Change Is Coming (14)

Drexsic Manor stood in its usual stillness, a towering structure of prestige and power, reflecting the dark legacy of House Drexsic. Within its vast halls, behind thick walls of black marble, Vryne stood before a full-length mirror in his private chambers, adjusting the collar of his tailored suit.

His attire was an impeccable blend of modern sophistication and old-world aristocracy—fitting for the son of a high noble family. The suit was crafted from Nyxweave, a rare, magically enhanced fabric known for its self-mending properties and ability to resist wear. The jacket was obsidian black, outlined with delicate silver embroidery tracing elegant yet subtle geometric patterns, an insignia of his house. The stark contrast of the pristine white undershirt, woven from Celestine silk, gave it an air of refined opulence. The midnight black tie, smooth and perfectly knotted, rested against his chest like a noose—a fitting metaphor, considering what he planned for today. His black trousers were tailored to perfection, meeting polished dress shoes made from Drakehide leather, tough yet sleek.

Staring at his reflection, Vryne let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"I really do look like a modern-day aristocrat… then again, this world is supposed to be an advanced version of Earth."

His fingers lingered over his tie as he spoke, his expression unreadable. It had been several weeks since he had awakened in this body, days of staring into this mirror and seeing a stranger's face—yet, it was supposed to be his face now.

Vryne El Drexsic.

His gaze darkened as he traced the contours of his features, as though memorizing them all over again. His hair, a Bright amber, fell in layered strands, framing a face that exuded cold elegance. His skin was impossibly smooth, almost inhumanly so, and his features were as sharp as a sculptor's masterpiece both exuding Youth and maturity. Yet, it was his pitch-black eyes—bottomless, void-like—that unsettled even himself. There was an unnatural depth to them, something that seemed to swallow all light.

"I've seen this face for days now… and yet, I can barely remember my own."

He whispered the thought aloud, his tone neutral, but a hint of unease crept in.

His real name was Dante.

He had been a college student, an editor for obscure webnovels, taking on projects for quick cash. He had agreed to edit The Hero's Ascent for a ridiculous sum, a novel he barely cared for beyond making it more readable. And now?

He was here.

A transmigrated soul, thrown into the world of fiction he had once only skimmed through. It was absurd. Ludicrous. Impossible. But no matter how much he denied it, reality had a cruel way of proving itself.

His hands clenched into fists. He had spent every waking moment since his arrival trying to understand how this happened. He buried himself in studies—magic, alchemy, Old Testament manuals, historical archives, ancient texts—yet nothing, not a single damn thing, hinted at anything related to transmigration. No forbidden arts, no eldritch anomalies, no divine interventions.

Nothing.

That was what truly unsettled him.

"What if I'm stuck here forever?"

The question had haunted him more than he cared to admit. He had considered the benefits—wealth, status, a powerful bloodline, abilities beyond his wildest imagination. Even his physical appearance was leagues beyond his past self. And yet, the negatives overshadowed it all.

His father, Ivor, the soon-to-be Duke of Dread, was watching him closely. If he acted too differently, he could be disowned—or worse, disposed of. There were hidden enemies lurking in the shadows, eager to strike. And above all, the protagonist of this world, the so-called Hero, was still out there.

In the original story, Vryne El Drexsic was destined to die.

He exhaled slowly, suppressing the wave of frustration rising within him. He couldn't afford to dwell on hypotheticals.

He turned his gaze to the calendar hanging on the far wall. The date stood out in bold ink:

[Aurember 14th.]

Today marked the public announcement of his engagement to Solara Greysteel.

Without hesitation, he walked over to his desk, picked up a black pen, and drew a sharp X over the date.

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

His fingers grazed the surface of the desk, finding his black gloves. He slid them on, adjusting the fit around his wrists.

Then, turning toward the door, he reached for the handle, his expression unreadable.

"Change is coming."

With that, he stepped out.