Ishar stood over the dying orc, its body broken—legs twisted at unnatural angles, head slumped forward. Blood pooled beneath it, thick and pungent with iron.

  Its lifeless eyes stared up at him, frozen in shock and fury.

  Warm blood dripped from his fingers, trailing down his wrist in slow, viscous lines.

  A faint breeze whispered through the cave, stirring the silence. Shadows flickered along the jagged stone walls, shifting like something alive.

  Ishar remained still, his breath slow, measured. His gaze lingered on the corpse—empty yet searching. His nails bit into his palms. His jaw tightened.

  A weary sigh escaped his lips.

  He raised a trembling hand to his forehead.

  What is happening to me?

  His eyes flicked downward. He turned his hands over, studying them as if they belonged to someone else. No ache, no fatigue—only strength. A raw, undeniable force hummed beneath his skin.

  He took a step back, then threw a punch. The air whistled as his fist carved through it.

  He shifted his stance, drew his leg back, and kicked forward. Smooth. Precise. Effortless.

  A grin tugged at his lips—slow, unbidden.

  A thrill surged beneath his skin, foreign yet intoxicating. He had never fought like this before, never felt such power. His human body had always been sluggish, bound by limits. But now—now, every movement was seamless, his strikes honed to ruthless efficiency.

  His limbs, his torso—every part of him moved in perfect harmony, guided by something beyond conscious thought. His body didn't just react; it anticipated, adjusted, controlled the fight as if it had done so a thousand times before.

  Even the rogue in his party—Lysia, with her impossible agility—had never moved like this. She had been fast, unnervingly so, slipping through defenses like smoke. But this wasn't just speed. This was something else entirely.

  This was instinct. This was dominance.

  It was perfect.

  It was terrifying.

  A flicker of light.

  The Status Screen materialized before his eyes.

  [Status]

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  Name: Ishar Valtor

  Race: Incubus

  Order: Order 1

  Class: —

  Skills: Charm [D]

  Abilities: Dark Vision

  Corruption Level: 2% → 1%

  Titles: [First Fang]

  Traits: Incubus Bloodline (Suppressed)

  His gaze locked onto the first line.

  Name: Ishar Valtor.

  His name. His identity. The proof that he was still himself.

  A breath escaped him—tense, shallow.

  But then his eyes drifted lower.

  Race: Incubus.

  His breath hitched.

  No. That couldn’t be right.

  His pulse pounded in his ears. His fingers twitched, numb with cold despite the cavern’s stale warmth.

  Incubus. Not human.

  His vision blurred, unfocused. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head, as if that would make the words change. But the screen remained—unfeeling, absolute.

  A mistake. Some kind of error.

  The screen had never lied before.

  His stomach twisted.

  He forced himself to breathe—slow, measured, steady—but his lungs felt too tight, as if the air itself rejected him.

  Not human.

  The thought pressed against his skull like a vice, digging deeper, burrowing into something raw and unspoken. His hands curled, nails digging into his palms. He searched for something—some sensation, some proof that he was still the same.

  Nothing. No ache, no exhaustion. Only power thrumming beneath his skin, wrong and unfamiliar.

  His throat tightened.

  This wasn’t right.

  This wasn’t him.

  …Was it?

  He was human. He had to be.

  His mind clung to the thought, grasping for something—anything—to prove it. A memory. A feeling. Something real. But all he found was silence.

  And the status screen.

  Cold. Unfeeling. Absolute.

  It didn't lie. It didn't twist words or shift blame.

  It simply was.

  The words glared at him, undeniable.

  There was no mistake. No more delusion.

  He had been reborn as an Incubus.

  His eyes shifted downwards, skill charm, ability dark vision, corruption?

  His eyes wobbled, what does that mean?

  A flicker of unease spread through his chest.

  Is that why I lost myself in the fight? The thought sent a chill down his spine. Then that's bad news.

  I'll have to look out for it in the future.

  His gaze snapped 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—"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 shook his head and closed his status screen.

  His gaze shifts, taking in the cavern. The cold dampness in the air, the flickering torchlight, the jagged walls slick with moss.

  He turned his attention back to the corpse.

  His fingers flexed—expecting resistance, expecting the weight of steel. But his swords were gone. He had nothing.

  I need a weapon. Where is this guy club,

  His gaze flicked over the cavern, scanning—there. Near the jagged wall, half-hidden in the gloom. The orc's club.

  He strode toward it. The weapon was crude—thick, 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.