Chapter 2
2530 Words
Time passed like a fleeting breeze.
For humanity, five hundred years is a historical epic. Great kingdoms were born of blood, then crumbled to dust. Metropolitan cities with towering skyscrapers were built on land that was once nothing but wilderness. Languages evolved. Fashions changed. Technology completely overhauled how humans lived, worked, traveled, and even how they loved.
But for Darius Grey, five hundred years was simply a tortuously long and agonizing stretch of time for someone who couldn't die.
London. Approaching Noon.
On the top floor of a skyscraper, a man stood tall before a panoramic glass window, gazing down at the arrogant capital of England. Down below, modern buildings crowded the horizon. Cars glided like streams of light through the city’s veins, while airplanes sliced through the clouds far above.
The world had shape-shifted. But Darius had not.
His physique was exactly the same as the night he was cursed. Pitch-black hair, a strong jawline that carved shadows, a tall frame with broad shoulders, and a pair of golden eyes that projected an ice-cold stare—a gaze capable of intimidating any human before he even opened his mouth.
Only his clothes had changed with the times. Today, he wore an elegant black suit crafted by a renowned bespoke tailor on Savile Row. The watch on his wrist cost far more than most people's homes.
Darius Grey was no longer just the heir to a ruined werewolf clan. He had evolved into something far more dangerous in the modern era: a billionaire.
He was the shadow ruler behind massive corporations sprawling across technology, real estate, energy, and the entertainment industry. His name commanded fear and respect at negotiation tables. His face frequently graced the covers of prestigious business magazines, and investors would gladly elbow each other just to get five minutes of his time. Some worshipped him as a business genius, some saw him as an enigma, and quite a few branded him as arrogant.
None of them knew that the man pulling the strings of the stock market had been alive for five centuries. No one realized that all this absurd wealth was rooted in one dark fact: Darius could never die.
Every time the world entered a new era, he learned to adapt. From kingdoms to republics. From horses to motorized engines. From ink-stained letters to instant messages on a glass screen. From candles to electric brilliance. And money? Money slowly turned into nothing more than a string of numbers on a screen that became increasingly easy for him to accumulate.
Unfortunately, of all the zeroes in his bank account, not a single one could buy the one thing he wanted most: the life of someone who had died five hundred years ago.
"Sir."
A voice broke his reverie. Darius didn't bother turning around. "Just leave it on the desk."
Marve, his highly dedicated personal assistant, stepped in carrying a stack of documents that was anything but small. He dropped them onto the mahogany desk with an exhausted sigh, even though it was barely noon.
"These are the files you need to review and sign today, Sir," Marve reported.
Darius glanced at the towering stack from the corner of his eye. "That many?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Why are there so many?"
Marve stared at his boss for a few seconds, trying to scrape together whatever was left of his patience. "Because you acquired too many companies this month, Sir."
Darius nodded slowly, as if just realizing a trivial fact. "Right."
Marve took a deep breath. He was immune to his boss's antics by now. "Besides that, in two hours you have a meeting with the board of directors from the overseas branches."
"Two hours?"
"Exactly two hours from now, Sir."
"Alright," Darius replied curtly, not moving from his spot near the window.
Marve stood there for a full minute. Darius remained motionless.
"Sir?"
"Hm?"
"The documents." Marve pointed at the folders with his chin.
With a lazy sigh, Darius walked over to the desk. He picked up the top folder, opened it, and stared at the first page. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Then, he closed it.
Marve frowned. "Done?"
Darius grabbed his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. "Done."
"You haven't even read the contents!" Marve protested in disbelief.
"I read the title."
"Reading the title doesn't count as reviewing legal documents, Sir."
Ignoring his assistant's nagging, Darius began putting on his jacket. Marve stared at him with thick suspicion. "Where are you going?"
Darius walked past the desk. "Come with me."
Marve blinked in confusion. "To the meeting room?"
Darius shook his head slowly. "To the beach."
A brief silence blanketed the penthouse. Marve stared at his boss's broad back, his mouth hanging half-open. "Excuse me? What did you say?"
Darius stopped at the doorway, glancing back slightly. "The beach."
