Outside the smithy, the village of Blackbough had gone deathly quiet. A group of men and women stood huddled by the well, their eyes darting toward the forge where violet sparks occasionally flew through the gaps in the wood.
"Did you hear 'em?" a man whispered, his voice trembling. "The stranger... he said the Witchers can't stop 'em. Said the mages are useless."
"I saw the white-haired one in the cave," another added, clutching a holy symbol of the Eternal Fire. "He was breathless. Beaten. If a Witcher can't kill 'em, what hope have we? The real devils are here. Not monsters, devils."
The fear was different than the usual dread of Drowners or Noonwraiths. Those were pests you could hire a professional to kill. But the idea of a "Real Hell" rising meant the world was ending. The peasants looked at their pitchforks and felt the weight of their own mortality. To them, the smithy wasn't just a shop anymore—it was the only place where a weapon of salvation was being born.
Carl handed the sword back to Geralt. The blade now felt heavier, colder. When Geralt gripped the hilt, he felt a sharp sting in his palm—the sword was tasting the Red Orbs he had absorbed in the cave.
"It'll feel 'hot' when a demon is near," Carl said, wiping his hands on a rag. "And it'll actually cut them now. But don't expect it to do the work for you. You still need to learn how to channel that heat in your veins."
Geralt swung the sword. The air hissed with a new, predatory sharpness. "And what do I owe you for this? Witchers don't get charity."
Carl looked at the door, sensing the growing crowd of terrified villagers outside. "Information. I need to know where the next 'Dark Dungeon' is. My instincts tell me that cave was just a scout. If I'm going to survive what's coming, I need to find the heart of the breach."
Geralt sheathed the infused steel. "Then we head to Novigrad. If anyone knows about strange occurrences and disappearing villages, it's the spies and shadows in that city."
The journey from Blackbough toward Novigrad was marked by an unsettling silence. Geralt rode Roach, while Carl walked alongside at a pace that should have exhausted a normal man, yet he showed no sign of fatigue.
Neither of them realized that the seeds of panic had already sprouted. One of the villagers from Blackbough had taken a fast horse to Oxenfurt, and another had told a traveling merchant. The story was mutating as it traveled: A man in a charcoal coat has come to forge the only blades that can kill the True Devils. The Witchers have lost their power. Hell has opened its gates in Velen.
By the time they reached the rocky foothills overlooking the Pontar, the rumor was already outrunning them.
Geralt pulled Roach to a halt, his medallion beginning to hum. In the side of a ravine, a familiar sight greeted them: a jagged cave entrance leaking that same oppressive, violet miasma.
"Another one," Geralt muttered, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his newly infused steel sword. "Feels stronger than the last. You coming?"
Carl looked at the cave, his amber eyes reflecting the purple glow. He could feel the System vibrating—the presence of demons was dense, a perfect opportunity to see if the Witcher could adapt to this new reality.
"Go in," Carl said, his voice calm. "This one is yours. Fight them alone."
Geralt paused, his brow furrowed as he looked back from the saddle. "Alone? I've barely had an hour to get the feel of this blade. You saw what happened in the last cave—I could barely scratch them."
"There is a reason for this," Carl replied, leaning against a nearby tree and crossing his arms. He didn't explain the Orbs or the internal mechanics of the heat; he just gestured toward the dark mouth of the cave. "I'll tell you everything once you've slain one of them with your own hands. For now, you need to find out what that sword can actually do."
Geralt's yellow eyes narrowed, searching Carl's face for a sign of a joke. He found none. "And if I find myself surrounded by a dozen of those purple bastards?"
"I'll be right behind you," Carl assured him, his hand hovering near the Vesper. "If it looks like you're about to lose your head, I'll step in. But if you want to survive what's coming to this world, you need to do this."
Geralt let out a low, dry grunt and dismounted. He drew the infused steel sword, the violet veins in the metal pulsing faintly in the dim light. "Fine. Stay close. I'd hate for my last words to be an unanswered shout."
The Witcher stepped into the gloom of the cave. Almost immediately, the sounds of battle echoed out—the metallic shriek of infused steel hitting demonic chitin and the discordant screams of Hell Caina.
Carl stood at the entrance. He wasn't just watching a fight; he was watching the world's most famous hunter try to bridge the gap between two different kinds of death.
Inside, Geralt was discovering that the "heat" he felt wasn't just a side effect. As he swung the sword, the blade didn't bounce off the demons' hide. It bit. It carved. And with every kill, the strange energy in the air seemed to flow into him, sharpening his senses to a point that made his Witcher mutations feel sluggish by comparison.