Chapter 1
The Grand Hall of the Sterling Estate glowed under the light of countless chandeliers, each crystal reflecting like a star.
Laughter, a delicate melody, danced with the clinking of silverware and the murmur of polite conversation.
It was a night for gilded smiles and whispered secrets, a tableau of the realm's most esteemed families gathered for Baron Sterling's annual autumn banquet.
The air, rich with the scent of imported flowers and aged wine, carried a subtle tension beneath the surface of well-mannered society.
Then, the double doors at the far end of the hall creaked open, not with the fanfare of an awaited guest, but with a hesitant, almost mournful sigh.
Framed against the deepening twilight outside stood a figure that seemed to drain the color from the already vibrant room.
Clad not in the silken finery expected, but in a dark, nondescript hoodie that seemed to absorb the light, a young man stepped into the glittering assembly.
His face, partially obscured by the cowl, was a study in shadows, his stance radiating an aura of profound disquiet.
A wave of unease swept through the room as the gathered nobility collectively gasped.
Eyes widened, forks froze mid-air, and laughter stopped abruptly. This wasn't just a fashion mistake, it was a bold challenge to the unspoken rules of their world.
A young nobleman, Lord Harrington, his jaw working as if he'd bitten into something sour, pointed a trembling finger.
"It's… it's Victor! Victor Volkov!"
His voice, though hushed, carried an unnerving resonance, laced with a morbid fascination. "They say he's… mad. They say he killed his own mother."
The whispers, like venomous serpents, slithered through the hall, each word a sharpened barb.
Harrington, emboldened by the rapt attention of the crowd, leaned closer to his neighbor, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. "And the Countess Volkov… poor woman. They say she took her own life, driven to despair by her son's madness. A tragic end to a noble line."
Victor, who had been drifting through the periphery of the crowd, his gaze unfocused as if searching for something lost in the very fabric of the room, froze.
The casual cruelty of Harrington's words, the way he'd so flippantly dissected the shattered remnants of his family for the amusement of strangers, struck Victor like a physical blow.
It wasn't just the lies, but the intent were the naked desire to wound, to gain favor through the desecration of another's pain.
A low growl, barely audible, rumbled in Victor's chest. His head snapped up, his eyes, now sharp and piercing, locking onto Harrington.
The air in his immediate vicinity seemed to crackle with an unseen energy.
"Seduce a woman by slandering her family?"
When Victor finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, lacking its usual aristocratic tone.
It was the sound of a predator cornered, a sound that promised violence. "You're no better than a desperate hound, craving attention and sniffing around the graves of those who can't fight back".
Harrington, shocked by the sudden harsh reply, stammered, his face turning pale. "How dare you?"
Before he could finish, Victor moved. It was less a charge and more a fluid, predatory glide. With a fierce roar, he grabbed a heavy crystal decanter of red wine from a nearby table. The glass caught the light, glinting ominously. In a sudden blur, Victor swung it with surprising force.
"BOOM!"
The impact was loud and brutal, a harsh crunch that broke the stunned silence.The decanter shattered against Harrington's forehead, spraying wine and glass shards like shrapnel. Harrington crumpled to the ground, a dazed, bleeding heap.
But Victor was not finished. The rage, a tempest that had been brewing for years, finally broke free. He rained blows upon the fallen nobleman, each kick a thunderous impact that seemed to shake the very foundations of the hall.
The polished marble floor cracked and shattered under the force of Victor's strike.
The air shrieked around him as his limbs moved with impossible speed, each strike accompanied by the whistling sound of displaced air. His fists connected with a sickening thud, the sound echoing like a war drum.
Harrington's moans were lost in the cacophony of Victor's unleashed fury.
The shocked guests scrambled back, their faces masks of horror and disbelief.Guards, drawn by the noise, rushed in with swords raised, but paused, shaken by the wild fury of Victor's attack.
Just as the guards closed in, a voice, ethereal and calm, cut through the chaos. "Victor, my boy. Remember your father's words. Discretion."
Victor, mid-swing, faltered. His eyes, wild with fury moments before, now flickered as if he were listening to an unseen presence. He seemed to be arguing with empty air. "He was too loud, Lucas. He deserved it."
The guards exchanged bewildered glances. The nobles huddled together, whispering about spectral voices and the undeniable madness that had finally consumed the young Volkov heir.
They could see Victor interacting with someone, his body language clearly indicating a conversation, yet no one else was there.
A ghostly figure, translucent and shimmering like moonlight on water, appeared beside Victor.
This was Lucas, a being tethered to this world by unfinished business, a scholar of the unseen, and now, it seemed, Victor's unlikely guide. Lucas's form was indistinct, his eyes holding an ancient, knowing sadness.
"He was disrupting the peace, Lucas," Victor argued, his voice still carrying a raw edge.
Lucas sighed, the sound like the whisper of wind through dry leaves.
"Your affliction, Victor, is a double-edged sword. You are blessed, or perhaps cursed, with an affinity for the darkness. It is a power that feeds on negative emotions like anger, fear, despair. Nurture it carelessly, and it will corrupt you, twist you into a cruel, merciless warlock, a creature of pure shadow."
Victor's chest heaved, the residual fury slowly receding, replaced by a dawning, chilling understanding. He could feel the darkness within him, a palpable force seeking to engulf him, whispering promises of power and oblivion.
"Calm yourself, Victor,"
Lucas urged, his voice a gentle balm. "If you succumb to the rage, you will become a fallen warlock, a puppet of the very shadows you seek to command."
As Victor's breathing evened out, the wildness in his eyes began to recede. He could feel the oppressive weight of unseen gazes. Not the stares of the nobles, but the lingering resentments of spirits, the echoes of past tragedies that populated the world. Their curses, their desires for his suffering, washed over him like a cold tide.
Suddenly, an invisible force slammed into him, sending him staggering.
Simultaneously, a knight's gauntlet clamped down on his collar, yanking him backward. The pain was sharp, a jolt that vibrated through his entire being.
In that moment of intense pain and confusion, fragmented images, vivid and jarring, flashed through his mind.
A street in Insadong, the air filled with the smell of grilled meat, the warmth of a shared meal… memories of a past life, a life as Edric Thornwell.
And then, the truth, stark and terrifying, crashed down upon him. This world, this opulent hall, these horrified faces, they were all elements of a novel he'd once devoured: "The Grasp of Darkness."
He was Victor Volkov, son of the esteemed Countess and Lord Volkov, a character in a story he had only read. His family, his status, his very existence. It was all a meticulously crafted narrative.
A translucent interface appeared before his eyes, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Two choices pulsed before him: "Resist Your Fate" or "Comply."
His past self, Edric Thornwell , had often lamented the helplessness of characters trapped by destiny. Victor, now standing on the precipice of his own predetermined tragedy, refused to be a passive player.
With a surge of newfound resolve, he focused his will on the interface. "Resist," he thought, the word a silent roar in his mind.
The hall dissolved into a kaleidoscope of light. Countless threads, shimmering in hues of crimson and sapphire, erupted into existence, weaving an intricate tapestry around him.
Lucas's voice, tinged with awe, echoed, "The fate threads… You have chosen your path, Victor. Now, you must find and cut off all the red threads. The blue ones are mere whispers of possibility, but the red… the red are destiny's chains."