Carl stood over the site of the Sentinel's death, the lingering heat of the battle still radiating from his skin. He ignored the wary gaze of the white-haired man and focused inward, calling up the System interface.
[Purchase: 'Demon Smithing - Rank 1' - 100 System Points?]
"Confirm," Carl muttered.
The influx of knowledge was different this time. It wasn't just data; it was muscle memory. He felt his hands grow warm as the techniques for temperamental demonic metallurgy etched themselves into his mind. He now understood the "rituals" required to keep demonic ore from shattering and how to quench a blade in Red Orb-infused water to ensure it could hold an edge against the Underworld's finest.
He looked at the pulsing violet ore he had just stowed. To forge it here, in the dirt, would be a waste. He needed tools—an anvil, bellows, and a heat source that wouldn't fail.
"You mentioned you have a name," Carl said, finally turning to face Geralt. "Geralt. I need a forge. A real one. Where's the nearest human settlement that isn't a collection of mud huts?"
Geralt watched him, his medallion still thrumming with a low, rhythmic hum. He didn't like the way the stranger looked at that cursed stone, nor did he like the "refreshing" aura the man claimed to feel. But he also knew he couldn't have survived the Sentinel without him.
"There's a village a few miles east. Blackbough," Geralt said, his voice cautious. "Small, but there's a blacksmith there. If you want something better, you'd have to head to Oxenfurt or Novigrad. But I wouldn't recommend walking into a city with eyes like those and a stone that smells of death."
"Blackbough will have to do for now," Carl replied. He began walking toward the cave exit, his Greed pouch swaying slightly at his hip, though it remained weightless. "Lead the way, Geralt. I have a feeling your 'silver and steel' won't be enough for what's coming next, and I might need to sell you something that actually works."
Geralt sighed, sheathing his useless silver sword. "A merchant of death. Just what this world was missing."
The walk out of the forest was silent, save for the occasional rustle of the wind. Geralt led the way, his eyes constantly scanning the treeline. Carl, however, was preoccupied with his System. He had a few remaining points and a pouch full of "Chitinous Plates" and "Demonic Ore."
As they broke through the tree line, the small, thatched roofs of Blackbough appeared in the distance. The village looked miserable—covered in the grey dampness of Velen—but to Carl, it represented the first step toward a proper arsenal.
"The blacksmith's name is Joachim," Geralt noted as they entered the village. The peasants stopped their work, staring in terror at the Witcher, and then with even deeper confusion at Carl's strange, high-collared coat and the mechanical device on his hip.
"I don't need his skill," Carl said, his eyes locking onto the glowing embers of the village forge. "I just need his fire."
Carl stepped into the heat of Joachim's forge, ignoring the blacksmith's protests as he laid out his tools. He didn't use the man's iron; instead, he reached into the Greed pouch and pulled out the Obsidian Sentinel's rare ore and several Chitinous Plates.
The ritual was violent. Carl didn't just hammer the metal; he channeled his own demonic "heat" into the anvil. Every strike sent a shockwave of violet sparks through the air, and the quenching water didn't hiss—it screamed. By the time he was done, he held a longsword with a blade of shifting, oily darkness and a hilt wrapped in the Sentinel's reinforced chitin. It was a conductor of terrifying efficiency.
Geralt stood by the door, watching the process with a grim fascination. As Carl wiped the soot from his brow, the Witcher finally spoke. "Those things in the cave. They weren't monsters. Not the kind I know. What were they?"
Carl didn't look up from his new blade. "Literal Demons, Geralt. Creatures from the Underworld."
Geralt stiffened, his yellow eyes widening. "Fables. Stories for children to keep them away from the rift."
"Fables don't bleed Red Orbs," Carl countered, sheathing the new sword. "That cave was a path. The Underworld is bleeding into this world, and that ore I was gathering? It's the only thing that can kill them. Your magic and your silver are useless against a true demon."
Geralt went silent, his mind racing. He had felt the immunity of the Antenoras first-hand. If Carl was right, the Witchers—the world's ultimate defenders—were suddenly as helpless as the peasants they protected. "The rise of a real Hell..." Geralt muttered, the weight of the realization making Carl's cold, calculating actions in the dungeon finally make sense.
Unbeknownst to them, a group of villagers had been eavesdropping through the open slats of the smithy. They stood frozen in the mud, their faces pale with terror. The whispers spread through Blackbough like wildfire: Mages and Witchers are no match for what's coming. The real devils have arrived.
The heat in the smithy was suffocating, thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of demonic ore. Carl ran a whetstone over the edge of his newly forged blade, the rhythmic shing-shing sounding like a low growl in the quiet shop.
Geralt stood leaning against a timber post, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked at the black blade in Carl's hand, then down at his own silver sword. The realization was a bitter pill: he was a relic.
"You're staring, Geralt," Carl said without looking up.
"Thinking," the Witcher replied. "If what you say is true—if Hell is truly spilling over—then every contract I've ever taken was child's play. My signs failed. My silver failed. I'm a hunter with a dull knife."
Carl set his blade aside and gestured to Geralt's back. "Hand me your steel sword."
Geralt hesitated. A Witcher's swords were his life. "Why?"
"Because your silver is too pure, too volatile," Carl explained, his voice carrying the weight of the Knowledge he'd purchased. "Demonic runes are chaotic; they need a solid, grounded base. Silver is for the monsters of this world, but for the Underworld, you need tempered steel that can hold a ritual. I can't change your nature, but I can etch enough of a conductor onto that blade to let you parry a demon's strike without your sword shattering like glass."
Geralt slowly drew his steel sword and handed it over. Carl took it, feeling the balance. It was a masterpiece of human smithing, but it was "empty."
Carl reached into the Greed pouch and pulled out a handful of Red Orbs and a shard of Demonic Ore. He didn't use a hammer this time. He held the blade over the coals and began to hum—a low, discordant ritual chant that made the air in the room vibrate. He pressed the ore into the steel, and under the heat of his own blood, the metal began to drink the stone.
Faint, pulsing violet lines began to spread across the crossguard and down the fuller of Geralt's blade. They weren't elegant like elven runes; they looked like veins, hungry and dark.