Rahil's fingers trembled slightly as he traced the faded ink on the last page of The Chronicles of Demonte House. The book seemed alive, almost breathing beneath his hands. Then, tucked behind the final leaf, he saw it — a folded page, brittle and yellow with age. He pulled it free.
It was a map.
Not just any map — this one was hand-drawn, its edges scorched as though saved from fire. At the center, circled in thick red ink, was a single mark: Demonte Estate.
"Of course," Rahil muttered. "Of course it's real."
He stared at the map for a long time. Curiosity gnawed at him, something between fear and obsession. What will I find there? he thought. A ruin? A ghost? Or… something worse?
There was only one way to know.
---
The estate was nothing like he'd imagined. The grand palace built atop Demonte House's ashes now stood in solemn isolation, surrounded by overgrown gardens and blackened banyan trees. The air itself felt heavier here, and the street lamps flickered even in daylight.
"This place," Rahil whispered, "is alive."
He approached the iron gates. They swung open with a groan, as though welcoming him — or warning him.
Inside, the world felt colder.
The once-majestic palace was falling apart, yet its bones were still beautiful: tall archways, crumbling marble statues, carvings of colonial angels and Hindu demons etched side by side. Vines crawled along the walls like veins, and a crow cawed somewhere in the distance.
And there — sitting on the cracked stone steps — was a boy.
No, not a boy. A young man. Barely eighteen.
His skin was pale as moonlight, his eyes a deep storm-gray. He was dressed in torn European-style clothes, as if he'd stepped out of a portrait from the 1800s. When he saw Rahil, his eyes lit up with excitement, almost glowing… but just as quickly, he looked away, hiding it behind a mask of indifference.
"Who are you?" Rahil asked, stopping a few feet away.
"I live here," the boy said flatly. "I am this place."
---
Rahil tried to step forward — but he couldn't. His foot met resistance mid-air, as if slamming into an invisible wall. He pushed again. Nothing. It was like the house itself was rejecting him.
"So… that's how it is," he muttered. "A barrier."
He thought for a moment. Then a wicked idea crossed his mind.
A smile curled across his lips.
He reached forward and placed a single finger on the boy's forehead.
"Wha—!" the boy gasped.
In an instant, the air shimmered. Flesh shifted. Bone reshaped. The boy's frame elongated, his clothes melting into a cascade of silk and lace. When the glow faded, standing before Rahil was a tall, breathtaking woman — curves accentuated by her now-lewd Victorian dress, her lips trembling as awareness flooded her eyes.
The barrier shattered like glass.
"Wha… what did you do to me?" she gasped, her voice now a sultry alto.
Before Rahil could reply, a wave of information — his will — surged into her mind. The transformation was deeper than flesh; it was ownership. Her eyes widened, then softened. She bowed deeply.
"I am Vikra," she whispered. "I serve you now, my lord."
Rahil's throat went dry. His body reacted instantly, desire surging through him. Damn it… he thought. If not for the situation, I'd drag her to bed right here.
But he forced himself to focus. There were bigger matters at hand.
"Show me inside," he ordered.
"Yes, master."
---
The interior was suffocating darkness. No lamps. No windows. No life. Only the faint, sweet scent of something… intoxicating. It clung to his senses, a perfume that fogged his thoughts and stirred his body.
"Careful," Vikra whispered. "The house does not like strangers."
Rahil took another step. And then another. And then—
The world shifted.
The hallway dissolved around him, melting into something else. A dimly lit room unfolded before his eyes — massive, luxurious, and suffocating. At its center was a bed larger than any he'd ever seen, draped in crimson sheets that shimmered like blood.
"What the hell…?" he breathed.
He felt something brush his jawline — a soft, deliberate touch.
He tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond.
"Don't bother," a voice said, smooth and aged, with a heavy British accent. "You cannot move here. This place belongs to me."
The voice circled him, unseen. "You're quite special, you know. No one has ever changed him before. I cannot control him anymore."
Rahil's lips curled into a smirk despite his paralysis. "Is that so?"
Then he felt a hand brush against his own — and that was all he needed.
With a thought, his power surged. The room trembled.
And before him, the air shimmered and reshaped into flesh.
Now, standing there, was a mature woman — British, regal, and impossibly seductive. Her body was that of a seasoned temptress, curves wrapped in a black corset and lace gloves. Her eyes, however, betrayed something else: submission.
"Who are you?" Rahil demanded.
"My name is Dante," she said, bowing slightly. "I was once Demonte's most loyal follower."
"Was?"
"You have made me yours now."
"Where is Demonte?"
A smile — bitter and broken — crossed her lips. "He is no longer here."
Rahil's heart skipped. "What?"
"He isn't in this realm anymore," Dante said, pacing slowly. "He ascended beyond it. He is now a demon king. He left this place months ago… seeking power elsewhere."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know. But he said something about… dimensions. That another timeline — another reality — was brushing against this one. It was unstable. Dangerous. And it would allow him to grow stronger."
"Another timeline?" Rahil frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I truly do not know more. But I remember his words. He said: 'This world is about to change. Our dimension is no longer isolated. Something new is coming. And to survive it… I must evolve.'"
Silence fell between them.
Rahil's mind raced. Two months ago… that's when it started?
He counted back, lips moving silently. Wait… when did I arrive here? Two months ago? More? Less?
His thoughts spiraled. Was my arrival… connected?
"Why did I come here in the first place…?" he murmured.
The question hung heavy in the air. Even Dante had no answer.
---
He stood there in the dimly lit chamber, the scent of sin clinging to every breath, surrounded by ghosts of a history soaked in lust, power, and punishment. And for the first time since his death, Rahil felt a strange sensation bloom inside him.
Doubt.
Was he truly here by chance?
Or had something — or someone — pulled him into this world for a purpose far larger than his revenge or hatred?
The ground beneath his feet pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
And somewhere, far beyond the walls of Demonte's cursed mansion, the threads of fate began to twist — two timelines brushing against each other, preparing for a collision neither realm could stop.