Chapter 9 — Sylan Kyle Von Noctis, 2
At first, there was no body.
Only a sensation like drowning in glass. Shards of memory—his own, and not his own—ripped across his mind, cutting him open, trying to stitch him into a pattern he didn't recognize. Jin Soowhi screamed, but his voice came back doubled, echoed, like another person screamed through his throat at the same time.
His memories at first.The battlefield in North Korea, the dirt caked in blood, his comrades dragging themselves through mud before collapsing for good. His ex-girlfriend's laughter as she wrapped her legs around another man, his phone vibrating with messages he'd never forget. The headlights, the screech of metal, the sickening crunch of bones.
Not his memories but Sylan's.A boy—blond hair shining under chandeliers—stood in a marble hall. Voices of nobles buzzed, polite and venomous at once. "Sylan Kyle Von Noctis," they called, bowing with smiles that didn't touch their eyes.Another scene—Sylan, chin tilted arrogantly, barking at a servant who'd dropped a tray. His voice was sharp, cruel, the words rolling out with entitled disgust. The servant bowed lower, lips trembling.Then another—his father's voice, cold and heavy as stone: "You shame the Noctis line. You waste the blood in your veins."A final one—mocking laughter in a candlelit hall, other young nobles smirking as Sylan clenched his fists, humiliated, their whispers cutting deeper than any blade.
The void blurred the two lives together until he couldn't breathe.
Soldier.Aristocrat.Betrayed lover.Arrogant heir.Dying in mud.Dying in silk.
The overwriting pressed harder, forcing the boy's name—forcing Sylan Kyle Von Noctis—into his every thought. He clawed against it, snarling in the dark, refusing to surrender.
"No! I'm Jin Soowhi! I was a soldier! I bled, I fought, I cursed that fucking game! You won't erase me—you hear me?! You won't erase me!"
The world fractured, two voices battling for dominance in his skull, one cold and aristocratic, the other raw and furious. And then—
Silence.
The pressure lifted. His chest heaved. His head pounded, but he was still there. Not gone. Not erased. Both memories clung to him now—his life as Jin, and fragments of Sylan's, sharp and bitter.
He had survived the overwrite.
His eyes snapped open.
Air rushed into his lungs, thick and perfumed, nothing like the smog of Seoul or the acrid smoke of battlefields. He lay on silk sheets, softer than anything he'd ever touched, inside a canopy bed carved with golden vines. Above, the ceiling glittered faintly with paint and gemstones, patterns spiraling like constellations.
Jin pushed himself upright. His chest felt tight, his arms light. He looked down—smooth, pale hands met his eyes, long fingers unmarred by scars. Not his hands. Not his skin.
Slowly, his gaze shifted to the room. Ornate walls gilded with gold. Heavy velvet curtains. Candles flickering in crystal sconces. A place so suffocatingly extravagant it made his teeth grit.
But the mirror in the corner called to him.
He stood, unsteady, bare feet brushing against carpets softer than grass. Each step felt wrong—this body was taller, leaner, lighter. Sixteen years old, maybe. Still growing, yet already beautiful in a way that didn't feel human.
He reached the mirror.
And froze.
The boy staring back was… stunning. Blond hair fell in soft waves, catching light like threads of molten gold. His jawline was sharp, flawless. His lips were pale, shaped with aristocratic precision. His skin was smooth, untouched by sun or war.
But the eyes—
Crimson. Deep, chaotic, with black undertones like an abyss swirling beneath. They glowed faintly, unnatural, mesmerizing.
Jin's breath hitched. He lifted a hand, pressing trembling fingers to the glass. The boy's reflection mirrored him, crimson eyes locked onto his.
"…That's me," he whispered.
The voice startled him. Smooth, elegant, higher than his old one—yet carrying authority, as though bred for command. He touched his throat, disturbed.
Then his hair—soft, sliding like silk between his fingers. His jawline, sharp enough to cut. His cheek, warm under his palm. He studied every detail, testing, confirming.
"This isn't me," he muttered. His crimson eyes stared back, wide, unsettling. "…But it is."
Hate surged—he hated the beauty, the falseness, the aristocratic fragility. And yet… admiration slipped through. This was one of the faces he remembered most from Love and Chains. A face cursed to die early, but unforgettable.
Jin's lips parted. The name slipped out unbidden, tasting strange yet inevitable.
"…Sylan."
The mirror boy whispered it back.
"…Sylan Kyle Von Noctis."
The syllables echoed in the chamber, final, heavy, sealing the truth.
And Jin—no, Sylan—stood staring at his reflection, crimson eyes glowing in the dark.