Apostle of Lust

Ishar's breath came slow and steady. Too steady. His body felt whole—unharmed, untouched—but the moment he moved, something was wrong.

His hand rose to his chest, expecting pain, broken ribs—anything 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—only an unnatural grace that made his breath hitch.

His senses flared, overwhelming in their sharpness.

The dampness in the air carried layers—earth, 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—a 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—almost 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—wasn't he? His hands, his body—they belonged to him, but they felt foreign.

His heart pounded against his ribs, his breath quickening despite himself.

The last thing he remembered—the demon, the blade piercing his chest, the veiled woman. He had felt it, dying. That pain, that certainty—it 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—warped 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—it 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—to 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.

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—this 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—disjointed, feverish.

A darkened room. Candlelight flickering. A woman, her wrists bound above her head, her body trembling as she sobbed. Her voice—raw from screaming—cracked 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—the part that made his stomach lurch—was 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—no, 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—not his smile, but the one belonging to whoever lived this memory before him.

The woman sobbed harder.

And he—the past Incubus—laughed.

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—not 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—was 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—his 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—old, 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—

[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—it 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—but too late.

Ishar was already moving.

No hesitation. No wasted movement.

The orc swung his fist—a 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—but 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—not 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—just 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—when the moment was right—he 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—a wet choke. A sharp wrist twist—a sickening pop. A knee to the weakened leg—bone 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—and made it count.]