Sylarion pulled the silk nightwear over his frame, the fabric smooth and far too luxurious for someone who once wore threadbare hoodies. He couldn't help but linger, fingers brushing against the intricate designs on the closet's velvet-lined walls.
"Damn," he muttered, lifting a high-collared coat that shimmered slightly under the light. "Rich people really live like this…"
He spent a few more seconds checking out a pair of gloves and boots when a flicker of light suddenly flashed across his eyes—brief, almost like a scanner. He flinched, blinking hard.
"What the hell was that?" he mumbled, waving it off and heading toward the exit of the massive walk-in closet.
Just as his hand touched the door handle—
Bzzt.
A mechanical voice rang out, emotionless but clear:
"Identity confirmed. Access permitted—Owner: Iris Drekkh."
Sylarion froze.
His blood ran cold. "Wait… what?"
Before he could say another word, the system buzzed in.
"That wasn't me."
A low click echoed behind him.
Sylarion turned sharply—one of the closet's walls, hidden behind a row of long black coats, was now... open. A narrow gate, once perfectly blended into the back, had silently shifted ajar. At the same time, the door he'd entered through shut on its own with a soft, final thud.
"What the—"
"Am I in danger?" he muttered, eyes scanning the dark corridor beyond the hidden gate.
"No, I don't think so," the system replied with dry sarcasm. "And stop asking that out loud when you're in danger. Just think it—I can hear it just fine."
Sylarion narrowed his eyes at the open passage behind the clothes, his bare feet stepping cautiously over the smooth floor.
"Should I go in?" he asked silently.
Use your brain, the system replied dryly. Or did you leave that in the bath too?
He rolled his eyes and took a slow breath. The faint hum of energy pulsed from the doorway like something dormant yet aware. Sylarion moved forward, each step measured. His eyes darted along the edges of the hidden passage—smooth, seamless, and unmistakably metallic.
That's when something clicked in his mind.
The shower. The lighting. Even the build of his room… they're all modern. Not medieval like those books showed vampires living in. And now this door—this tech—it's beyond modern. It's futuristic.
His gaze sharpened.
"What the hell kind of world did I reincarnate into?"
Sylarion stepped through the hidden door, the metallic wall sealing shut behind him with a hiss. A sterile chill swept over his skin as he entered the vast, dimly lit room.
The walls were made of seamless black metal, their surfaces pulsing faintly with veins of glowing blue energy. Five enormous screens lined the far side, currently dark, looming like silent sentinels. Along the sides, dozens of metallic desks stood cluttered with jars—each filled with preserved organs suspended in a viscous fluid. Some looked human. Most… did not.
The scent of sterile chemicals mixed with something older, something faintly rotten. The air was heavy with secrets.
It was like someone had smashed together a futuristic laboratory with the hidden sanctum of a witch.
But Sylarion's eyes were drawn to the center of the room.
There, beneath a halo of white light, was a lone podium—polished obsidian, etched with faint sigils. Upon it rested a single book. Its cover shimmered with a dull silver hue, and though it lay still, something about it felt alive.
He took a step forward, breath shallow.
"System… what is this place?"
I don't know.The reply came slower than usual
Sylarion stepped closer, boots clicking softly against the metal floor. The podium gleamed under the low lights, and the book atop it radiated an eerie presence—thick, leather-bound, and ancient-looking.
With a cautious breath, he reached out and opened it.
His eyes scanned the first page. Then the second. Then he flipped rapidly through a few more. His brows furrowed, then lifted in disbelief.
"What the hell...? This is just a damn diary," he muttered. "I thought this was some kind of grimoire—some hidden tome that would grant me secret powers or forbidden knowledge."
Laughter echoed in his mind.
"Am I not cheat enough for you already?" the system quipped, tone dripping with amusement.
Sylarion stared at the diary, then back at the sleek, high-tech podium that displayed it like it held the secrets of the universe.
"…Who the hell puts a diary on a glowing pedestal in a secret room?" he said aloud, voice echoing slightly in the metallic chamber. "What's next, a love letter in a vault?"
The system snorted. "Maybe it belonged to someone important. Or maybe they were just dramatic. Vampires do love theatrics."
Then, a soft chime echoed—followed by a calm, womanly voice that carried through the chamber like velvet.
"Access confirmed. Welcome, Sylarion Drekkh."
All at once, the room responded. Lights flickered on with a mechanical hum, flooding the lab with a sterile white glow. The shadows fled from every corner, revealing even more strange equipment—tools, tubes, metallic limbs suspended in fluid, a wall covered in moving sigils.
Sylarion froze, his fingers still on the diary.
"System…" he thought. "That wasn't you, right?"
"No," the system replied flatly. "And for the record, I don't do eerie voiceovers."
His pulse spiked. Something was watching him—something that knew his name.
Sylarion, still adjusting to the strange contrast of steel and silence, stood cautiously in the middle of the room. The glowing panels, the sterile smell of metal, the preserved jars—everything screamed advanced, eerie, and entirely out of place in what should've been a vampire's estate.
With confusion etched across his face and a faint note of worry in his voice, he looked around the futuristic chamber and asked aloud, "Who are you?"
For a moment, there was only the soft hum of unseen machines. Then, a womanly voice echoed through the room—calm, mechanical, yet strangely warm.
"It's me, Father."
His eyes widened.
"What…?"
The voice replied, clearer this time, laced with something close to reverence.
"Virela. The AI you created."
Senorita, can I get your daughter's number, Father-in-law?
The system's voice echoed in Sylarion's mind with a teasing grin.
Shut up, he snapped back mentally. This isn't the time for your stupid jokes.
Clearing his throat, he looked back at the glowing walls and spoke to the room, trying to keep his voice steady. "Can you explain more?"
The screens lining the walls flickered. Lines of cascading code flowed like waterfalls before gradually forming into a glowing silhouette—feminine in shape, with flowing strands of light and eyes that shimmered like data streams.
"I am Virela," the voice spoke again, this time from the figure. "An artificial intelligence you created at the age of sixteen. With time, I evolved—learning, upgrading, absorbing all information I could access. Now, I exist in this form. I am here to assist you, Father, and execute your every command."
Sylarion blinked. He wasn't well-versed in tech, not in his old world and not here—but even with what little he understood, he realized:
This… was something massive.
Then it clicked.
The diary. The AI. This hidden room buried behind silk and marble.
If that diary truly belonged to him… if this Virela was really his creation…
Then maybe—just maybe—he had the answers. All of them.
Who he was.
Why he was here.
And what this body was truly meant to become.
His eyes locked with the glowing figure on the screen. The silence between them hummed with possibility.
Finally, he thought, a path forward.