《Apostle of Lust》 Betrayal In the depths of the dungeon, five figures stood amidst the crushing dark. The air hung thick and unmoving, as if the shadows sought to choke the life from them. Every breath, rustle of cloth, and shift of boot against stone echoed unnaturally loud, swallowed instantly by the suffocating silence. Before them loomed an imposing gate, its towering frame etched with shimmering runes¡ªglowing deep crimson with hints of black. Its eerie radiance pulsed, as if yearning to consume the darkness with something far more sinister. Its surface bore murals depicting a woman of pure innocence, her delicate hand raised in prayer. The image might have been ethereal¡ªdivine, even¡ªif not for the grotesque abominations surrounding her. Twisted figures clung to her form, their writhing bodies lost in a profane orgy, defiling her sanctity. The five figures stood motionless, hearts tightening with unspoken dread. Merely witnessing the mural felt like an act of blasphemy¡ªan intrusion upon something forbidden. At the front, Ishar finally broke the silence, his voice dry and low. "That isn''t the virtue of purity, is it?" No one answered. Ishar''s gaze lingered on the gate''s intricate carvings, his mind wandering through strange thoughts. The Virtue of Purity, whispered among the faithful, held up as the pinnacle of grace. Yet here, it was twisted, perverted. Was it truly the virtue of purity that existed in the world, or had the very concept been corrupted from the start? The idea of purity itself¡ªunattainable, perhaps even nonexistent¡ªfelt foreign, unreal, as though the world had never known such ideals. He glanced to his side, searching the faces of his companions. They all stood in uneasy silence, eyes drawn to the gate''s grotesque depictions. Kael shifted, clearing his throat. "Don''t let this get to you. If the zealots hear we''ve seen this, they''ll have us hanged for blasphemers." A shudder ran through the group, a silent understanding settling. None of them needed to say it aloud, but the warning was clear. They''d seen something forbidden. Something dangerous. Lysia, the white-haired mage, stepped forward hesitantly. Her finger trembled before steadying as she began tracing the runes, searching for a way through. Ishar, standing slightly apart, pulled out a bottle from his bag. Tilting it back, he took a slow, deliberate gulp. The sound echoed unnaturally loud¡ªan intrusion, sharp and jarring, like a crack in unbroken silence. "Yeah, this place is a mess," Ishar muttered, breaking the silence with a dry chuckle, his voice too loud against the stillness. He tipped the bottle toward his lips, then lowered it, almost as if to himself. "When we''re done here, we should drink ''til we forget any of this happened." Lysia flinched, her fingers pausing mid-trace over the runes. Kael stiffened, his exhale a beat too slow. Rudrik forced a chuckle¡ªa dry, awkward sound that fell flat. Vael, the party''s cold and calculating rogue, suddenly seemed too focused on adjusting her gloves, her fingers moving with restless precision. Ishar let the bottle dangle loosely from his fingers, eyes flicking between them. Why did that land like a funeral toast? Why were they acting like this? Lysia flinched. Kael hesitated. Rudrik''s smile didn''t reach his eyes. And Vael¡ªof all people¡ªwas fidgeting. Something was off. He''d known them long enough to tell when the air was thick with tension. And now, it felt suffocating. They were always tight-knit, always quick to laugh at his crude humor or grumble over his quirks. But today... this felt different. They were acting like they were trying to avoid something. It gnawed at him. He thought back to their journey here¡ªhow Kael had grown more distant, his eyes flicking nervously in his direction at odd moments. Lysia''s whispered conversations with him, her worried glances that had grown more frequent as they pressed deeper into the dungeon. And Vael¡ªVael, who had always been steady, unreadable, was now twitching with an almost visible unease. He''d dismissed it at first, blaming the stress of their mission, but now the pieces were falling into place. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. And now... they were acting like they were waiting for something. Or dreading something. It gnawed at him. It wasn''t just tension. Something was wrong. He took another sip, letting the burn sit on his tongue, trying to shake the feeling crawling at the back of his mind. He almost laughed at himself. Paranoia? Maybe. But if there was one thing he''d learned, it was that unease had a way of proving itself right. A low hum suddenly filled the chamber. The runes beneath Lysia''s fingertips pulsed, bleeding crimson light into the gate''s cracks. Stone groaned as unseen mechanisms rumbled to life, dust spilling from the frame. Ishar straightened, capping the bottle. "Let''s just get this over with," Ishar muttered under his breath, pushing the unease away. The gate parted, inch by inch, with