Apostle of Lust

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—he 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—every part of him—worked together in perfect harmony, each motion instinctive, efficient, unnatural.

Even the rogue in his party—Lysia, with her impossible agility—had 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—it 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—a 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—enough 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—then 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.

[Status]

Name: Ishar Valtor

Race: Incubus

Order: Order 1

Class: —

Skills: Charm [E],

Abilities: Dark Vision

Corruption Level: 2% → 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—he 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—That 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—it 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—sharper, faster—alien.

But his mind is his own.

For now, that will have to be enough.

The weight pressing on his chest eased—just barely. Enough for him to take in his surroundings. The cavern was dim, damp, and smelled of blood—orc 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—"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—settled 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—all 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—expecting resistance, expecting the weight of steel. But his swords were gone. He had nothing.

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.