"Our meeting?"
"In two hours."
"Yes, so why are you talking about the beach?"
Marve massaged his suddenly throbbing temples. "Sir, this meeting is crucial. It was scheduled three weeks ago. The branch heads flew across the ocean just to meet you! And you already bailed on the last two meetings."
"I remember," Darius replied casually.
"Then why are you still insisting on leaving?" Marve's voice went up half an octave. "I'm trying to save the face of your company, Sir!"
Darius glanced at his watch. "Two hours. We still have time."
"The beach is out of town, Sir! A normal drive takes almost two hours!"
Darius looked at his assistant as if the man had just complained about a simple math problem. "Then we'll wrap things up at the beach in one hour."
"Sir—"
"Let's go, Marve. You'll age quickly if you work too much."
Marve froze. If looks could kill, Darius would probably be dead (again). The main issue wasn't that Marve was too much of a workaholic, but rather that Darius was far too obsessed with slacking off! Just in the past month, the billionaire had suddenly demanded to be taken to a mountain, a rundown night market, an unnamed little village, and a street food festival. Last week, Darius canceled a multi-million-pound business dinner simply because he wanted to go look at goats on a suburban farm.
And now, the beach.
"Sir, I absolutely cannot let you—"
Marve's sentence was cut short.
Darius raised a hand casually. The air in the room suddenly hummed. A strange silvery light pulsed, forming a magical circle that spun beneath their feet.
Marve instantly shut his mouth. His face went pale. He knew that sign all too well. "Sir, don't be crazy—"
Darius just gave a faint smile. "Relax."
"Sir, THE MEETING!" Marve yelled in panic as the silver light swallowed the entire room.
In a fraction of a second, a blinding flash erupted. The sound of a roaring wind echoed briefly before the office fell completely silent once more.
No Darius. No Marve. Only a stack of unsigned documents and a laptop screen that was still brightly lit.
The Beach. Somewhere on the Coast of England.
A strong gust of sea breeze immediately hit Darius's face. He stood tall on the stretch of sand, shoving both hands into his suit pockets. His black hair whipped wildly in the wind.
Darius closed his eyes, letting his lungs fill with the sharp scent of salt, wet sand, and the open ocean.
He offered a small smile. It's been a long time. A very long time since he felt peace like this.
Darius opened his eyes. "Nice," he murmured.
He began a leisurely stroll along the shoreline, letting his expensive leather shoes sink dirty and deep into the wet sand. He didn't care in the slightest. For the first time today, there were no legal documents. No greedy shareholders. No revenue charts. No men in neat suits calling him 'Sir'.
There was only the endless sea.
Darius stopped walking, staring out at the crashing waves. For some reason, the ocean always managed to make the burden on his shoulders feel a little lighter. Maybe because the sea never cared who he was. The sea knew nothing of the dark history of the Grey Clan. The sea didn't know who Patricia was. And the sea never judged him for the five-hundred-year curse that trapped him in absolute loneliness.
Before the sea, he was just an ordinary man again. At least for a few minutes.
"Excuse me!"
A woman's cheerful voice broke his thoughts.
Darius turned reluctantly. Standing a few paces away was a young woman, probably in her late twenties. Her casual clothes looked simple but neat, her hair tied back haphazardly and blown by the sea breeze. In her hand was a stack of brightly colored flyers. Her smile was friendly, almost overly enthusiastic.
"Sir!" she greeted.
Darius gave the flyers a passing glance, then turned back to the ocean. "No, thank you."
The woman clearly wasn't the type to give up easily. She took a step closer. "You don't even know what I'm offering yet."
"I'm not interested."
"Grand opening," she coaxed.
Darius started walking away. "An antiques exhibition."
No response. Darius kept walking.
"Rare antiques!" she exclaimed, chasing after his long strides. "There are ancient artifacts, maestro paintings, historical jewelry, antique clocks, private collections of noble families—"
Darius's footsteps halted.
The woman smiled triumphantly. "Ha, I knew it."
Darius turned his head slightly, giving her a lazy look. "I'm still not interested."
"At least take a flyer," she offered, holding out a glossy piece of paper.
"No need."