a low, grinding protest. A wave of heat spilled out, thick and stifling¡ªlike the breath of something buried alive. The heat thickened as the gate groaned open, the passage yawning wide. Beyond it, a single torch sputtered to life in the dark corridor, its crimson flame cutting through the suffocating blackness. Ishar hesitated at the threshold. It was just another dungeon, just another ruin. He trusted their years of camaraderie, their shared battles, the unspoken understanding between them. They had faced worse¡ªtogether. This, whatever it was, didn''t seem any different. With a quick, almost impatient step, Ishar moved forward. Behind him, Kael followed, his presence steady but distant. In the center, Lysia walked with careful steps, flanked by Vael, the ever-watchful rogue, and Rudrik, their brute force and sniper. It was their usual formation¡ªexcept for the single extra step between Ishar and Kael. Just one step. A small shift, barely worth noting¡ªyet it gnawed at the edges of his mind, creeping in like slow-working poison, like a devil''s whisper. His eyes sharpened, narrowing ever so slightly. As they stepped forward, torches along the walls flickered to life one by one, their crimson flames unfurling like waking eyes. Each burst of fire cast twisting shadows across the stone, revealing the chamber inch by inch. As the light gave salvation to darkness, the horror struck. Heads. Dozens of heads lined the chamber in grotesque display. Their mouths gaped in silent screams, eyes bulging, frozen in final moments of terror. Some were fresh, skin still slick with the last traces of warmth, while others had decayed into leering skulls, grinning through peeling remnants of flesh. From beyond the flickering torchlight, something stirred. It stepped forward with the deliberate grace of a king, its presence pressing down like the weight of an unspoken truth. The torches quivered in its wake, their crimson flames bending toward it in tribute. Its form was a paradox of beauty and terror¡ªtall and statuesque, wrapped in a body sculpted from obsidian and dusk. Muscles coiled beneath a surface both like flesh and something far more unearthly, shifting between silk-smooth darkness and glistening reflections of crimson light. Its limbs were long, elegant, too perfect to be human, yet far too dreadful to be divine. A mantle of shadow clung to its back, unfurling like great wings of liquid night. Golden veins traced intricate patterns across its chest, pulsing like the slow beat of a heart too vast for mortal comprehension. And then, there was its face. No fangs, no monstrous maw¡ªonly the unsettling symmetry of beauty, marred by something that did not belong. A mouth that did not move, yet whispered into the mind. Eyes like smoldering embers, holding no malice, no cruelty¡ªonly the quiet weight of something that had seen eternity and found it lacking. The heads that lined the chamber, once the pinnacle of horror, now seemed like mere ornaments in its presence. The air itself bowed to it, thick with reverence and fear. It raised a hand¡ªlong fingers ending in obsidian-tipped claws. The motion was fluid, almost gentle. The gesture was neither a threat nor a greeting. It was simply an inevitability. The air shifted A flicker of movement¡ªtoo fast, too close. Ishar barely had time to register it before his instincts screamed. Vael. The dagger flashed as she lunged¡ªlow, swift, like a predator striking without warning. Her blade gleamed with something slick, something green. [Skill: Sneak B] Ishar twisted, his hand already moving for his weapon. Instead of dodging, he moved straight into her attack. The dagger buried itself in his forearm, stopping inches from his ribs. His body lurched from the impact, but his gaze never wavered. Not this time. For just a fraction of a second, she faltered. Her lips parted¡ªnot to curse, not to beg¡ªbut to... what? Regret? Relief? Then Ishar''s sword flashed. It was faster than thought, colder than his emotions. The blade sank through her in a single, clean strike. Her eyes widened. For a fleeting moment, disbelief crossed her face, but then her head fell, hitting the ground with a wet thud. The Offering For a moment, no one moved. The air froze, thick with unspoken dread. Torches flickered along the cavern walls, casting restless shadows across the jagged stone. Ishar''s breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of betrayal pressing down on him like a vice. He stared at them¡ªthe people he had once trusted¡ªhis mind reeling, his body frozen. Lysia''s eyes widened in horror. Kael¡ªthe ever-composed leader¡ªstaggered back, his mask of calm cracking into raw panic. Rudrik, the towering brute, didn''t hesitate. His muscles tensed, fingers tightening around the crossbow''s trigger. The silence stretched, brittle and suffocating. Then Ishar spoke, his voice raw. "Why?" A heavy silence hung between them. Lysia flinched, her lips parting as if she might speak, but no words came. Kael tightened his