Sylarion stood still, mind heavy, heart heavier. The metal walls of the lab pulsed faintly with energy, but the weight in his chest dulled everything. The incinerator behind him still radiated heat, the ashes of the old Sylarion's diary resting deep within its core—along with the words of grief and despair that old self had poured onto those pages.
His thoughts were scattered, skipping between disbelief, anger, and numb acceptance. This place… it was built by a man obsessed with outpacing death. A sanctuary of failed inventions and unfinished ambition.
Was that really him?
His gaze drifted across the glowing equipment and sterile surfaces, the faint hum of machines giving the lab a heartbeat of its own. But then—
Clank. Clunk. Buzz.
A mechanical whir echoed from behind a sealed door to the right.
Sylarion flinched and instinctively stepped back, muscles tensing. His eyes snapped toward the noise. The door hissed open… inward.
And something rolled in.
A small, round-headed robot—less than two feet tall, with wide glowing eyes and twitchy little arms—entered the lab like it owned the place. It beeped once, swiveled its dome-like head, and began vacuuming the floor like the apocalypse hadn't just hit its master's life.
Sylarion stared, deeply disturbed.
"…Virela?" he asked, voice guarded.
"Yes, Father?"
"What… is that?"
"Ah, don't worry," Virela replied casually. "Just a cleaner bot. It's programmed to sweep this section twice a week. Would you like it to play music while it works?"
Sylarion blinked. "It has a music function?"
"Yes. Jazz, lo-fi beats, death metal, ambient underwater whale frequencies—your taste was… broad."
"Right," he muttered, staring at the bot like it might explode.
He shook his head, then gave the lab another slow scan. Despite everything he'd seen, the place felt like it still had more secrets—more passageways, more machines, more hidden truths waiting to punch him in the soul. And yet… he was too tired to care.
Everything had changed in just a few hours. His name. His fate. His entire identity.
The System chose that exact moment to pop back in with its usual tact.
"Whew. You've had a full damn rollercoaster tonight, huh? Mistakenly killed a werewolf, burned some truths, talked to your AI daughter, learned your past life sucked, and now you're being watched by a robot Roomba. Wow. Total cinema."
Sylarion exhaled.
"I'm not even going to respond to that."
"No need. I'm just here for commentary. But like... for real, take a break. You look like someone dropped your soul in a blender."
And that was the one thing Sylarion could agree with.
He stepped toward the center of the lab, where a tall podium stood beneath a soft circle of light. On instinct, he glanced at the old diary again—the one that hadn't been burned. Its heavy cover seemed to stare back at him, like it knew he wasn't ready. This still held many stories of the life of the real Sylarion.
He couldn't leave it just lying around.
"Virela," he said, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes, "Where do I store this?"
"The podium will do, Father," she answered. "It's encoded to your DNA. The entire manor—including this lab—is yours by right. Your father had it legally sealed and safeguarded for your exclusive access. No one else can enter without triggering fatal countermeasures."
Sylarion narrowed his eyes. "My brother?"
Virela's voice held no uncertainty. "If he tried to break into the lab, the defenses would treat him as a threat. There are numerous protocols. Very few survive past the third."
Sylarion didn't know whether to be impressed… or terrified.
Still, some small part of him believed her. This place had already proven itself—both as a fortress and a prison of memory.
So, with cautious fingers, he placed the heavy diary onto the podium.
The reaction was immediate.
The platform hummed softly… then descended into the ground, like a hidden elevator swallowing its contents. A second later, the floor sealed shut again without a trace.
Sylarion's jaw tightened, eyes widening faintly. But he didn't even react beyond that. He simply didn't have the emotional stamina to register another surprise.
Mentally and physically, he was done.
Sylarion gave the now-empty podium one last glance. It looked like it had never moved—no seams, no hint that anything valuable had just vanished into its depths.
His lips tightened.
Even after all that… it still felt like the lab was watching him.
"Virela," he muttered, voice low, "Open the exit. I need to return to my room."
"Of course, Father," the AI replied. "Initiating secure exit protocol."
The polished metallic wall to his left shimmered with blue light, then spiraled open in a smooth helix pattern—revealing the hidden passage through which he had first entered. Cold air greeted him like an old whisper, brushing past his cheek as he stepped through the narrow corridor.
He half-expected to hear a thud behind him. Or another voice. Or footsteps that weren't his own.
But the passage remained quiet. Too quiet.
His mind was still flooded with fragments—of the diary, of the past, of a man who had called this place both home and prison. Sylarion walked slowly, letting the silence settle. The hidden corridor extended longer than he remembered, or maybe it just felt that way because of the weight pressing on his shoulders.
Finally, he reached the end.
Another wall hissed open—and he stepped back into his bedroom.
The familiar scent of this room hit him like a comfort spell. For a moment, it almost felt like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The closet behind him sealed shut with a gentle click, hiding away the labyrinth beneath like a secret never spoken aloud.
Sylarion walked forward, shoulders sagging, each step heavier than the last. The bed sat untouched, covers still neat. He didn't even turn off the lights.
He simply sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the floor.
His fingers trembled, though not from fear. Just exhaustion.
The System chimed in again, voice low this time.
"Hey… you did good. Even if you don't feel it yet."
Sylarion didn't respond.
Not with words.
His head slowly tilted back, eyes closing as he let the silence take over. He didn't know how long he sat there—seconds, minutes, maybe hours. But for the first time since waking in this cursedly familiar body… he allowed himself to simply exist.
No decisions.
No revelations.
No monsters, vampires, or AI daughters with eerie obedience.
Just silence.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he'd start digging into more of his system powers.
Because the past might be buried…
But it wasn't dead.
The next morning…
A strange tune echoed through the room.
It started soft. A few awkward, offbeat piano notes—almost cheerful. Then it twisted, rising into a slow, warped melody like something out of a creepy amusement park.
Sylarion's eyes snapped open.
He sat up halfway, hair a mess, body resisting consciousness.
"What… the hell is that sound?"
The music kept playing, cheery and dissonant all at once. He looked to the bedside table and spotted the culprit—a sleek, modern alarm clock with glowing digits: 08:00 AM.
He slapped it.
The music stopped.
Silence reclaimed the room.
His breathing slowed as he took in his surroundings. Everything still looked high-end and obsidian wood—glass shelves, a seamless blend of noble antiquity and futuristic design.
And that was the strangest thing of all.
He buried his face in his hands. No dreams. Just exhaustion.
Then—
"Morning, Father," Virela chimed through the room's speaker system, tone as clear and emotionless as ever. "I trust your sleep cycle completed successfully?"
Sylarion groaned. "Let me suffer in peace."
Then Sylarion opened his system screen. He looked—and saw it still.
1 Lottery Roll Remaining.
His eyes narrowed, the number glowing crimson like a loaded chamber waiting to be fired.
And this time?
He was going to pull the trigger.