The silence in the underground clinic was no longer empty. It was filled with a low, predatory hum that seemed to vibrate the very marrow of Alex's bones. He sat on the edge of the surgical table, his chest heaving as the final stages of the fusion process settled into his nervous system. The darkness of the basement was absolute, save for the rhythmic, dull crimson glow emanating from his left side.
Old Jack stood paralyzed by the reinforced door, his hand gripping a rusted pipe wrench so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He watched as the silhouette of the young man he had mentored transformed into something unrecognizable. The light of the dying bulb overhead flickered one last time and died, leaving only the hellish luminescence of Alex's new limb to define the room.
It was a masterpiece of forbidden alchemy and desperate evolution.
Alex raised his left arm. It did not move with the clumsy mechanical whir of a prosthetic. It glided through the air with the silent, lethal grace of a predator's claw. The arm was composed of a substance that defied categorization—a semi-translucent, obsidian-like material that possessed the depth of a moonless night. Beneath that dark surface, the heavy armor attributes he had stripped from the truck chassis had formed a dense, interlacing lattice of silver-grey fibers, acting as both skeleton and shielding.
But it was the demon heart fragment that provided the soul. Deep within the forearm and bicep, glowing rivers of dark-red energy pulsed in perfect synchronization with Alex's own heartbeat. It was as if a volcanic fissure had been carved into a piece of polished onyx.
Is it... alive? Jack's voice cracked, sounding small in the presence of the aura rolling off Alex.
Alex didn't answer. He was too busy experiencing the sensory overload. The moment the fusion solidified, his consciousness felt as if it had been plugged into a high-voltage reactor. His mind raced, processing data streams he hadn't even known existed. The D-Rank peak energy levels were no longer a chaotic flood; they were a pressurized reservoir, held in check by the structural integrity of the obsidian limb.
He stood up, his bare feet pressing against the cold, grit-covered concrete. The balance of his body had shifted. He felt heavier, yet strangely more efficient. Every movement was anchored by the immense density of the left arm.
He turned his gaze toward a solid alloy steel pillar that supported the low ceiling of the basement. It was a structural beam, designed to withstand the collapse of the buildings above. To a normal hunter, it was an immovable obstacle. To Alex, it looked like a suggestion.
He stepped toward the pillar. He didn't pull back for a heavy punch. He simply extended the fingers of his left hand, the black obsidian claws shimmering with a faint, destructive distortion that blurred the edges of the air.
He swiped his hand across the beam in a casual, horizontal arc.
There was no sound of impact. No screech of metal. There was only a faint, high-frequency hiss, like a hot wire passing through a block of ice.
Alex pulled his hand back. For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a slow, grinding slide, the top half of the thick alloy pillar began to shift. It drifted off the bottom half, tilting at an angle before slamming into the floor with a deafening boom that shook the entire clinic.
The cut on the remaining stump of the pillar was as smooth as a mirror. The molecular bonds of the steel hadn't just been broken; they had been erased. The Destruction attribute in the demon's blood had simply unmade the existence of the metal in the path of the claw.
Jack gasped, stumbling back. That... that was four inches of solid reinforced plate. You didn't even use mana.
The energy feedback from the strike traveled up Alex's arm, but instead of shattering his shoulder, the silver-grey armor fibers absorbed the shock effortlessly.
It's not just strength, Alex said, his voice carrying a strange, resonant vibration. It's authority. The world doesn't know how to resist this.
He looked down at his right hand, the human hand. As he touched the surface of the obsidian arm with his flesh-and-blood fingers, a new notification surged into his brain. It wasn't the loud, intrusive chime of the System, but a quiet, insidious whisper from the Void Hand.
Void Hand Passive Evolution: Chrono-Residual Perception. Status: Active. Description: Upon physical contact with any object, the user can sense its 'Death Residual Time'—the duration since it was separated from a living source or the time remaining until its structural collapse.
Alex ran his human fingers over the severed steel pillar. Instantly, a vision flashed in his mind—the history of the metal, the intense heat of the forge twenty years ago, and the exact second his new claw had ended its "life." It was a terrifyingly useful tool for a scavenger. He could now look at a pile of battlefield debris and know exactly which armor plate was too fatigued to be salvaged and which mana core still held a spark of its former owner's soul.
Everything dies, Jack, Alex whispered, his eyes reflecting the dark-red glow of his arm. I can just see the timer now.
Jack approached warily, looking at the limb as if it might lash out and consume him. You can't walk into the streets like that, Alex. The Drake search teams are looking for a boy with a missing arm. If they see a boy with a demon's limb, they won't just arrest you. They'll call in a tactical strike. You look like the very thing everyone is terrified of right now.
Alex looked at the obsidian arm. He could feel the power radiating from it, a heat that made the air shimmer. Jack was right. This was a weapon of war, not a tool for infiltration. And right now, he needed to be a ghost.
He reached into a pile of salvaged clothes in the corner and pulled out a long, heavy sleeve made of industrial-grade grey synthetic fabric—a long-form glove used by chemical waste handlers. It was thick, fire-resistant, and reached all the way to his shoulder.
He slid the glove over the obsidian arm. The fabric bulged slightly to accommodate the jagged contours of the limb, but it successfully masked the glow and the terrifying texture of the obsidian. He used a series of leather straps to cinch the glove tight against his bicep and forearm.
When he was finished, he put on his tattered scavenger's duster. The heavy coat hid the rest. To anyone passing by, he would simply look like a wounded survivor of the Red Gate, his left arm heavily bandaged or braced beneath his sleeve.
Why don't you look angry? Jack asked suddenly, watching Alex systematically check his gear. Victor Drake is on every screen in the city being called a god. He's using your blood to buy his way into the Inner City. Doesn't that make you want to scream?
Alex stopped. He thought about Victor's smirk on the television, the polished silver armor that had never felt the real bite of a demon's tooth. He thought about the way Victor had ground his boot into Alex's hand in the mud.
Anger is for people who think they deserve something from the world, Alex said, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm. I don't deserve anything. I take what I want. Victor is building a high pedestal for himself. He's gathering resources, fame, and power. He's doing the hard work of collecting the best attributes the Drake family can provide.
He turned toward the exit, his right hand adjusting the collar of his coat.
I don't need to scream, Jack. I just need to wait. When Victor is at his peak, when he thinks he's invincible, that's when his 'value' will be the highest. I'm not going to kill him out of revenge. I'm going to harvest him.
He stepped toward the ladder that led to the surface. The pain in his body was a distant, secondary concern now. The D-Rank peak power was a steady hum in his chest, a foundation upon which he would build his new empire.
The System had tried to break him. The Drakes had tried to erase him. The Archdemon had tried to consume him.
But they had all failed to understand the fundamental nature of a scavenger. A scavenger doesn't need the world to be kind. A scavenger only needs the world to be broken. And right now, the North District was a shattered, bleeding mess—a paradise of opportunity for someone who knew how to turn ruins into a throne.
As Alex climbed the rungs, the grey glove concealing the dark-red pulse of his new heart, he felt the first drops of rain through the manhole cover above. The city was weeping for its dead.
Alex Kane simply climbed out into the rain, a one-armed ghost returning to the world of the living, ready to begin the long, cold process of tearing down a hero.
The hunt was no longer about survival. It was about the grandest reclamation project the city had ever seen.
I'm coming for everything you took, Victor, he thought, his obsidian fist clenching beneath the grey fabric. And I'm going to take the interest in blood.
He vanished into the fog of the slums, the rhythmic thud of his new heart marking the countdown to the Drake family's inevitable liquidation.