jaw, his eyes flickering with something unreadable¡ªguilt? Resolve? Rudrik didn''t even blink, keeping the crossbow trained on Ishar as if he were already dead. Lysia took a hesitant step forward. "Ishar, we¡ª" "Don''t." Kael''s voice cut through the tension like a blade. His hand snapped to her arm, gripping it tight enough to stop her. She winced but didn''t resist. Ishar''s stomach twisted. This wasn''t fear. This wasn''t hesitation. They had already made their choice. I was never meant to walk away. A deep, resonant chuckle echoed through the chamber, slithering through the air as if the walls themselves recoiled in fear. "Enough." The voice dripped with amusement¡ªsmooth as silk, heavy as chains. A suffocating presence pressed down on them all, making the air feel heavier, the torches dimmer. From the shadows, two golden eyes gleamed. The demon tilted its head, watching the scene like a master growing bored of bickering pets. It raised a clawed hand, the movement slow, deliberate. "You''ve played your part. Now, leave." Kael hesitated for only a moment before nodding stiffly. Rudrik, silent, lowered his crossbow. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! The demon''s lips curled, baring too-white teeth. "I will uphold my end of the deal." One by one, they turned away. Five had entered the chamber. Only three walked out. As his former comrades disappeared into the shadows, Ishar''s fingers twitched. A strange numbness spread up his arm¡ªcold, creeping, sinking into his bones. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, uneven and sluggish. The cavern twisted, the torchlight flickering in and out, his vision smearing like ink on wet parchment. But rage cut through the haze like fire. If this was the end, he wouldn''t fall quietly. But he couldn''t afford to fall. Not yet. [Skill: Inferno Blade A] Activated With what little strength remained, Ishar lunged forward, his sword blazing to life, fire licking up the blade as he drove toward the demon. The blade cleaved down, fire trailing in its wake¡ªonly for the demon to raise a single claw. Steel met flesh¡­ and the flames sputtered, smothered in an instant. The metal trembled in his grip, heat vanishing as if swallowed by the abyss itself. No wound. No mark. No reaction. Just the widening of its grin, as though it barely registered his existence. A chill slithered down Ishar¡¯s spine. His strongest attack¡ªsmothered like a candle in a storm. Not resisted. Not countered. Simply erased. No. No, he wouldn''t accept this. With a ragged snarl, Ishar clenched his teeth and forced every last ember of power into the blade. The air warped, heat crackling as the fire roared to life once more¡ªbrighter, wilder, the sheer intensity scorching his own skin. [Skill: Inferno Blade A ¡ú Searing Overdrive] Forced Overload. System Stability Compromised. The fire exploded around him, the blade now a blinding column of white-hot flame. He raised it high, pouring every ounce of rage, every shred of defiance, into one final strike. The cavern walls trembled, the heat distorting the air in violent waves. Burn. He swung. The moment steel met flesh¡ªnothing. Not a flicker of pain in the demon¡¯s eyes. Not a single shift in its expression. And then¡ªthe fire died. The flames snuffed out mid-strike, as if devoured by something far greater. Ishar''s blade turned cold, brittle, like a relic left to rust in the dark. His breath caught. Impossible. The demon smiled¡ªa slow, knowing grin¡ªmocking his final, futile effort. Desperation surged through Ishar. He let go of his sword, his body moving on instinct, and lunged. His fist shot forward, knuckles aiming for the demon¡¯s face with all the strength he had left. The impact landed¡ªsolid, jarring¡ªbut the demon didn¡¯t so much as flinch. That was when Ishar knew. This wasn¡¯t a battle. This wasn¡¯t a fight. This was a god humoring an insect. Laughter rumbled through the chamber, deep and resonant, as if savoring the moment. Before Ishar could react, a clawed fist drove into his gut with crushing force. Air exploded from his lungs. A sickening crunch erupted in his chest as the demon''s fist connected. White-hot pain lanced through his ribs, each breath scraping like shards of glass against his lungs. He staggered back, choking, his knees buckling beneath him. He doubled over, a coppery flood gushing from his mouth. Blood dripped in thick rivulets down his chin, spattering the stone like spilled ink. His vision swam, the edges darkening, his strength slipping away like sand through his fingers. The world blurred. Darkness crawled at the edges of his vision, but the golden eyes never wavered¡ªburning through the void like twin suns. A whisper curled in his mind, distant and close all at once. The demon leaned in, its golden eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. "Don''t die yet," it whispered, voice like silk over a blade. "I need you alive for the ritual." Ishar shuddered. The last thing he saw was the demon''s