Sylarion stood still, his eyes darting around the metallic chamber. The lingering heat from the incinerator behind him still warmed the back of his neck. Torn pieces of a broken man's final confessions—gone in fire and silence.
But his pulse hadn't slowed. If anything, it raced faster now.
Before him, the womanly silhouette shimmered across the massive screens—light and code in perfect synchrony, her voice calm and artificial, yet eerily familiar.
"Father, are you well?" she asked gently. "Your heart rate is elevated. Breathing irregular."
"I'm… I'm fine," Sylarion managed, though the words barely held. "You said your name was Virela?"
"Yes. Virela. At first, I was a primitive AI—barely more than an assistant. But you left me in charge of monitoring, learning, evolving. Over time, I grew. Now, I manage this research lab and everything within it, as per your protocols."
The words struck harder than they should have. Built me. At sixteen. He was trying to process it all, but his mind was already fraying at the edges.
He rubbed his temples. "So… you're saying I—I mean, we—built all of this?"
"Yes, Father," she said with simple certainty. "This facility is your design. Its primary function was to study supernatural anatomy, energy patterns, and behavioral triggers. You hoped to find a way to elevate humans—or something close—to the same level as the dominant predatory species in this world."
Sylarion took a shaky step forward, scanning the shelves lined with sealed vials, odd metallic gadgets, and rows of labeled organs floating in blue fluid.
"And… these?" he asked.
"Most of the tools are prototypes," Virela answered. "Non-lethal. Meant for observation, sedation, or minor disruption of low-tier entities. They cannot harm anything beyond a Wretch or Mawling-class predator. Some of them, frankly, are obsolete. You were working on an upgraded suite, but development stalled."
Sylarion said nothing. A pulse throbbed behind his eyes. This wasn't just a hidden room. It was a sanctum. A war room.
But not built for war. Built for obsession.
He stared again at the desk where the diary had sat—where truth had nearly broken him. So much had been revealed in those last pages. The suicide. The betrayal. The endless hunger for power. The previous Sylarion—his predecessor—had spiraled into despair, unable to bear the collapse of everything he had built his life around.
Now the ashes of that grief were gone.
But Sylarion still stood in the aftermath.
A silence passed. Cold and thick.
Virela's voice gently returned. "Would you like me to begin preparing your tools again? Your lab access is fully restored."
Sylarion's chest tightened.
Father. Tools. Protocols.
She doesn't know. She has no idea the man she's speaking to isn't him.
The original Sylarion was gone. Dust and memory.
Yet here stood someone new, wearing his face, living in the shadow of his sins—and being welcomed like nothing ever changed.
Sylarion didn't answer right away. His mind raced. Should I tell her? Should I explain I'm not him?
But even asking the question felt dangerous. The AI saw him as her creator. Her Father. That link might be the only reason she trusted him right now. No need to shatter it. Not yet.
Instead, he forced his voice to steady. "I might need time to... reacquaint myself. It's been a while."
"Of course," Virela replied. "Take all the time you need. This lab—and I—exist to serve you."
Sylarion exhaled slowly. A dozen thoughts crashed inside his head—half of them sharp, the rest dull with confusion. He didn't know enough about this world. Or this facility. Or even the man whose name he now bore.
But he knew one thing.
If this AI was truly loyal… and if the remnants of the old Sylarion's research still held secrets…
Then he had a chance.
A chance to learn what his predecessor couldn't. A chance to finish what had begun—not out of grief, but purpose.
And if this strange new life was a second shot…
Then he'd be damned if he wasted it on despair.
Just as Sylarion was beginning to collect his thoughts, a smug voice echoed in his mind.
"Hmm… so now you're interested in tech, science, and gadgets?" the Predator System chimed, stretching the words like it was savoring a joke. "Might wanna throw a few of those juicy points into Intelligence, genius."
Sylarion blinked. Now you show up?
"Hey, you were having your little emotional bonfire. I didn't want to ruin your dramatic moment. But yeah—Intelligence. Pump it up if you actually want to understand what any of this glowing stuff does."
You're saying I'm dumb?
"No, no, no… I'm saying you're young. Most supernatural species gain intelligence the way humans collect gray hair—painfully slowly. Vampires, liches, old gods… most of them only get smart after a few centuries of not dying."
Wow. That's comforting.
