Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs

Chapter 814: Real Human Clones?

Total. Absolute. Like reality itself had been politely asked to leave the room and decided not to argue. No noise. No distortion. No error codes. Just absence. A clean, surgical removal of existence from the recording.

Every enhanced processing thread I had... screamed wrong. Not alarmed—offended. Like my systems had just bitten into something poisonous and immediately rejected it.

This wasn’t natural.

This was deliberate.

I frowned.

Rewound. Played it again.

Jack standing.

Jack turning his head.

Black.

Again.

Same result.

I ran it faster. Slower. Frame by frame. Pixel by pixel. My processing power—amplified by the chip’s ascension and the server—tore through the data at speeds that would’ve looked like sorcery twenty-four hours ago, hunting for artifacts, compression ghosts, timing anomalies.

Nothing.

The footage didn’t corrupt.

It ceased.

Those minutes didn’t exist.

I pushed harder. Let the Omni-Eros Server lean into the gap, tried to reconstruct what had been removed, to infer, to backfill, to brute-force reality into giving me something—

And something pushed back.

Not a firewall.

Not encryption.

Not even counter-intrusion.

Resistance.

Like knocking on a door and finding out the house itself had decided you weren’t welcome. No aggression. No feedback. Just a firm, silent refusal.

I paused.

This was new.

First time.

First time anything had looked at my technology and gone, no.

I switched feeds. Every camera that covered the rooftop. Every angle. Hallways. Stairwells. Exterior cams. Street-level traffic cameras. Satellite feeds that should’ve caught the building from orbit.

All of them showed the same thing.

For the exact same window of time, the world blinked.

Reality took a coffee break.

Someone had reached into the global surveillance net and snipped out a moment they didn’t want remembered.

I exhaled.

Shifted targets.

Trent Holloway.

Trent reacting to something off-camera. His head turning—

Black.

When the footage resumed, the cell was empty.

No exit.

No struggle.

No dramatic escape.

Just... gone. Like someone had deleted a file and forgotten to empty the recycle bin because they didn’t need to.

I ran the analysis again.

Same resistance.

Same void.

Reality had a habit of stepping out whenever something important happened.

I sped up. Pulled more names. More faces. More enemies who had once thought themselves untouchable.

Marcus Webb.

Files. Location data. Movement logs.

Gone.

But not erased.

Replaced.

I found him sitting in a CIA interrogation room, answering questions with the calm professionalism of a man who knew the script and had rehearsed it.

At a glance, it was perfect. Convincing. Boring.

Too boring.

I leaned closer. Zoomed in. Let my perception dig past skin and posture into the micro-behaviors people didn’t know they had.

After all from everything I just seen... I had doubts.

Blink rate.

Wrong.

Off by 0.003 seconds from baseline. A deviation so small it would slip past every human analyst alive. But I wasn’t human anymore. Not fully.

Breathing.

Too clean. Too consistent. Seventeen breaths per minute. Every cycle identical. No stress variation. No cognitive spikes. No subconscious drift. Humans breathe like chaos pretending to be order.

This one breathed like a metronome.

And the pupils—

When the interrogator mentioned a name, Helena and Dmitri—someone that should have mattered—the emotional response lagged. Two-tenths of a second late. The feeling arrived, but the timing was off. Like a badly synced dub.

That wasn’t Marcus Webb.

That was a replacement.

A clone. Perfect from across the room. Flawless to any human eye. But at the microscopic level—where intention betrayed itself—the lie leaked.

Whoever had done this had biotech on par with mine.

Maybe better.

Vincent Castellano.

Antonio Rivera.

Same pattern.

Clones in custody. Originals vanished. Blackouts in the footage. Gaps in reality that refused to be filled.

Someone was cleaning the board.

And doing it quietly.

While leaving clones behind.

If I hadn’t ascended—if I were still operating on yesterday’s limitations—I would’ve missed it completely. The illusion was that good. The cover-up was surgical.

Someone was collecting my enemies.

Someone who could blind satellites.

Someone who could manufacture human replacements.

Someone who moved through surveillance gaps the way I moved through systems.

A ghost.

Just not my kind.

I waved my hand. The screens froze.

Turned to Madison.

She’d been watching me the entire time. Not the screens—me. The way my posture shifted. The way my focus narrowed. The moment curiosity edged out certainty.

"My love," I said calmly, "it appears someone is recruiting our enemies."