smile¡ªpatient, waiting. Then the darkness took him. Rebirth Ishar''s eyes fluttered open to the sound of low, eerie muttering. His body felt stiff, weighed down by cold iron shackles digging into his wrists. Each breath came shallow, the air thick with sulfur, iron, and something worse¡ªsomething sickly-sweet, like decaying flowers. The torches hissed and crackled, their unnatural flames flickering in an unseen wind. Somewhere in the darkness, a single droplet fell¡ªsoft, rhythmic. Blood. His senses were sluggish, his head pounding with dull pain. The cavern walls burned with an unnatural glow¡ªa mix of blue and red flames casting twisted shadows across the stone. Around him, severed heads hung from rusted chains, their mouths moving soundlessly, weeping tears of blood. A heavy presence loomed ahead. At the center of the chamber, a silk veil draped over a raised platform. A demon stood before it, motionless, golden eyes fixed on the altar. It muttered in a tongue Ishar didn''t understand, its voice a low, rhythmic chant that made his skin crawl. Ishar wrenched against the chains, muscles straining, wrists burning as cold iron bit deep. No movement. No give. The realization clawed at his chest¡ªhe wasn''t just trapped. He was helpless. The flickering torches made the shadows dance¡ªbut for a moment, just a moment, one shadow did not move. A breath caught in his throat. Then¡ªfinally¡ªthe demon turned. Slow. Deliberate. Its golden eyes locked onto Ishar''s¡ªpiercing, empty of mercy. In its clawed hand, it held his sword. Dread coiled in Ishar''s gut. But beneath it¡ªsomething worse. Something colder. A sinking, inescapable certainty. He had never been meant to leave this chamber alive. The demon took a step forward. Slow. Unhurried. Not out of caution, but certainty¡ªlike a butcher approaching an animal already bound for slaughter. Then, without a word, it drove the blade into his chest. The steel slid between his ribs, deep and unrelenting. Then¡ªit twisted. Agony tore through him, raw and unforgiving, like molten iron searing his flesh. His breath hitched, choking on his own blood. The demon did not pull the blade free. It held it there, savoring, waiting for him to break. His vision blurred. The world tilted. Heat poured down his chest¡ªno, not heat. Blood. His blood. Pain faded. Sound dulled. His vision smeared like ink in water. His limbs felt distant, fading to nothing. The torches stretched into streaks of light. Each breath shallower than the last¡ªstruggling, failing. Something cold crawled up his spine. His heart slowed. The demon''s form wavered, multiplying. Two of them. No¡­ three? His mind spun, reality breaking apart at the seams. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. And then¡ªhe saw her. Beyond the altar, past the blackened veil, stood a woman¡ªveiled, still, watching. The air around her shimmered, her form wavering as though she weren''t fully part of this world. The silk draping her face moved with no wind, untouched by the heat distorting the chamber. Even through the haze, he saw it¡ª A smile, just barely visible beneath the veil. Not cruel. Not kind. Knowing. His final thought wasn''t of rage. Or fear. Only the question. It refused to fade, even as the void pulled him under. Who are you? . . . Ishar drifted in nothingness. No light. No darkness. Only emptiness stretching endlessly around him. He had no body. Not in any way that mattered. He could feel his limbs¡ªremember their weight, their presence¡ªbut when he tried to move them, there was nothing. No sensation. No response. He should have panicked. Should have screamed. But there was no air to carry a voice. No breath to give it life. He floated, unbound, without form. Not falling, not rising¡ªsimply existing in this endless, formless space. Hadn''t he died? The last thing he remembered¡ªthe sword driving into his chest, the heat of blood spilling down his ribs, the veiled woman watching as he slipped away¡ª So why was he still here? Where was ''here''? Time had no meaning. No seconds, no minutes. Just endless drifting. Thinking. Unraveling. The void stretched, vast and infinite, swallowing thought, memory, self. And then, slowly¡ªhe began to forget. Not all at once. No, it was slower than that. First, his body¡ªthe details of his limbs, the feeling of muscle and bone¡ªfading, dissolving into the abyss. Then, his name. Ishar. He was Ishar, wasn''t he? Or was that someone else? The longer he drifted, the more pieces slipped away. He could barely remember what fear was. Or rage. Or pain. Was this death? Or was he becoming something else? Then, without warning¡ª A force seized him. Not gently. Not gradually. It struck like a vacuum, wrenching him downward with impossible force. The void, once silent and endless, roared with sudden movement. Faster. Faster. The formless nothing around him warped, bending as if the universe itself had turned against him. Pressure crushed against his chest, his breath stolen away¡ªexcept he had no lungs, no ribs, no