Sylarion entered his room. His body still trembled, the rush of adrenaline refusing to fade. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing away the night's madness—the blood, the chaos, and the burning stares that had followed his every step.
He leaned against the cold wall, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. "What the hell was that...?"
"Congratulations," the system chimed, voice laced with smug amusement. "You have successfully completed your first mission—though in the most absurd way possible."
Sylarion wiped his blood-smeared face with the back of his hand. "You didn't say there'd be an audience."
"That's because I didn't expect you to faceplant your way into victory."
A weak chuckle escaped him despite the exhaustion. His fingers were still stained red, the scent of metal clinging stubbornly to his skin. "Still... a win's a win."
Sylarion slumped onto the bed, body heavy, mind racing. The silence of the room pressed in, broken only by the faint hum of the system interface flickering to life above him.
[Mission Complete: Eliminate the Rogue Werewolf]
+50 Predator Points Acquired
[Reward Unlocked: 1x System Lottery Draw]
He stared at the floating text, chest still rising and falling in uneven waves. "Fifty points," he muttered. "For slipping on a monster and stabbing it by accident. I'll take it."
"You're welcome," the system chimed, its tone sharp with amusement. "I almost died laughing. You should've seen your face when it lunged."
"I was going to die, idiot."
"Yet here you are. And with a lottery ticket, no less."
Sylarion sat up slowly, wiping a smear of blood off his cheek. The air still smelled of steel and wet fur.
He hesitated before speaking again. "System… how strong are the people here? How do I compare?"
The laughter in the system's voice faded. "You're at the bottom. A human with no supernatural enhancements. Barely above prey."
Sylarion swallowed.
"This world," the system continued, "follows a hierarchy. It's not based on talent or training. It's evolution. Instinct. Hunger."
Words began to etch themselves into the air—lines of red text glowing like embers.
"Where you stand now... is beneath the first tier, known as Wretch. These are the lowest beings in the supernatural food chain. Feeble. Disposable."
Sylarion narrowed his eyes. "And the werewolf?"
"Wretch-tier. A dying one. That's the only reason you're alive."
He looked down at his bloodstained hands. Weak. That word burned more than the cuts still stinging on his palm.
"But it goes higher, right? Stronger tiers?"
"Yes," the system said quietly. "Fifteen or more in total. But you don't need to know them all yet. You wouldn't understand the weight of those names until you crawl out of where you are now."
Sylarion leaned back, fire flickering in his gaze. "Then I'll start crawling."
The system hummed.
Sylarion frowned. "Wait how does one get to Wretch-tier. "
The system responded flatly, "Your stats are barely brushing the surface. Almost every attribute sits at ten—or close to it. To officially reach Wretch-tier, at least two or three of your core stats need to hit a hundred. That's the bare minimum to step into the supernatural chain."
Sylarion's brow furrowed. "So I'm not even at the bottom. I'm... below it?"
"In terms of real combat power? Yes. But," the system continued, "for a mere human, you're starting off far above average. That's thanks to the body's original owner. He wasn't strong, but his lineage provided you a slightly reinforced base."
Sylarion sat in silence for a moment, taking it all in.
"So… I'm a lucky bottom-feeder."
"Correct. But with teeth," the system replied, almost mockingly.
Sylarion cracked his neck. "Then I better start biting."
He stared at his hands. They didn't look special. But if this body had a head start… maybe there was something more. A distant legacy, or just dumb luck?
Then, like a dagger to the chest, a thought slipped into his mind.
His gaze turned cold.
"…Wait."
The system paused, almost anticipating the question.
"What if…" His throat tightened. "What if they find out I'm not really him? Not the real Sylarion?"
A beat of silence.
Then came the answer, quieter, edged in something darker.
"Then you will no longer be a predator, Sylarion. You will be prey."
The room felt colder. The blood on his hands wasn't dry yet—but already, it felt heavier.
He wasn't safe. Not truly.
He might have a system. He might have new powers. But none of that would matter if the monsters around him realized their kin had been replaced.he needed knowledge about this world .
Sylarion's eyes dropped to the floor, thoughts racing.
I don't even know anything about this world…
How people lived. How society worked. The cities, the factions, the rules. Nothing. Just faces, a castle, and a system that wouldn't shut up.
And yet… everyone spoke English.
He frowned. "System, tell me more about this world. Its history. Culture. Who rules it, what—"
"Do I look like an encyclopedia to you?" the system cut him off with venomous sarcasm.
"I wasn't designed to feed your curiosity. I exist to track, evolve, and sharpen your strength. That's it."
Sylarion blinked. "Then how do you know about the whole power hierarchy?"
"Because that is my domain. The concept of attributes, tiers, and Predator Points—that framework was built into me to help you survive. Others out there don't see the world through stats or menus. You're the outlier, not them."
The voice grew colder, firmer.
"You want answers? Find them yourself. I'm not your mentor. I'm your weapon, fool."
Sylarion scoffed, shaking his head. "Of course. Got it. You're the sword, I'm the hand. Just didn't know the sword would talk so much sh*t."
No reply came.
He sat back again, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. A world of monsters, castles, and blood… and he didn't know a thing about it.
But that would change.
It had to.
With so much running through his mind, Sylarion decided to start with something simple—something human.
He stripped off his blood-streaked clothes, letting them fall in a heap. The metallic scent clung to his skin like a reminder of what he'd done, what he'd stepped into.
Without a word, he stepped into the lavish marble-walled bathroom and turned on the water.
Steam rose slowly, and for the first time since awakening in this strange world, he let himself breathe.
As the warm water ran down his body, washing away the dried blood and sweat, Sylarion stared at the tiles.
New life, new rules, he thought. I'm not going back. Not this time.
He scrubbed harder, as if trying to erase everything—fear, doubt, and the trembling hands that had driven a knife into a werewolf's skull.
But the blood was gone now. And he was still here.
Sylarion stepped out of the steamy bathroom, skin still warm from the bath, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He moved quietly across the room, eyes scanning for something to wear. A sigh slipped from his lips—he needed normalcy, even if just for a moment.
He opened what looked like a regular almirah—only to pause.
It wasn't just a wardrobe. It opened into a sprawling walk-in closet.
"Damn..." he muttered, eyes wide.
Clothes far too expensive for comfort hung in rows. Fabrics he couldn't name. Styles that belonged on red carpets or ancient courts.
He reached for a simple black nightwear set, soft and perfectly tailored. As he slipped it on, a strange feeling washed over him—like the fabric itself recognized him.
And just as he turned to leave—
CLACK.
A hidden compartment behind the closet wall slid open with a hiss.
Sylarion froze.....