Caleb woke on the couch he had set up earlier. Silence enveloped the house; no one else stirred. He glanced outside—darkness pressed against the windows. Though it felt as if he'd barely closed his eyes, hours must have slipped past while he slept.
*Host, you're finally awake,* a voice echoed in his mind.
Caleb's chest tightened. That voice again.
*Host, do me a favor. Look down at your arm.*
He hesitated, his heart beating faster. This voice—whatever it was—had proven persistent, and if the system found something worth examining, perhaps he should pay attention. Slowly, Caleb lowered his gaze. The number eight marked his forearm, stark and unmistakable against his skin.
"What's this?" he whispered, his throat dry.
*I've been staring at it. I don't know. I've searched through my entire library of knowledge, and unfortunately, I know nothing about the number eight or its origins,* the system admitted.
Caleb's eyes widened. "Wait a minute. What do you mean you don't know? Aren't you some omniscient god or whatever?"
*Really? That's what you think I am? A god?* The voice carried a hint of indignation. *Of course not. I possess extensive knowledge, yes, but I lack information on certain topics—especially this number eight. I'll study it further.*
Caleb stood, his legs unsteady beneath him, and walked toward his room. The familiar space offered little comfort tonight. He sank onto his bed, pulling out his phone with trembling fingers.
He searched for information about the number eight—anything that might explain the mark on his arm. Nothing useful appeared. Every result offered trivial knowledge, meaningless facts that shed no light on his situation. Frustration built in his chest.
These past few days had grown increasingly strange. Yesterday, he'd felt ravenous and exhausted beyond measure, yet he hadn't eaten or slept. He wondered if similar symptoms would plague him today, but no—both his hunger and drowsiness had vanished completely. It was as if he'd consumed a feast and enjoyed the most restful sleep of his life, though his first nap had lasted twelve hours and left him still tired. This second sleep might have been even longer.
He checked the time on his phone: three in the morning. Though he couldn't recall exactly when he'd fallen asleep, he knew it had been many hours ago.
"All right, all right," Caleb muttered, staring at his hand. His skin appeared darker than usual—noticeably so. The number eight still showed on his arm, and now it seemed to glow, emanating a small white light that outlined each curve of the digit.
*System has finally uploaded knowledge to library,* the voice announced. *System will now give host knowledge. But before system gives host knowledge—what's your name?*
"What's my name? Are you serious?" Caleb's voice rose with disbelief. "Can't you read my mind or something?"
The system sighed—an oddly human sound. *Not quite. I have limitations. Anyway, host, what's your name?*
Caleb dismissed the system's evasiveness with a wave of his hand. "My name is Caleb. What should I call you?"
*Just call me... hm. I actually don't know. Let me think of a name.* A pause stretched between them. *Oh yes! How about Lyra?*
"Are you serious? You're joking, right?" Caleb couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're pulling my leg. That's what you want your name to be? Lyra? Really? That's the strangest name I've ever heard."
*You got a problem with that?* the system asked, an edge creeping into its tone.
"No. Well, actually, yeah, I do," Caleb said bluntly. "The name sucks."
*Anyway, here's the knowledge I promised you.*
Suddenly, Caleb grabbed his head as pain lanced through his skull. Information flooded his mind—vast, overwhelming, relentless.
"Come on! Why'd you have to make it hurt like that?" Caleb gasped, lifting his hand from his head. His temples throbbed.
*It's not my fault your puny brain can't handle the intake of knowledge you just received,* Lyra retorted.
"Shut up. Just tell me what you did to me."
*I transferred knowledge to your brain,* Lyra said. *Isn't that obvious? I swear, you're as dense as a regular novel protagonist.*
"Oh my god." Caleb took a steadying breath, trying to process everything. "Anyway, what am I going to do about this number on my arm? I can't let my mom and sister see it."
*Just cover it up,* Lyra said matter-of-factly. *You have long-sleeve shirts, right?*
"Yeah, but I like to have my arms exposed," Caleb protested, feeling cornered. "It's kind of a habit."
*Well, looks like you're just going to have to break that habit—unless you want your mom and sister asking questions about the number on your arm.* If the system had possessed a physical form, Caleb imagined it would be smiling smugly.
"You know, I could just tell them I drew it on my arm, right? That'd be a good excuse."
*Yes, but you can only use that excuse a few times before they start wondering why you're drawing on your arm with permanent marker,* Lyra pointed out. *Also, the number's glowing.*
"Oh yeah. I could say it's one of those glowing markers," Caleb suggested weakly.
Lyra sighed. *Yeah, but you don't have any glowing markers, do you, Caleb?*
Caleb sighed too, cursing the system and whatever cosmic joke had brought it into his life. "You're right. But what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to figure out the mystery behind this strange number on my arm?"
*I don't know,* Lyra admitted, and for the first time, the voice sounded almost sympathetic. *Here's the thing, Caleb—there's information even I don't possess. I've already told you this. There's knowledge I have to learn, knowledge my library cannot access. In fact, there's a vast amount of knowledge my library cannot provide—millions upon trillions of pieces of information I don't have access to, even though I've stored hundreds, even millions of years' worth of data. I can't give you all the answers, Caleb. I hope you understand that.*
Caleb stared at the number eight on his arm, his mind racing with questions he couldn't answer. Then, without warning, the number shifted. It transformed, switching to seven. His breath caught in his throat.
"What in the world—"
The number switched back to eight.
---
A few hundred million miles away, a man with black hair and dark clothing slept. A red and black sword suddenly crashed into a nearby mountain, the impact shaking the entire peak. The man's eyes snapped open. He leaped to his feet, his voice ringing out across the desolate landscape.
"You really think you can take me down?" he shouted. "I am the Seventh Satan Monarch! Which means you are nothing but a newbie."
He stepped forward, his confidence radiating like heat. "You're nothing!"
A gigantic fist materialized in the sky above him and shot downward with devastating force. The fist crushed the man, his body parts flying in every direction, scattered across the mountainside.
But just as quickly as they had been destroyed, the body parts began to move. The legs walked toward the torso. The arms crawled. The head rolled. Finally, they assembled themselves, and the man stood once more, gripping his sword. The blade remained intact, gleaming in the dim light.
He smiled wider. "I told you—you can't beat me."
Damien, one of the demon's closest friends, grabbed the man's wrist. On it, the number four glowed faintly.
"Seth, what are you doing here?" Damien asked, his voice tight with concern.
Seth pulled out a great black sword and met Damien's gaze. "I came to fight with you."
They both turned and ran toward the black silhouette of their enemy. The final battle had begun.
---
Meanwhile, in Caleb's room, he sat frozen, staring at the number eight on his arm. It grew brighter—much brighter. The light intensified until he could no longer ignore it. He rolled up his sleeve, but the glow pierced through the fabric of his shirt, visible even through the material.
*Caleb,* Lyra's voice cut through his panic, suddenly urgent. *Something's wrong. The number—it's not just glowing. It's calling to something.*
"What do you mean, calling to something?" Caleb's voice cracked.
*I mean exactly that. There's a signal emanating from your arm. And whatever it's calling to—* Lyra paused, and Caleb could sense genuine fear in the system's voice for the first time. *—it's answering.*
The number pulsed once. Twice. Each pulse sent a wave of energy rippling through Caleb's body.
Then his bedroom window exploded inward.
A figure stood silhouetted against the night sky, hovering impossibly in midair. Dark energy crackled around its form, and when it spoke, its voice resonated with power that made Caleb's bones vibrate.
"Found you," it said. "The Eighth."
The number on Caleb's arm blazed white-hot, and suddenly he understood—this was only the beginning.