body to suffocate. Something was ripping him back. Something was forcing him to return. Pain lanced through him¡ªnot the sharp sting of a wound, but a deeper, older pain. Like being torn from something vast and eternal. A severance. He fell. Fell. Fell¡ª Then¡ªa touch. Soft. Featherlight. It brushed against his cheek, fleeting yet unmistakable. Gentle. Kind. The kind of touch a mother might offer¡ªa final farewell before sending her child into the unknown. The void fractured. Cracks splintered through the abyss, jagged lines of golden light cutting through the nothingness. The weightless drift ended, and suddenly¡ª He felt his body again. Not just remembered it. Felt it. His chest rose and fell. His fingers twitched. Blood pulsed through his veins, slow and steady. Heat pooled under his skin, foreign, unfamiliar¡ªlike something new had been woven into his very being. Something different. His eyes snapped open. A sharp inhale tore through his lungs, his body jerking upright as though yanked from drowning depths. His heart slammed against his ribs, erratic, breath ragged. He gasped, his senses rushing back all at once¡ªcold stone beneath his hands, damp air pressing against his skin, the weight of existence settling over him again. But something was wrong. His body felt too light. Too strong. Too¡­ whole. His mind reeled, struggling to bridge the gap between dying and being here. The memory of the blade, the blood pooling beneath him¡ªit had felt real. More real than this. Then¡ª A screen flickered into existence before his eyes. [Status] Name: Ishar Valtor Race: Incubus Order: Order 1 Class: ¡ª Skills: Charm [E], Abilities: Dark Vision Corruption Level: ¡ª Titles: None Traits: Incubus Bloodline (Suppressed) His breath hitched. The status screen felt foreign to him, his stopped at the Race. Incubus? A strange warmth stirred beneath his skin¡ªalien, unfamiliar. His breath slowed, his pulse steady. The fatigue in his limbs was gone. No wounds. No blood. Not even pain. He stared at the glowing words, his mind refusing to accept them. Yet¡ªthey didn''t change. His fingers trembled as he reached for his chest, expecting torn flesh, broken ribs¡ª But he felt nothing. His body was whole. His body was new. Gladiator Ishar''s breath came slow and steady. Too steady. His body felt whole¡ªunharmed, untouched¡ªbut the moment he moved, something was wrong. His hand rose to his chest, expecting pain, broken ribs¡ªanything to prove what had happened was real. But all he felt was smooth, unblemished skin. His fingers trembled slightly, skimming over muscle that felt firmer, leaner than it should be. The sensation was his, but at the same time... it wasn''t. A slow chill crept up his spine. He pushed himself upright. His movement was too fluid, too effortless, as if his body anticipated his intent before he could act on it. There was no stiffness, no sluggishness¡ªonly an unnatural grace that made his breath hitch. His senses flared, overwhelming in their sharpness. The dampness in the air carried layers¡ªearth, moisture, old blood. His ears caught the faintest sounds, the subtle shift of air as if something unseen moved in the distance. And the darkness? It wasn''t fully dark. Shadows stretched around him, deep and endless, yet he could see them. Not through light, but something else¡ªa deeper awareness, an instinctual perception. His gaze dropped to his hands. His fingers were the same. But they weren''t. His nails were sharper, not claws, but slightly elongated, the edges too precise. His skin was smooth¡ªalmost too smooth, as if it had been remade, sculpted anew. "This¡­ isn''t right." His mind fought to make sense of it. He was human¡ªwasn''t he? His hands, his body¡ªthey belonged to him, but they felt foreign. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath quickening despite himself. The last thing he remembered¡ªthe demon, the blade piercing his chest, the veiled woman. He had felt it, dying. That pain, that certainty¡ªit had been real. So why was he here? Why was he¡­ whole? Ishar''s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists. This wasn''t natural. This wasn''t his body. Someone had done this to him. The thought struck deep, burning through the haze of confusion like a hot brand. Who? The demon? The veiled woman? Had they remade him¡ªwarped him into something else? His own flesh felt like a deception. He had lived in his body for years, trained it, pushed it to its limits, owned it. And now? His body moved without effort, as if someone had carved away its imperfections, reshaped him without permission. His fingers twitched. His muscles were stronger, his movements smoother, his senses sharper. A gift? No. A violation. He had been changed. Not by choice. Not by will. By force. His teeth clenched, breath shuddering. What did they turn me into? Resentment twisted into something colder. A sliver of ice lodged in his chest, spreading, digging deeper. This wasn''t some temporary effect, some lingering magic that would