(Author's Note: This chapter contains themes of grief and references to suicide.This chapter deals with themes of loss and despair. Sylarion's story is one of survival—not surrender. If you or someone you know is struggling, remember: pain is not the end of the road. There is always a path forward, and you are never alone.)
Sylarion stood motionless in the heart of the strange metallic chamber, the soft hum of machinery weaving a constant tension in the air. The woman-shaped silhouette of code shimmered across the giant screens, lines of data flickering like fireflies as it took form—elegant, ethereal, and undeniably artificial.
Then came the voice again—smooth, feminine, confident.
"Yes, Father. My name is Virela. You created the foundation of my code when you were sixteen."
Sylarion blinked. "I... made you?"
The words felt surreal, as if he were watching someone else's story unfold.
"At sixteen, I could barely survive algebra," he muttered under his breath.
Virela's tone remained unchanged. "You were a genius in applied neural scripting and adaptive data loops. I am the result of your early framework—expanded through decades of autonomous learning and layered upgrades. You left me with one directive: to adapt and survive."
His thoughts whirled. This wasn't just some high-tech tool—it was a remnant of whoever Sylarion Drekkh had been before he arrived in this body.
He hesitated, then asked aloud, "So... you know everything about me?"
There was a pause before Virela answered. "I know most things. Enough to understand your primary drives. You were intelligent. Cold. Calculative. Your obsession was singular—finding a path to power that could rival or surpass the supernatural species dominating this world."
Sylarion's lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
"Smart and power-hungry, huh?"– Guess some things don't change, he thought privately.
The system chuckled in his mind. "You sure she's not your type? She sounds like the daughter of Skynet and your ego."
"Shut up. Not the time."
His eyes shifted back to the softly glowing silhouette. First the diary… now this AI. If both belonged to the real Sylarion, then this place held the answers. The kind of answers he desperately needed.
For the first time since arriving in this cold, blood-laced world, he felt the pieces starting to align.
And then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Looks like I've got some reading to do."
Sylarion stared at the massive book in his hands. Its pages were thick, bound in aged leather, and the sheer weight of it felt more like a tomb than a diary. This wasn't some petty notebook—this was a goddamn worldbook.
His eyes twitched. I can't read all of this. Even if I tried, it'd take days... maybe weeks. I need answers now.
"Just as I thought," the system grumbled in his mind, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Your lazy ass can't even read a few pages to save your own life."
Shut up, Sylarion shot back mentally. Nobody asked for your useless commentary.
He turned his gaze to the glowing figure on the screen. "Virela… is there a way to, I don't know, extract the important stuff? Just the critical information?"
The AI responded with her usual calm, shimmering faintly. "Father, you never instructed me to read or catalog your personal diary. However, I can assist. I can scan, compile, and summarize its contents if you so request."
Sylarion paused. He could've easily said yes.
But something held him back.
"No thanks," he said quickly, pulling the diary a little closer.
There's got to be a reason I didn't want even an AI to read this, he thought, frowning. I need to know what kind of person I really was… but on my own terms.
Sylarion exhaled slowly, dragging a chair toward the nearby desk. He placed the massive diary down with a dull thud, its weight echoing through the metal-and-glow chamber.
Last hundred pages. That should be enough, he thought, cracking the final section open.
His eyes scanned line after line. His past life's reading habits kicked in like muscle memory—he tore through the entries with focused silence. One page turned, then another. The minutes bled into each other. An hour passed. Then another thirty minutes.
By the time he closed the book, his fingers were trembling again—but not from fatigue.
It wasn't a legacy he'd uncovered. It was a tragedy.
The entries grew darker, more erratic toward the end. There were no secrets of power, no brilliant revelations—just heartbreak, obsession, and descent.
The original Sylarion Drekkh had taken his own life.
All for a fiancée who had called off their engagement... to marry his tormentor. His bully. The one person who had made his life miserable for years.
Sylarion leaned back in the chair, cold sweat gathering at his temples.
This guy… had nothing left. No purpose, no future. Just one last hope that died because of one person.
Sylarion stared at the final page like it had just confessed a murder.
The handwriting was uneven—no longer elegant, but shaky, desperate. A soul collapsing under the weight of grief had etched every letter in ink and agony.
If you're reading this… then maybe I was wrong. Maybe someone out there will care, even a little. But I can't go on. Not after her. Not after everything was taken from me. The pain is louder than my thoughts now.
He kept reading.
I loved her. And when she left… she didn't just cancel a wedding. She ended the only thing that ever made sense to me. Selene was the last thread tying me to this cursed life. And now she belongs to him. To Draven. Of all people.
Sylarion's throat tightened. His fingers curled at the mention of that name.
I've studied monsters, gods, curses. I've bled for power and begged for knowledge. But what use is any of it now? Even the heavens mock me. So this is my final entry. The last thing I will write. The story ends here.
The moment froze.
Silence fell in the steel-clad room, broken only by the faint hum of unseen machinery. The diary weighed heavy in his hands—no longer just a book, but a coffin of someone else's despair.
He looked down at the words.
Then… slowly, he ripped the page.
The sound echoed in the strange metal chamber like a whispering scream.
He didn't stop.
One by one, he tore out every page that referenced the end—every sentence soaked in defeat, every confession of surrender. The final entries of the real Sylarion Drekkh were reduced to shredded scraps.
Not because he pitied the man.
But because he refused to be buried by a ghost.
This was his life now.
His story.
And no one's tragedy would dictate how it unfolded.
He swept the torn fragments into his palm and marched to the side of the room. A square metal hatch with an incinerator symbol glowed faintly on the wall. He shoved the paper in without hesitation.
A burst of white flame devoured it all in seconds. The smoke left no ash, no trace.
Gone.
Forever.
He stood in silence, watching the light fade.
The system's voice murmured in his mind, unusually quiet."A symbolic gesture. Are you sure you're not the dramatic one here?"
Sylarion didn't reply.
His eyes remained fixed on the incinerator, jaw tight, shoulders rigid.
He didn't blame the man who came before—but he'd never follow that path. Whatever the pain, life was still his to shape. And no enemy, no heartbreak, would take that away from him again.
He whispered—more to himself than to anyone else, "The real Sylarion may be dead... but his story didn't end that day."
He turned back toward the glowing figure of the AI, toward the massive diary still spread across the desk, toward the labyrinth of secrets waiting in this strange room.
A quiet resolve set in his bones.
No more accidents. No more flailing in the dark.
It was time to start walking forward—with eyes open and claws ready.
He may have inherited a corpse's burdens, a diary of despair, and a future wrapped in shadow...
But he would not cower.
He would not break.
Because the story wasn't over.
Not even close.
It was just beginning.
And he would make damn sure it ended on his terms.