She stepped closer. Concern flickered in her eyes—but beneath it was trust. Solid. Unquestioning. Whatever this was, she wasn’t backing away from it. "Yes... I know that but... recruiting them? For what?"

"I don’t know yet." I gestured to the frozen voids on the screens. "But whoever it is... they’re not normal. They’re doing things I didn’t think anyone else could do."

Soo-Jin’s hand drifted to her weapon. Muscle memory. "A threat?"

I paused.

Madison noticed.

Not fear.

Interest.

The moment a predator realizes the forest isn’t empty after all.

"Maybe," I said. Then smiled. "Or maybe just someone finally worth my attention."

Madison shivered. Not from the cold.

I waved my hand again.

The screens dissolved. The void collapsed. Reality snapped back into place, and we stood once more in the living room of the ghost mansion.

This time, I slid on my Neutral Quantum Glasses.

The world sharpened instantly. Data overlays bloomed at the edges of my vision—energy gradients, structural weak points, faint signatures of forces most people would live and die without ever sensing.

I owned this place now.

Had eyes on the world.

Saw more than any human ever had.

And still—

There were gaps.

People who moved inside them.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

But that could wait.

Right now, the mansion had more secrets to show us.

We walked toward an archway that absolutely had not existed a moment ago—the house reshaping itself around us, guiding us like it had opinions. The space beyond made Madison stop mid-step.

And whatever was waiting there?

It wasn’t subtle.

"Oh my god," she breathed.

Which, to be fair, was the only sane response.

The room was enormous. Cathedral ceilings that vanished into a polite suggestion of darkness above, like the mansion had decided we didn’t need to know where the top actually was.

The walls weren’t walls—not in any way Home Depot would recognize. They looked like light had tried to become solid and only half-committed, rippling faintly like disturbed water while still being stubbornly real under your hand.

The color shifted as we moved. Warm gold nearby. Cool blue farther out. Not dramatic, not flashy—more like the room was mood-lighting us on instinct.

"It’s beautiful," Madison whispered.

"It’s showing off," I corrected.

The material wasn’t stone. Wasn’t metal. Wasn’t anything on the periodic table without footnotes and a nervous scientist attached. It looked like crystallized starlight—layered, translucent, bending illumination in ways that made depth feel optional. When Madison brushed her fingers against the surface, she sucked in a breath.

"It’s warm," she said. "And it—it moved. I felt it move."

"The walls breathe," I said. "Not in a ’call a priest’ way. More in a ’this house has opinions’ way."

That didn’t make her feel better.

The floor adapted beneath our feet. Not shifting—adjusting. Softening just enough to cushion each step, then firming again as we lifted our weight. Temperature-regulating to our body heat, like the mansion had read the manual on human comfort and decided to implement all of it.

It felt like walking on something that cared.

Which was unsettling, honestly.

"There are no light fixtures," Soo‑Jin said, already cataloguing the room like she planned to breach it later out of habit. Her hands traced the walls, checking corners, seams, anything that could hide a threat. "But it’s perfectly lit."

She was right. The light came from nowhere and everywhere at once—ambient, subtle, obedient. When Madison moved, the illumination adjusted to keep her perfectly visible. When I turned, shadows politely rearranged themselves like stagehands who’d been doing this for centuries.

Soo‑Jin found what she was looking for—an exit point. Or what should’ve been one. She pressed where a seam should have existed.

The wall flowed around her hand instead.

Not opening. Not resisting.

Acknowledging.

"There are no exits," she said quietly. "Except the ones it wants to show us."

"There are also no threats," I said. "This place is mine. It won’t hurt anyone unless I specifically get creative."

She didn’t look reassured.

But she stopped poking the walls, which counted as progress.

The furniture was the weirdest part.

Or rather—the lack of it.

The room was empty. Completely. No chairs. No tables. No decorative nonsense pretending to be art.

Then Madison thought about sitting.

Not said it. Thought it.

And a chair formed.

No sound. No vibration. No dramatic sci‑fi effects. One second there was floor. The next, an elegant chair rose out of it like reality had shrugged and gone, sure, why not.

Madison yelped and jumped back.

The chair waited.

Patiently.

"What the fuck," she whispered.

"Please," I said. "It worked hard on that."

She shot me a look, then eyed the chair like it might suddenly grow teeth. Slowly, cautiously, she sat—every muscle tense like she expected betrayal.

The chair adjusted.