fade. The way his body moved, the way his senses stretched beyond what they should¡ªit wasn''t just wrong. It was real. His hands trembled. Not with weakness, but with something worse. This is me now. The realization coiled in his gut like a living thing. No wound to heal. No spell to break. No waking up from a bad dream. This was his body. He wasn''t going to shake off the unnatural grace, wasn''t going to lose this sharpened awareness. He was stuck like this. And he didn''t even know what he had become. His gaze snapped back to the glowing status screen. His eyes locked onto the word that refused to disappear. [Race: Incubus] The name felt foreign. He had never been anything other than human. He should have been human. But the screen didn''t lie. A fresh wave of unease crawled up his spine. He tried to steel himself¡ªto reject it. To remind himself of what he had lost. But when he moved, when he flexed his fingers and felt his strength coil beneath his skin like a tensed wire, another thought slithered into his mind. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. This body is¡­ better. He didn''t want to think that. He didn''t want to accept it. But his limbs obeyed him with unnatural precision, his senses stretched further than they ever had before. And worst of all? His heart wasn''t racing in panic anymore. It should have been. He should have felt repulsed, horrified, disgusted. Instead, the panic was slipping away, dissolving into something quieter, something dangerous. Calm. Like his body wasn''t resisting the change. Like it welcomed it. His stomach twisted. He should not be adjusting this easily. But he was. And that, more than anything, terrified him. A sharp pulse of pain exploded behind Ishar''s eyes. He hissed, staggering back as his vision blurred, twisting at the edges like a heat mirage. A headache? No¡ªthis was different. Deeper. It wasn''t just pain. It was intrusion. Something crawled through his skull, seeping into his thoughts like ink spilling through water. Images surfaced¡ªdisjointed, feverish. A darkened room. Candlelight flickering. A woman, her wrists bound above her head, her body trembling as she sobbed. Her voice¡ªraw from screaming¡ªcracked as she pleaded. "Please¡­ someone¡­ help me¡­" Ishar recoiled. The memory wasn''t his. Yet he felt it. The heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. The way she flinched under his touch. Not his touch. Someone else''s. But the worst part¡ªthe part that made his stomach lurch¡ªwas the emotion that came with it. Pleasure. Not sympathy, not disgust. A deep, consuming thrill. The rush of dominance, the sheer satisfaction of breaking something so fragile. No¡ªno, that wasn''t him. That couldn''t be him. Ishar clenched his jaw, trying to rip himself away from the memory, but it dragged him deeper. He could feel the way his lips curled into a smile¡ªnot his smile, but the one belonging to whoever lived this memory before him. The woman sobbed harder. And he¡ªthe past Incubus¡ªlaughed. A fresh spike of pain shot through his skull. Ishar gasped, the world tilting as he staggered. The memory shattered, and suddenly, the cold glow of the status screen filled his vision. [Corruption Level has increased.] His breath hitched. His fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His hands shook¡ªnot from exhaustion, but from the lingering echo of the memory. His pulse hammered, his skin cold despite the heat stirring in his chest. Something inside him had responded. No¡­ not just responded. It had accepted it. His stomach twisted violently. Was this what the Incubus race was? This corruption¡ªwas it invading him? Or had it been waiting, buried deep inside, just needing the right push? His body had already begun to adjust. His mind? That was a different battle entirely. A low, guttural growl rumbled through the cavern. Ishar''s body tensed before his mind caught up. The sensation was instant¡ªhis skin prickled, his breath slowed, his muscles coiled tight. He didn''t need to see it. He could feel it. Something was watching him. His gaze snapped toward the darkness. A figure emerged, its heavy footfalls echoing in the still air. The stench of sweat, blood, and rotting meat filled Ishar''s nose before the thing even came into full view. Then, the orc stepped forward. Its hulking frame loomed over him, broad shoulders rolling with each heavy breath. The stench of sweat and dried blood clung to its flesh like a second skin, the deep claw marks on its chest telling of past battles. Its lower jaw jutted outward, curved tusks gleaming under the dim cavern light, saliva dripping from the corner of its mouth as its beady, red-rimmed eyes locked onto Ishar. Hunger. Not for food. For blood. In its massive, calloused grip, a club of gnarled wood rested¡ªold, battered, but lethal. Then, like a judge passing an irreversible sentence, the status screen flickered to life. [Survive Your First Hunt.] The orc lunged. A blur of green muscle tore through the space between