I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 140: The Velvet Whisper

The Royal Root Archives were quiet as ever—silent not with emptiness, but with reverence.

Isaac sat at a polished rootwood reading bench deep within the archival chambers, dimly lit by soft-glowing fungi and filtered mana-light embedded in the bark itself. The scent of age still hung heavy in the air: cedar, dust, and dried ink. He turned another page of the Notes of Herodotus, now well past the chapters detailing divine colonization.

His mind was focused, drawn deep into the tangled web of history—until the air subtly changed.

It wasn't system interference.

It wasn't divine pressure.

It was scent.

Sweet honeysuckle, touched with something warmer—like silken perfume and temptation. The temperature in the room rose slightly. Shadows bent around the far end of the shelves. Light dimmed—softly, sensually—not as if extinguished, but as if the darkness asked politely to be let in.

And then a voice—velvety, low, feminine—curled around his ear like a whisper inside silk.

"So… you're the one who devoured Gluttony."

Isaac didn't move.

He recognized the technique. High-level illusion magic, but tactile and personal—this wasn't a spell cast across space. This was direct projection. He knew the sensation well.

Someone wanted a conversation.

A shape emerged from the shadows, coalescing between the shelves—tall, elegant, and impossibly composed. The woman who stepped forward had golden blonde hair, cascading in loose waves down her back like sunlight made liquid. Her eyes were amethyst, glowing with mischief and focus. Two curved black horns arched gracefully from her head, accenting her wickedly refined features.

She wore a dress of living dusk—dark and flowing, cinched to her form in ways that were artful rather than crude. Her skin was flawless, her posture relaxed but regal, her leathery wings folding behind her like a high priestess of forbidden charm. A long succubus tail traced slow figure-eights through the air, expressive in a way her words hadn't yet become.

She didn't walk.

She glided.

Isaac closed the book softly. "Asmodeus."

The smile that curved her lips was one of deep amusement. "So I've been recognized. I suppose that's fair. You've certainly earned a proper introduction."

She drifted toward him and leaned against the edge of the reading bench, one clawed fingertip casually brushing the corner of the tome he had closed.

"I don't usually visit men who kill my colleagues," she said. "But you're special."

Isaac remained still. "You're here to threaten me?"

She laughed. Genuinely.

"Oh, no. That's Mammon's flavor—paranoia wrapped in coin. And Satan? He doesn't speak. He explodes."

She leaned closer, her violet eyes locking with his.

"Me? I'm here to offer… companionship."

He raised an eyebrow. "Romantic or political?"

She leaned forward. "Both."

He stared at her a moment. "You're serious."

"As a prophecy." Her tail flicked.

She circled the bench slowly, dragging her fingers along the spine of a shelf.

"Isaac, darling… the System doesn't know what to do with you. Neither do the gods. Or the demons. Or the laws that bind them. You're a rupture in the game board, and that makes you..." —she smiled over her shoulder— "very interesting."

Isaac didn't respond. He simply tilted his head, letting her continue.

"I've seen anomalies come and go. System-born warriors. Divine-imbued champions. But you? You're not just powerful. You're flexible. Unchained."

She stopped in front of him again and met his eyes directly.

"Which is why I'm not here to seduce you—though I easily could."

"I'm here to warn you."

"Others are coming."

Isaac's voice was flat. "Mammon knows. Satan probably suspects."

She nodded. "Lucifer won't tolerate your existence. Not once he's fully awake."

"But me?" she whispered. "I'd rather be beside you than against you."

She offered a hand, not for a handshake, but palm up—as if offering an invitation to anything.

"You don't need to accept. Not now. Just remember... I reached out first."

She stepped back as her body began to fade into shimmering dust, her wings dissolving into shadows, her voice lingering like perfume on parchment.

"When you get tired of being worshipped or hunted… come find me instead."

And then she was gone.

The heat faded.

The air cooled.

And Isaac was alone again, the soft glow of the archive returning to normal.

He opened Notes of Herodotus once more—but the page blurred slightly.

Because he knew exactly what that had been.

And it hadn't been a threat.

It had been a recruitment offer.

Later That Evening…

Sylvalen sat on a carved bench in the reading courtyard above the archives, sipping tea brewed from moonflowers and frost-leaf. Lira leaned nearby against a pillar, tossing a pebble at a target she'd scratched into the stone.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

Then Sylvalen's expression twitched.

She lowered her teacup slowly and frowned.

"…Something's wrong."

Lira perked up. "What, danger?"

"No. Not danger."

She placed a hand over her chest.

"…My feminine instincts just flared."

Lira stared. "Wait, what?"

Sylvalen stood abruptly.

"I don't know what it is. I just feel… off. Like something just happened. Something slippery."

Lira blinked. "Should we raise the alarm?"

Sylvalen narrowed her eyes toward the Archive entrance.

"No. I'm going to check on Isaac."

Lira smirked. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

"I don't know," Sylvalen muttered. "But if he smells like honeysuckle and smugness, I swear to the stars—I'm stabbing a wall."

And with that, she marched down the stairs like a woman ready to declare emotional war.

Lira looked after her, shaking her head.

"…Poor guy doesn't even know what he's guilty of."