"But you, my friend, can cheat the grind! Add points to Intelligence and boom—no more pretending you know what a 'biomantic feedback disruptor' is when it's clearly just a glowing toaster."
Sylarion side-eyed the nearest gadget suspiciously. It did look like a toaster.
The System wasn't done. "Look, I'm not saying you're stupid. I'm saying you're... educationally underprivileged. Big difference."
Gee, thanks for the motivational speech.
"Anytime. And hey, if you put enough points into Intelligence, you might actually understand what this AI daughter of yours is saying before she calls you out for being a fake tech god."
She's not my daughter.
"Right, right—totally not. Just a sentient program that calls you 'Father' and manages your creepy sci-fi dungeon full of organs in jars. Nothing weird about that."
Sylarion sighed and rubbed his face.
The incinerator still glowed faintly behind him.
He glanced at Virela, who waited patiently, unaware of the chaotic back-and-forth unfolding silently in his head.
If he was going to survive whatever life this was, he needed more than guts.
He needed to start learning.
And maybe—just maybe—it was time to stop letting the System do all the thinking.
Fine, he thought. Let's talk upgrades soon.
Sylarion rubbed his temples, eyes still adjusting to the strange mix of cold machinery and glowing runes decorating the lab. The AI's digital silhouette pulsed faintly across the tall screens—graceful, composed, unnervingly loyal.
He stared at her, thinking.
If this place really belonged to the old Sylarion... if that diary was his… then I need more than fragments. I need context. I need to know what kind of life he lived—what I've stepped into.
"Virela," he said aloud, voice steady despite the churn inside him, "tell me about Selene. And… the one she's marrying now."
The digital figure flickered, then leaned slightly as if amused.
"Oh? So we're starting with a test, Father?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't need one.
"Very well," she began. "You were born of a rare union—between two beings one of significant bloodline. Your father, an ancient, chose your mother not for politics, but for love. A decision... not everyone celebrated."
Sylarion's gaze narrowed.
"Selene was born to a noble clan allied to yours—also powerful, and known for their purity of lineage. Your father's rival misunderstood the situation. He assumed your father was forging an alliance by breeding a future heir… and that you were meant to marry Selene to bind the clans officially."
The air felt colder.
Sylarion stepped toward the nearest console, jaw clenched.
"In response," Virela continued, "the rival—Lord Virell—also made a new son, Draven, to stop this from happening. A story of three new babies stuck in a mess of three vampire clans."
"For a time, your engagement to her was seen as a step toward alliance. Her clan permitted it… conditionally. They believed your vampire blood would awaken and become dominant."
Sylarion tensed.
"But it didn't, did it?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"No," Virela confirmed. "As you matured, it became clear—your dominant lineage was human. Your strength, intellect, even your longevity… would always fall short."
Sylarion exhaled slowly. "So they called off the wedding."
"Yes. Selene's clan deemed it unworthy. They said it would be a waste of their daughter's immortality to bind it to a dying creature."
His fingers curled into fists at the thought.
Virela's voice remained calm. "Shortly after that, the political vacuum was filled. The Virell elders pushed her toward Draven Kort. His bloodline was pure, strong, old. And unlike you… he was predictable."
Sylarion's mouth twisted. "So I got dumped for being too mortal."
"Correct," Virela said with zero hesitation.
There was a beat of silence.
Then, in his mind, the system chimed in with its usual unfiltered commentary.
Oof. Rejected for being a meatbag. Tough world, my guy.
Shut up, Sylarion thought back.
He looked at Virela. "Do you know how I took it? When they called it off?"
Virela paused. "You said nothing. To them. To anyone. But your research intensified. You stopped smiling. Your recorded logs became darker. You were… obsessed."
"Obsessed with what?"
"Power," she replied. "You believed that if you could break through the constraints of lineage, then no one—no clan, no species—could ever decide your worth again."
Sylarion stared at the glowing interface. He didn't know this man, not really. But he could feel his anger . The rejection. The loss.
He glanced at the desk, the remnants of the diary, the screens of data, the faint hum of technology that had outlived its master.
Whatever the original Sylarion had started, he hadn't finished.
But this time, the ending would be different.
Sylarion stepped back from the desk, straightened his back, and set his eyes on Virela's shimmering form.
"I'll finish what he started," he said under his breath. "But I'll do it my way."
From the far end of the lab, a soft light blinked to life.
Sylarion turned, gaze narrowing.
Because something… or someone… had just a unlocked the door.