them, closing the distance with terrifying speed. For something so massive, it moved with unnatural force, each step sending loose pebbles skittering across the stone. Ishar barely had time to process the charge before¡ª [Skill: Swing F] The club rose high, ready to come down with bone-shattering force. Ishar''s eyes flashed. [Skill: Charm E] Activated. The orc''s charge faltered. Its grip on the club loosened, a moment''s hesitation flickering across its beady eyes. That was all Ishar needed. His body moved. Not out of strategy. Not out of calculation. But out of something far more feral. The orc barely had time to react before Ishar lunged. His fingers locked around its wrist, and with raw, unchecked strength, he twisted. The club went flying. The orc snarled, staggering back, but Ishar was already on it. His breath came ragged, his body surging forward, every muscle screaming to rip, to tear, to kill. For a split second, he almost let go. The hunger, the instinct¡ªit wanted to take over. No. His jaw clenched. He forced it down. He staggered back, panting, his heart thundered against his ribs, the leftover thrill still coiling in his gut like a living thing. But he had control again. The orc shook off the remnants of [Charm], its snarl twisting into something furious¡ªbut too late. Ishar was already moving. No hesitation. No wasted movement. The orc swung his fist¡ªa wild, brute-force strike meant to crush him in one blow. But Ishar was small, fast, and he slipped beneath the arc like a shadow. The beast roared, swinging again. Another miss. Ishar weaved through its reach, his every movement tightening the noose. The orc was strong¡ªbut slow. Predictable. His knuckles sank into the orc''s ribs. A crack. The beast wheezed, a thick glob of spit flying from its mouth. The orc grunted, its balance shifting¡ªnot from one heavy blow, but from the relentless accumulation of small, precise attacks. Ishar didn''t overpower it. He outmaneuvered it. Every time the orc swung, he was already gone, slipping just out of reach. His counters weren''t flashy¡ªjust efficient. A jab to the ribs. A palm strike to the elbow, forcing its arm wide. A swift kick to the shin, breaking its stance. Ishar stayed just outside its reach, forcing the orc to chase, to swing harder, to burn its own stamina. And then¡ªwhen the moment was right¡ªhe struck. An elbow to the throat. A sharp twist of its wrist. A knee to its weakened leg. The orc stumbled. The orc''s breathing grew ragged. Its movements sluggish. Not used to this. Not used to a fight it couldn''t win with brute force. Ishar saw it. The slip in its guard. The split-second hesitation. He took it. An elbow to the throat¡ªa wet choke. A sharp wrist twist¡ªa sickening pop. A knee to the weakened leg¡ªbone buckling. The orc collapsed. It never stood a chance. Like an audience roaring for a gladiator''s triumph, the screen acknowledged his victory. [Title Unlocked: First Fang] [A fitting prize for the one who struck first¡ªand made it count.] The First Fang Ishar didn''t hesitate. He didn''t falter. He had killed before, and the orc''s death meant nothing. No remorse. No second thoughts. But something was different. His body hadn''t waited for his command. It didn''t need strategy, calculation, or conscious thought. His instincts had taken over, guiding his movements with an unnatural precision. A part of him knew where to strike, how to step, how to dismantle his enemy with ruthless efficiency. It felt effortless. Too effortless. He hadn''t just won the fight¡ªhe had dominated it. His strikes had flowed, seamless and sharp, his body moving with a precision he had never possessed before. His limbs, his torso¡ªevery part of him¡ªworked together in perfect harmony, each motion instinctive, efficient, unnatural. Even the rogue in his party¡ªLysia, with her impossible agility¡ªhad never moved like this. She had been fast, freakishly fast, slipping through defenses like smoke. But this¡­ this wasn''t just speed. This was something else entirely. His body hadn''t just reacted¡ªit had anticipated, adjusted, controlled the fight as if he had done this a thousand times before. And it had felt good. A thrill buzzed beneath his skin, foreign and electric. He had never fought like this before, never felt such power. His human body had never moved with such ease, had never been this fast, this perfect. But it wasn''t his body. It didn''t feel like him. A chill crawled up his spine. