Before he reached for the glowing ores, Carl paused. He looked down at his hands—they were steady, despite the adrenaline of a life-and-death struggle. He felt a strange, rhythmic thrumming in his chest that didn't match his heartbeat. It was deeper, more primal.
He closed his eyes and focused on the [Demonic Internalization] knowledge he had just purchased. Suddenly, the "System" didn't feel like an external HUD; it felt like a translation layer for his own DNA.
"Stronger physique... amber eyes... the way my wounds closed before I even noticed they were there," he whispered.
He gripped the hilt of his short sword. Earlier, he had thought he was just lucky to have found a "good" weapon. But now, as he channeled his focus, he felt a literal connection. The jagged bone-blade wasn't just sitting in his hand; it felt like an extension of his nervous system. Even though it wasn't a True Devil Arm, the demonic materials in the hilt were "talking" to the blood in his veins.
[Status Update: Hybrid Synchronization - 12%]
[Identity Confirmed: Human-Demon Hybrid]
"I'm not just a player in a game," Carl realized, a chill running down his spine. "I'm one of them. Or at least, half of one."
This explained why he had a strange, innate connection to his weapon; while it wasn't a true Devil Arm, its demonic origin resonated with his blood. He wasn't just a student who had been given a gun and a sword; he was a predator being awakened. He realized that a normal human would have had their arm shattered by the recoil of the Vesper or had their mind clouded by the "heat" of the bone-sword.
But for Carl, it felt like coming home.
"I'm the bridge," he muttered, his grip tightening until the leather wrap of the sword creaked. "I can use their power without losing my mind... for now."
He also realized that Red Orbs weren't exclusive to him; they were a universal essence that merged with anyone who landed the killing blow on a demon. However, simply acquiring the essence didn't make a person strong. Since this was reality and not a game, people had to learn how to use that essence to strengthen themselves and upgrade their skills.
Furthermore, his new knowledge warned him that Devil Arms—manifestations of a demon's power or soul—could only be safely used by demons or hybrids. For a human to wield one, they had to absorb massive amounts of Red Orbs to strengthen their soul; the more power they absorbed, the more powerful the Devil Arm they could handle.
With this understanding, his "harvest" took on a different meaning. He wasn't just collecting loot; he was collecting the components for his own evolution and the materials—like demonic ores and parts—needed to create weapons that could actually conduct demonic power and kill demons.
With his new expertise, Carl looked at the cave walls differently. He noticed a vein of dark, pulsing purple rock embedded in the limestone.
[Detected: Raw Demonic Ore - Low Grade]
He used the hilt of his short sword to pry a chunk loose. The Greed pouch blinked, its silver eye widening as it swallowed the ore into its spatial storage. Carl spent the next several hours systematically stripping the upper chambers, hoarding demonic materials that he alone knew how to process.
Every Hell Caina he put down was no longer just a threat—it was a source of "Chitinous Plates." Every Lesser Wisp was a source of "Ethereal Vapor."
By the time he reached the threshold of the "Middle Vein," his pouch was heavy with raw materials, and his internal reservoir of Red Orbs was humming.
"Materials to forge, Orbs to strengthen, and a pouch that keeps it all weightless," Carl said, checking the silver rounds in the Vesper. "If I keep this up, I won't just be a hunter. I'll be the one supplying the world's only effective army."
But as he moved to descend further, a new sound echoed up from the depths. It wasn't the screech of a demon. It was the rhythmic, metallic clink of a chain, followed by a heavy, tired grunt.
Someone—or something—was already down there.
The air in the middle levels of the cave was thick enough to chew. It didn't just smell like sulfur anymore; it felt like a static charge, the kind that makes your hair stand up right before a lightning strike. Carl moved silently, his boots barely making a sound on the obsidian-dusted floor.
Around a jagged pillar of limestone, he saw him.
A man with hair as white as milk stood in the center of a wide chamber. He wore studded leather armor and carried two swords on his back. One was in his hand—a silver blade that looked expertly forged, yet it was currently failing him.
The man was breathing heavily, his yellow, cat-like eyes narrowed in frustration. Carl didn't know who he was or what a "Witcher" was; he just saw a warrior who had clearly brought a knife to a gunfight.
The stranger was surrounded by three Hell Antenoras. The demons were hulking, purple-skinned brutes carrying massive, rusted cleavers. They moved with a twitchy, unnatural aggression that the white-haired man clearly wasn't used to.
"Damn it," the man grunted, spinning his silver sword in a defensive flourish. He stepped forward and landed a perfect strike across the chest of the lead Antenora.
The silver blade, which looked like it should have cleaved through anything, merely sparked against the demon's skin. It left a faint, singed line that healed almost instantly. The demon didn't even flinch. Instead, it let out a metallic roar, its skin turning a violent shade of red as it entered a frenzied state.