The first thing Sylarion felt was the ache in his neck.
The second was the sharp edge of a diary digging into his cheek.
He blinked awake, lids heavy and reluctant. The room was cloaked in shadows, filled with the scent of leather, metal… and something quieter. Regret.
He pushed himself upright with a groan, peeling his face off the desk.
The diary slipped from his lap, landing on the table with a soft thump. The pages were crinkled, one corner marked with a faint smudge of dried sweat.
"Wonderful," he muttered. "I fell asleep mid-existential crisis."
[Predator System]
A bold move. Most people pass out after making terrible decisions. You're just streamlining the process.
Sylarion rubbed his eyes, then glanced at the time. He'd been out for maybe two hours—no dreams, just pure, blessed blackness. A rare mercy.
His neck cracked as he rolled it side to side, the soreness dull but manageable now.
"I didn't plan to sleep," he murmured.
[Predator System]
Shocking. You passed out with your face in a dead man's memoir. Truly the posture of ambition.
He reached for a half-empty glass of water, took a slow sip, and stared silently at the wall.
The diary's words still echoed in his mind—the descent, the desperation, and something else. Not a hunger for love. Not a thirst for meaning. But an obsession with power so absolute, it could obliterate the feeling of being less.
He set the glass down with a quiet clink.
He had learned a lot about this new world from that diary…
A dull knock tapped twice at the door.
"May I come in, Master Sylarion?"
The voice was crisp and formal—precisely trained, the tone of a seasoned servant.
He straightened, wiped his face, and called out, "Enter."
The door opened with a soft hiss. A maid stepped inside, uniform pristine, eyes lowered respectfully. She held a folded coat over one arm and a sealed envelope in the other.
"Lord Drekkh has asked me to inform you that your departure is scheduled for today," she said evenly. "You are expected in the west wing courtyard within three hours for final instructions. Preparations are complete."
Sylarion processed her words in silence, then rose from the chair. His body moved more fluidly now—less stiff, more grounded. The fatigue that had haunted his limbs after training was gone, replaced by a quiet, simmering readiness.
"Three hours…" he murmured.
"Yes, Master," the maid replied, stepping forward to place the coat on a nearby stand. "A new uniform has been provided for your journey, as well as an identification seal. Your itinerary is inside this envelope."
She extended it toward him with both hands.
Sylarion took it and broke the wax without a word.
Inside was a short letter from his father—if one could call it that. It read more like a list of veiled commands, cloaked in thin politeness. Only one line caught his attention:
Do not embarrass this house.
He closed the letter slowly, eyes drifting back to the maid.
"Anything else?"
She hesitated—just for a second—then gave a slight bow.
"Your brother, Varekth… will not be seeing you off."
Of course not.
Sylarion gave a dry nod and dismissed her with a flick of his fingers.
The door closed behind her, leaving him in silence once more.
Three hours.
Three hours until he left the walls that sheltered him.
Three hours until he entered the brutal world waiting beyond them.
But this time, he wouldn't be going in like the old Sylarion—weak, naïve, alone.
He turned to the mirror and ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as his eyes locked onto his reflection. To the world, he looked unchanged.
But beneath the surface, something stirred. Something sharp. Watchful. Evolving.
[Predator System]
Let's hope you packed your charm. I hear universities these days are murder on the socially awkward.
He smirked faintly and reached for the coat.
"I don't plan on making too many friends."
⸻
With the clock ticking, Sylarion set about preparing for his departure. He completed his morning routine swiftly—washing up, dressing, centering his thoughts. No time for hesitation.
Once ready, he slipped into the hidden chamber behind his closet. The soft hum of machines greeted him like an old secret.
"Virela," he said calmly, "gather my departure gear."
A service bot whirred to life, emerging silently from its station. It rolled up beside him, presenting two sleek, reinforced travel bags—each packed with exacting precision.
Everything was ready: his clothing, chosen tools, and select materials. Every item in its place.
"Is everything in there?" he asked.
Virela's voice responded through the intercom, cool and precise. "Yes. As per instructions: your attire, primary equipment, laptop, and a set of portable devices for extended interfacing."
Sylarion unzipped one bag and flipped it open.
Inside lay high-tech gear that looked like it belonged in a lab, not a school. Compact power cores. Modular scanning devices. A neural headset.
And nestled in its own compartment—a sleek, matte-black smartwatch, pulsing with faint blue light.
He picked it up and slid it onto his wrist. The band clasped with a quiet click.
The screen lit up immediately.
[Connection Established — Virela Active]
[Predator System]
Stylish. You planning to save the world, or just flex on it?
Sylarion ignored the comment, adjusting the strap until it fit snugly. The watch gave a soft hum as it fully synced.
Now, he was ready.
He stood in the center of the lab one final time.
"Lock everything down," he said quietly. "Full isolation protocol. No access unless I return."
"Understood," Virela answered. "All systems entering hibernation. Network sealing in progress. No external signals will be recognized."
Slowly, the lab dimmed. Consoles powered down, lights faded, mechanisms folded inward.
Sylarion stared for a long moment.
This place hadn't been warm. But it had been his.
Then, without looking back, he slung both bags over his shoulder and walked out.
The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss, erasing the last trace of the hidden lab.
Back in his room, the ticking clock showed he had minutes left.
And he was ready.
⸻
As he stepped into the hall, the same servant from before stood waiting—expression unreadable, posture perfect.
The servant bowed silently, then raised one gloved hand.
A faint shimmer rippled through the air, warping space around them.
Then came the familiar pressure. A pulse of darkness.
The sigils beneath Sylarion's feet lit up in tight formation.
One blink—
And the hallway disappeared.
When his vision cleared, he stood before towering iron gates, the estate behind him, and the unknown stretching wide ahead
Before him, parked with precise elegance on the cobblestone driveway, stood a luxury car—sleek, black, and gleaming as if it had been polished moments ago. Its tinted windows reflected the dawn sky, hinting at the world inside without revealing its secrets.
Five men flanked the vehicle, their postures perfect, faces unreadable. Each wore a uniform of impeccable tailoring—dark suits with subtle insignias embroidered on their cuffs and collars. Their eyes scanned Sylarion with the cool professionalism of seasoned servants, trained for discretion and efficiency.
One stepped forward, bowing slightly with a respectful nod....…