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe. He wasn''t changing. He was still human. He had to be. And yet¡­ hadn''t he? A flicker of something unwelcome surfaced¡ªa memory, blurred at the edges, as if his mind refused to sharpen it. A different battlefield. A different kind of struggle. The same inhuman ease. His jaw tightened. He forced the thought away before it could take shape. Not now. His breath came slow and uneven. The memory unsettled him, but he forced himself to push past it. His fingers curled against his chest, a sharp nail digging into his skin¡ªenough to sting, enough to ground him. The pain was real. This was real. But his body? The way it moved, the instincts guiding it? That wasn''t. He was Ishar. Wasn''t he? He doesn''t remember training for this. He doesn''t remember earning this. If this power isn''t his, then whose is it? If he can''t trust his own senses, his own mind¡ªthen he needs something that won''t lie to him. His mind latches onto the only constant. The Status Screen. He has to know. The Status Screen flickers into view, answering the question he''s too afraid to ask. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. [Status] Name: Ishar Valtor Race: Incubus Order: Order 1 Class: ¡ª Skills: Charm [E], Abilities: Dark Vision Corruption Level: 2% ¡ú 1% Titles: [ First Fang] Traits: Incubus Bloodline (Suppressed) His eyes lock onto the first line. Name: Ishar Valtor. His name. Not someone else''s. His. A breath escapes him, tense and shallow. That''s proof, isn''t it? That no matter how foreign his body feels, no matter how unnatural his movements were¡ªhe is still himself. But then his gaze drifts lower. Race: Incubus. The words glare back at him, undeniable. The breath he had just taken turns sharp, catching in his throat. Incubus. Not Human. His fingers twitch at his sides, his nails still digging into his palm. His blood races, cold and hot all at once. No. That''s¡ªThat has to be a mistake. He had seen monsters take human shape before. Had seen people warped into something unrecognizable. But that wasn''t him. It couldn''t be. He stares at the words as if sheer defiance could rewrite them. As if, if he looked long enough, the letters would shift back to what they were supposed to be. But they don''t. And then there''s the bloodline. Incubus Bloodline (Suppressed). Suppressed. Caged. Locked away, for now. His gut churns. His nails dig deeper into his palm. Then why does it feel like it''s already seeping through? His mind races, trying to reason with the screen, as if it were something capable of deception. His name is still there. Ishar Valtor. That should mean something. That should mean that he''s still himself. ¡­Right? His pulse pounds in his ears, his breathing sharp and uneven. He wants to reject it, to argue against the cold, clinical truth laid bare before him. But there''s nothing to argue with. The screen doesn''t lie. It doesn''t twist words or shift blame. It simply is. And maybe that''s what forces him to stop fighting it. He exhales slowly, unclenching his fists. The sting of his nails pressing into his palms lingers, grounding him. His thoughts are a mess, but the panic doesn''t drown him anymore¡ªit settles, an unease curling around his ribs instead of threatening to crush them. His name is still there. Ishar Valtor. His body may be different. His instincts¡ªsharper, faster¡ªalien. But his mind is his own. For now, that will have to be enough. The weight pressing on his chest eased¡ªjust barely. Enough for him to take in his surroundings. The cavern was dim, damp, and smelled of blood¡ªorc blood. The iron tang clung to the air. Shadows flickered along the jagged stone walls, shifting like something alive. The orc''s corpse lay nearby, its lifeless eyes frozen in shock and fury. Then, his eyes drift back to the screen. To the title. [ First Fang ] [A hunter''s title. A predator''s mark.] [The beast that strikes first has the greatest chance to taste blood.] A flicker of text beneath the name solidifies the meaning. [ Those who pounce before their prey can react strike with the weight of instinct. Critical hit chance increased by 1% on the first strike of combat.] He snickers at the title. Fancy words, but in the end, how often would he even get the chance to strike first? And that 1%? A laughable sliver of an advantage. As an adventurer, he''d earned plenty of titles like this¡ª"Rat Slayer," "Cave Walker," meaningless things that never made a difference when a blade was at his throat. It''s no different now. Titles never saved anyone. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. That same tension lingers in his chest, but it''s duller now¡ªsettled into something he can ignore. His gaze shifts, taking in the cavern again, but this time, his mind isn''t caught in a spiral. The cold dampness in the air, the flickering torchlight, the jagged walls slick with moss¡ªall of it is real. And so is the orc''s corpse. He let the screen fade and turned his attention back to the corpse. He needed a weapon. His fingers flexed¡ªexpecting resistance, expecting the weight of steel. But his swords were gone. He had nothing. His gaze flicked over the cavern, scanning¡ªthere. Near the jagged wall, half-hidden in the gloom. The orc''s club. He strode toward it. The weapon was crude¡ªthick, brutal, the wood splintered and stained with dried blood. A weapon made for force, not finesse. He lifted it, testing its weight. It felt wrong. Heavy, unwieldy. For now, a weapon was all he needed. The rest could wait.