The air in the room felt heavy, but I forced myself up. My eyes fell on the simple set of folded clothes on the chair by the desk. A black hoodie, dark jeans, clean sneakers. Practical, almost casual. My body moved before I could second-guess—slipping into them felt oddly natural, like they had been mine all along.
That's when I noticed it.
On the edge of the desk lay something sleek, metallic, glinting faintly under the pale light. A watch. At first glance, it looked expensive—polished steel frame, glossy black face. But the longer I stared, the deeper the familiarity clawed at me. My chest tightened.
I remembered.
The sketches. The author had once posted rough designs of the "Arcana Timepiece also known as Arctic," a device the characters in The Last Inheritor used in place of smartphones for transaction or other purposes. I had laughed back then, thinking it was just a flashy gimmick. A futuristic toy.
But here it was, lying within arm's reach.
My fingers trembled slightly as I picked it up and slipped it onto my wrist.
"Welcome to a new day, Raviel," a crisp, feminine voice chimed as a holographic interface flickered to life above the watch face. It scanned my fingers in a smooth sweep of light. "User verified. The weather today is sunny—ideal for a walk in the city of Velmont."
A shiver ran down my spine. The casualness of it. The personalization. It wasn't fiction anymore.
"Velmont…" I muttered under my breath. One of the many central hubs of the novel. A sprawling, steel-and-glass metropolis with roots deep in history, where some of countless pivotal events unfolded.
The hologram adjusted, revealing rows of options—messages, finances, city maps. I tapped instinctively at the balance icon, half curious, half desperate.
My breath hitched.
Balance: 150,000 Zen.
For a moment, the numbers didn't register. Then, when they did, I felt my knees weaken. This wasn't pocket change. In this world, Zen points weren't just currency—they were lifelines. Enough to buy high-quality potions, enchanted gear, even rare resources.
"Raviel… you weren't just anybody," I whispered.
My pulse quickened. The implications clawed at me. This body didn't belong to a destitute commoner scrabbling in the dirt. No—this amount of money screamed of family wealth, of privilege. That meant influence. Power. Doors I could open without having to claw through them with bloody fingers.
It made things… easier.
But it also raised a question. Why? Why was an Extra like Raviel, someone never mentioned in the narrative, tied to wealth like this?
I clenched my fist, staring at the glowing digits as the weight of realization sank deeper.
Pieces clicked together. The blood. The headaches. The fractured fragments of memory when I first woke up. My gut twisted as the answer sharpened into focus.
Eclipse Vault.
I must have already used it. To recall my memories before thay got erased, to preserve something of myself when I first transmigrated. The blood… it had to be the side effect.
That meant the "me" standing here now wasn't the first attempt. The me before this had already tried to remember, had already gambled with this power. And lost.
The thought was suffocating. I gritted my teeth, clutching at my temples. If that was true, then the system… the rejection… the gaps in memory… all of it tied together into a cruel pattern.
I couldn't afford to let it happen again.
This time, I had to be ready.
My eyes drifted back to the balance, then to the soft hum of the watch projecting the sunny weather over Velmont's skyline. My lips curled into a bitter smile.
The protagonist—the heir of one of the Four Founding Families—had been drowning in riches, armed with blessings and destiny. I had none of those. But I wasn't starting from nothing either.
Raviel Hatcher may have been an Extra. A shadow in the background. A name meant to be forgotten.
But this body, this wealth, this strange fracture of fate—it was my foothold.
And I would need every scrap of advantage to survive the blood-soaked road ahead.
_________________
Raviel tightened the drawstrings of the hoodie and slipped the sleek watch fully into place. Its face pulsed once, the hologram shrinking into a subtle shimmer above the polished glass. Arctic, it called itself in the brief loading text—clean, cold, efficient. A name that suited the weight it carried.
He lingered only a moment longer in the room. The photo on the desk, the scattered furniture, the faint smell of polished wood and sterile air—all of it felt foreign, like a stage he had accidentally wandered onto. He needed to breathe. To see this world for himself.
So he hurried out.
The hallway stretched in silence, lined with ornate fixtures and walls the color of ivory stone. He passed by other doors, polished dark oak with golden inlays, their quiet luxury screaming of wealth. Even before stepping outside, he realized where he was living wasn't just expensive—it was extravagant.
By the time he reached the ground floor and exited through the glass-panel doors, he froze.
The world outside greeted him with a brilliance that stole the breath from his lungs.
Velmont.
Skyscrapers of gleaming steel rose high, their mirrored glass catching the sunlight like blades turned skyward. Yet they did not choke the horizon—greenery wove between the structures, with towering trees arcing above busy streets, gardens suspended on skybridges, and ivy climbing the sides of buildings. Holographic displays hovered faintly in the air, flashing news updates and guild advertisements, while transparent drones zipped overhead like mechanical dragonflies.
It was the marriage of nature and technology—alive, breathing, dazzling.
People moved through the streets in a stream of color and energy. Some in neat officewear, rushing with cases in hand. Others in casual clothes, laughing, scrolling through their Arctic watches as if the devices were extensions of their own skin. Patrol squads were scattered through the area—Association guards, unmistakable in their dark-blue uniforms with silver insignias. They carried sleek weapons at their hips but chatted among themselves casually, as if keeping awakened threats at bay was routine.
Raviel's throat went dry. He had read about Velmont in the novel, but reading was nothing compared to this. To the way it felt—noisy yet harmonious, a city that knew the taste of blood but still dared to smile.
He stepped forward, half in a daze.
That's when he noticed the stares.
Not from everyone—no, the city was too alive for that—but enough that it pricked at the edge of his awareness. A group of girls walking with three boys slowed as he passed, their conversation faltering mid-laughter. One of them tugged lightly at her friend's sleeve, whispering something as her eyes lingered far too long.
"Is he—? That hair…" one murmured, barely audible beneath the hum of the city.
"White hair and purple eyes? No way, that's rare even among awakened," another whispered, awe creeping into her tone.
"He looks like he walked out of a painting…"
The boys with them followed their gazes, expressions tightening in silent irritation. One scoffed under his breath and turned away, but not before Raviel caught the flicker of envy.
Elsewhere, a pair of women seated by a café window noticed him too. Their voices carried just faintly into the street.
"Look at him. That face—like a model, but sharper. Almost… untouchable."
"I've seen plenty of pretty faces. But those eyes—gods, they don't look real."
Raviel didn't hear any of it.
His focus was swallowed by the enormity of the city, by the weight of walking among its people. To him, the stares were nothing but background static. The truth was harsher—he didn't belong here. Not yet.
But the way they looked at him, the way heads turned and conversations faltered, spoke of something else. Whether he accepted it or not, the face of Raviel Hatcher was not invisible. In a city like Velmont, beauty this rare was both a blessing and a curse.
And as Arctic hummed gently on his wrist, projecting the time and faint reminders, Raviel tightened his jaw. He needed potions. He needed preparation. He couldn't let himself get lost in wonder—or in the eyes that lingered on him longer than they should.
Because beauty, in a world where monsters walked among men, was never just admiration.
Sometimes, it was the prelude to being devoured.