"It's free, Sir."
"I know."
"Then there's no logical reason to refuse, right?"
Darius let out a long sigh, finally giving in and taking the flyer just so she would go away.
"There's a special discount for grand opening guests, a complimentary drink, and a private viewing session just for VIP collectors..." The woman narrowed her eyes, scanning Darius's appearance from his dirty shoes up to his luxurious suit. "...I think you'd fit right in."
One of Darius's eyebrows shot up. "Fit in?"
She nodded with a feigned expression of utter seriousness. "You look like a rich guy."
Darius stayed silent.
"And elegant," she added.
Darius remained mute.
"So my conclusion is, you must like antiques."
Darius glanced at the flyer in his hand. "Your deductive logic is terrible."
The woman laughed crisply. "Terrible, but it successfully stopped you in your tracks."
Darius was forced to look at the brochure. The exhibition was opening tonight. It displayed a photo of a grand gallery filled with items from the past. Pocket watches. Engraved jewelry. Classical paintings. Bronze statues.
Truthfully, Darius wasn't interested in the slightest. He had lived through five centuries of history; he had seen far too many objects that were now worshipped as 'antiques'. Hell, he had even seen items in world-class museums back when they were just brand-new goods sold at night markets.
But for some reason, his hand didn't immediately shove the brochure back. The voice of the woman in front of him tugged at something inside him.
"If you really do like history, the place is fascinating," she said again, her voice softening a little.
Darius gave a curt nod without looking at her. "Maybe."
"Don't say 'maybe'."
Darius frowned, finally looking up at the woman's face to deliver a firm rejection.
And in that exact second, the axis of Darius's world stopped spinning.
The sound of the crashing waves suddenly vanished. The whisper of the wind could no longer be felt. Everything was sucked into a dead, silent vacuum.
Darius's golden eyes went wide. The flyer slipped from his hand, falling onto the sand.
That face.
Impossible. No.
Five hundred years. Five centuries had passed, tearing the world down and building it back up again.
Darius stared at the woman in front of him without daring to blink, afraid that this was just another cruel hallucination that so often tortured him in his dreams. Her hairstyle was different. The colors of her clothes were modern. Her casual smile was not the smile he knew.
But that facial structure... The curve of her jaw, the shape of her eyes, the lively spark in them...
Patricia.
Darius's breath hitched in his throat. The air felt violently ripped from his lungs. Suddenly, his eyes burned, and tears pooled so fast that he completely lost control.
The woman frowned, her smile fading at the drastic change in the man before her. "Sir?"
Darius couldn't answer.
A single tear escaped, cutting across his strong cheek. Followed by a second. And a third.
Seeing this man in an expensive suit suddenly crying in the middle of the beach, the woman looked both confused and genuinely concerned. "Are you okay?"
Darius took a step forward. Instinct made the woman take a half-step back. Darius halted his movement, as if afraid of spooking fragile prey. His gaze was locked tight, nailing the woman's eyes. His lips trembled violently.
"Patricia..." he whispered hoarsely, his voice heavy with the agony buried for centuries.
The woman frowned even deeper. "Who?"
Darius didn't hear her. His rational mind was paralyzed.
Because right now, this very second—she was standing in front of him. Alive. Breathing. Looking at him with the exact same eyes.
The dam of Darius's sanity broke. He could no longer hold himself back. With a rapid motion that was almost invisible, he stepped forward and pulled the woman into a crushing embrace. So tight. Far too tight, as if afraid that if he loosened his grip even a fraction of an inch, she would evaporate back into dust.
The woman gasped in shock. "Hey! What the—!"
Darius squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder. His broad shoulders shook. For the first time since the night the Grey Clan was massacred five hundred years ago—he sobbed uncontrollably like a little child.
His large hands gripping her back trembled violently. "Patricia..." he wailed. His voice cracked, a broken mix of weeping and a breathless chuckle that sounded borderline insane. "Patricia..."
The woman struggled in a panic, trying to push against the broad chest of the strange man who had suddenly grabbed her. "Sir, let go! Wait—!"
THWACK!
For the first time in the 1,000 years Darius had been alive, someone actually dared to kick him.
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