as she processed.
"No, Father. You halted all major activity before isolation. Only scattered research remains—drafts and theoretical notes. Nothing actionable."
He nodded.
"Huh. Smart move. At least I wasn't dumb enough to leave anything dangerous running."
[Predator System]
"Wow. One good decision in a sea of reckless genius. I'm touched."
He passed a transparent pod, frozen code flickering inside like a heartbeat caught mid-pulse.
"But not smart enough to finish anything either."
[Predator System]
"To be fair—you're not exactly qualified to pick up where he left off."
A beat.
[Predator System]
"Unless staring at data like a confused cat is your new power."
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Virela," he said, "bring up the diary."
A low hum echoed from the floor. A podium rose in steady motion. Atop it rested the worn black diary—no title, no markings.
Only silence. Memory. Weight.
He stepped forward.
Fingers brushed the surface. Still warm.
Still his.
He picked it up—not as a relic, not as a trophy.
But as a reminder.
Without a word, he turned and walked out—back through the corridor, into the solitude of his room.
The lights dimmed at his command.
And there, alone with the past, Sylarion Drekkh spent the rest of the day reading—page by page, word by word.
Not to remember.
But to prepare.
Not for the world he would face…
…but for the man he refused to become.