The weapon in his hand felt unnatural. He hadn't expected a wooden club to be heavier than his sword. Turning it over, he traced his fingers along the rough surface, feeling strange carvings etched into the wood.

  This definitely isn't a normal club.

  He took a swing, expecting something—a shift, a surge, anything. But the impact felt no different from an ordinary piece of wood.

  Frowning, he focused and attempted to channel his mana.

  A jagged surge of energy crashed through him, wild and untamed. His muscles tensed, his body rejecting it instinctively. He staggered, nearly losing his grip.

  Damn. I forgot—demons channel demonic energy.

  Sitting on the rough stone floor, he exhaled, steadying himself. Then, he tried again.

  The energy coiled in his core, thick and heavy. Unlike mana, which flowed like water, this felt viscous, like oil laced with thorns. It scraped against his insides as it surged toward his hand.

  He gritted his teeth and pushed through the resistance.

  Like shoving a spiked boulder uphill—slow, painful, unrelenting. His vision blurred at the edges, his eyes glowing a deeper red.

  Then, suddenly, the dam broke. Energy flooded into his palm in a violent rush.

  Ishar gripped the club tighter, anticipation flaring in his chest.

  The wood shifted ever so slightly beneath his fingers, its surface jagging faintly. But beyond that… nothing.

  A bummer. He sighed.

  He stood up, his gaze sweeping across the cave. A realization settled in—this was definitely the dungeon they had entered.

  But not the same route.

  Ishar scanned the chamber, his eyes tracing the fractured cracks along the walls.

  Brushing away the damp green moss, he pressed his head against one of the fissures and closed his eyes. He focused, straining his senses to track the rhythmic pulse of demonic energy seeping through it.

  The sensation felt oddly instinctual, as if his new body was built for this. The energy within him resonated with the flow beyond the wall, aligning like a matching frequency.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  This gave him a sense of direction. Demonic energy in dungeon walls flowed outward from the core. Adventurers used this phenomenon to navigate.

  As a scout, Ishar was naturally well-trained in this technique. To escape, he needed to follow the path the orc had taken. Judging by the creature's strength, this was still the outer region of the dungeon.

  Going deeper was suicide with his current strength—the farther in he went, the stronger the monsters would become.

  Gripping the club tighter, he trudged forward, moving cautiously through the cave. His new body made scouting easier—he could see through the darkness as if it were daylight. His nose, both a strength and a liability, picked up countless scents, but distinguishing fresh ones from stale proved difficult.

  That hesitation made choosing a path harder.

  As he moved, his ears caught the sound of voices—more than one—coming from up ahead.

  He sprinted forward and pressed himself against the cave wall. Now that he was closer, the sounds were clearer.

  Goblins. It was difficult to tell how many. They made barely any noise—without his Incubus senses, he wouldn't have noticed them. The ambush would have succeeded.

  Those sneaky bastards, he cursed under his breath.

  Sneaking up on them would be difficult, and the uncertainty of their numbers made him hesitate.

  He peeked behind the wall. A dark corridor stretched before him, but his new eyes made everything as clear as day.

  He flinched—a small, involuntary reaction to his body's newfound abilities. The goblins remained crouched, unaware. Their crude weapons rested at their sides. The stench of unwashed bodies and blood filled his nose, sharp and overwhelming.

  He steadied his breath, pressing himself against the wall. And advanced towards them. His new body moved differently—smoother, lighter. The stone beneath his feet felt almost soft, his steps unnaturally silent.

  Closer. He could hear their low grunts, the scrape of claws against stone.

  Just a little more…

  He crept closer, his steps soundless. The goblins remained crouched, unaware—until one of them suddenly stiffened.

  Its nose twitched.

  A guttural snarl left its throat as it whipped its head around, beady eyes locking onto him.

  The others reacted instantly. Their ears perked, nostrils flaring as they caught his scent. A sharp, chattering noise filled the air—warning signals.

  The nearest goblin barely had time to react before Ishar's club swung in a brutal arc. CRACK! The weapon smashed into its skull, sending it crumpling to the ground in a twitching heap.

  The other two screeched in alarm. One charged, slashing wildly with a rusted dagger. Ishar sidestepped, but pain flared in his side—a shallow cut. Snarling, he twisted his grip and slammed the club into the goblin's ribs. A sickening crunch followed as the creature staggered, wheezing in agony.

  The last goblin didn't hesitate. It leaped onto Ishar's back, clawed fingers digging into his skin.

  Tch. Persistent.

  He bucked violently, ramming his back into the stone wall. The goblin let out a strangled shriek, its grip loosening. Ishar grabbed its arm, yanked it forward, and smashed its face in with a two-handed swing. Blood sprayed the wall as its body slumped.

  Only one remained—the wounded one clutching its ribs. It snarled, trying to rise.

  Ishar stepped forward and brought the club down.

  CRACK.

  The goblin stopped moving.

  He exhaled, gripping his weapon tighter. His breathing was heavy,…he felt fine.

  Just the lingering thrill of the hunt remained.