Victor Nightshade stood over the operating table, his cold, calculating eyes fixed on the grotesque creation that lay before him. Years of obsession, sacrifice, and isolation had led to this moment—the culmination of his life's work. His hands, once steady as a surgeon's, now trembled ever so slightly, though he would never admit it.
He had pushed the boundaries of science, defied nature, and ignored morality. But now, in the sterile silence of his private laboratory, surrounded by the tools of his craft and the hum of life-support systems, a creeping dread settled over him.
It wasn't supposed to end like this.
The creature—a being cobbled together from the finest biological components he could harvest—stirred on the table. Victor's heart skipped a beat. It had worked. He had done it. He had created life itself, bending it to his will. But the triumph was fleeting.
The creature's eyes snapped open, glowing with a terrifying awareness. Victor, always in control, suddenly felt a surge of panic.
"You exist because of me," Victor said, his voice low but commanding. "You are my creation. You will obey."
For a moment, the creature remained still, as if considering his words. Then, it smiled—a slow, deliberate gesture that sent a chill through Victor's spine. In that smile, Victor saw his own arrogance reflected back at him, his hubris, his fatal flaw.
Before he could react, the creature moved. Its massive hand clamped around his throat with crushing force. How had he lost control? His breath caught in his chest as he fought for air, gasping, clawing at the hand that held him. It wasn't supposed to end like this.
The world around him blurred, the edges of his vision darkening. He had been too confident, too certain of his dominance. His creation, his undoing. As the pressure increased, crushing his windpipe, his final thought was not one of defiance, but of regret.
Darkness closed in, and with one final, strangled breath, Victor Nightshade died at the hands of his own creation.
But death was not the end.
---
Victor's senses returned in a rush—light, sound, the dull thrum of life pulsing through his body. He inhaled sharply, sitting up with a start. The air was... different. Crisp, unnaturally clean, almost metallic. His body felt strange, too light, like he wasn't fully grounded in it. Too soft. Too foreign.
He blinked, staring at his hands—slimmer, smoother, younger than he remembered. His breath quickened, the sterile scent of the room filling his lungs. This was not his body. Panic flared in his chest, but before he could react further, a voice, calm and mechanical, echoed in his mind.
"Welcome, Victor Nightshade, to the Idol System."
Victor froze, the voice as unsettling as it was clear. His surroundings came into focus—sleek, minimalist walls, bathed in an artificial white light. The room hummed with faint machinery, the smooth, metallic surface of the floor cool against his bare feet. He staggered to his feet, stumbling toward the mirror on the opposite wall. A stranger stared back at him.
Dark hair, neatly styled. Sharp features framed by a face that exuded youthful vigor. He lifted his hand, watching the stranger in the mirror do the same. It was him—but not him. His breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't just reincarnation. It was something else.
"You have been granted a new talent. Singing."
The words hit him like a slap. Singing? Of all the talents he could have been reborn with—his intellect, his scientific genius—he was now a singer? Why singing? His mind raced, trying to piece together the impossible.
Before he could process more, a soft hum filled the room. A transparent blue screen appeared before his eyes, floating in mid-air. He blinked in disbelief as lines of text and numbers scrolled across it.
---
IDOL SYSTEM ACTIVATION
Name: Victor Nightshade
Talent: Singing
Rank: N/A (Unranked)
STATS:
- Vocal Ability: 65/100
- Creativity: 40/100
- Charisma: 30/100
- Influence: 10/100
- Performance: 45/100
- Popularity: 5/100
- Enhancements: None
---
Victor stared at the screen, his mind reeling. What was this system? The numbers glowed before him, an absurd reduction of his existence to statistics. He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He had been a master of life and death, a genius who had defied the very laws of nature. And now, he was unranked? A singer with mediocre stats in a system he didn't even understand?
It was absurd. It was infuriating.
But then, as his initial shock began to fade, something shifted inside him. Beneath the anger, a whisper of curiosity crept in. He eyed the stats more closely. Vocal Ability. Charisma. Creativity. All quantifiable. Measurable. Manipulatable.
This system... it was like data. Data he could crack, dissect, and control.
The voice had said he was granted "singing" as a talent. Victor frowned, staring at his reflection once more. Was there power in it? Power he didn't yet understand? He had been granted something specific, something tied to this bizarre new world, and while it seemed beneath him, there was a reason for it.
If there was one thing Victor Nightshade understood, it was that everything—everything—had a reason. And if singing was the currency of power in this world, he would exploit it. Just as he had once exploited life itself.
Victor had been given a second chance, whether he liked it or not. This world—this "Idol System"—was different from the one he had known. But it was still a system. And systems could be mastered.
If this was the game he had to play, then he would learn the rules. And if he had to rise through the ranks of this strange new world to reclaim his power and influence, then so be it.
He would rise again.