Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

The group quickly escaped the danger zone.

The wind outside Tranquil Valley carried a chill, ruffling Dean's loose hair as he, Sam, and Bobby stood silently before the newly piled-up woodpile.

Old Marcus's remains, possibly carrying unknown pathogens, were carefully placed in the center of the woodpile, doused with a pungent smell of gasoline.

Bobby took out a metal lighter, his fingers rubbing the cool metal casing. It was a gift from old Marcus when he first started out, with simple demon hunter runes engraved on it.

He took a deep breath, snapped the flames into existence, and threw them onto the pile of firewood.

"boom--!"

Flames erupted instantly, the orange-red tongues greedily devouring the old witcher's last traces.

There were no eulogies, no flowers, only the silent gazes of three comrades and the crackling sound of flames burning.

This sight was more unsettling than any demon's roar.

Bobby pressed his rough, heavy hands down on Dean and Sam's shoulders. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if it had been eroded by the years and the smoke of battle: "See, kids? This is where our line of work ends."

"The chances of someone like Old Ma, who can leave behind a set of bones that can be properly burned after death, instead of becoming a hellhound's chew toy, or worse, are less than 20%."

He paused, his pupils reflecting the flickering flames: "There's no need to feel sorry for him. He's long since come to terms with it. Using this crippled body to pave a path for future generations is the path he chose himself. We must walk it for him and not let this fire burn out without a name or recognition."

Dean stared at the all-consuming flames, his jaw clenched, and finally forced out a curse through clenched teeth: "Damn, this is the price."

He didn't say anything more, but kicked a pebble away with a hard kick.

Sam closed his eyes, his eyelashes trembling slightly. He was not only saying goodbye to Marcus, but also mourning all those who had fallen in the darkness and could not even enjoy a fire.

Not far away, a team of witchers specializing in logistics were busy at work.

Using the guild's newly issued energy collectors, shaped like metal probes, they carefully sorted the energy dust left behind by the dead angels and demons, which they had hastily gathered from all over the battlefield.

These particles, shimmering with faint holy light or pulsating with dark red fel energy, were channeled into specially designed rune energy storage tanks, emitting a low, buzzing sound, like a swarm of bees.

These dust particles, containing extraordinary energy, are precious raw materials that are indispensable for the synthesis and optimization of potions in the 'potion' factory.

The journey back to the Witcher Guild headquarters was unusually silent.

Inside the Impala vehicle, no one spoke; only the roar of the engine and the scenery rushing past the window filled the air.

Upon arrival, all the items brought back from Tranquil Valley—dozens of vials of emerald-colored liquid, an encrypted data hard drive, and the crucial plague ring—were immediately handed over to Wu Heng.

There was no celebration banquet; the Witcher Guild headquarters was shrouded in a tense atmosphere of high alert.

Wu Heng went directly into the deepest, most secret underground laboratory of the manor.

A few days later, he handed a batch of emerald-colored reagents, sealed in a specially made cryogenic medical box, to David Xavier, while issuing clear instructions: "The first batch of volunteers needs to be strictly screened, informed of all risks, and based on the principle of voluntariness." At the same time, the highest-level summons order, directly controlled by the 'Internet Addiction' AI, was silently sent through multiple encrypted channels to all registered Witchers who had undergone rigorous background checks and willpower assessments.

Even some veteran Witchers who had long since retired due to injuries and were barely surviving in the shadows received a special message with an inquiry letter attached, ending with the unique guild thorn emblem.

Soon, sealed medical kits bearing the Witcher Guild emblem were transported to the newly established enhancement zone beneath the headquarters, escorted by an elite squad.

The walls here are covered with protective runes and modern energy shielding devices, and there is a peculiar smell in the air that is a mixture of ozone and herbs.

Inside the enormous temporary tent, the atmosphere was so heavy it was almost palpable.

Fifty chosen witchers stood silently, of varying ages and attire, some with fresh scars on their faces, others with eyes that held the marks of years of hardship.

No one spoke; only the rustling of leather holsters, breathing, and the low hum of instruments in the distance could be heard.

Most of them already knew through various channels what they were about to face as senior employees.

David stepped onto the makeshift stage, his eyes scanning every face below like a hawk's. He didn't need a megaphone; his deep, clear voice was enough to reach every corner.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am David Xavier." He got straight to the point, without a word of preamble, and directly held up an emerald-colored reagent that emitted an alluring yet dangerous light. "Before you decide to inject this into your bodies, there are some things I must nail to your heads like a coffin lid."

"This is neither a gift from God nor a miracle!"

"This is nothing like the expensive potions the guild used before, which were made from angels and demons. This is a weapon we snatched from the Plague Knights, from Hell itself. It is based on the most vicious demon virus. Although the guild leader used his methods to remove the deadly, maddening side effects, the risks still exist, and they are still very high!"

He held up one finger, his tone icy:

"First, this drug will rewrite your genes, forcibly modifying your bodies and causing irreversible mutations. You may grow things that shouldn't grow, your skin may change color, and your senses may become distorted. Furthermore, you will permanently lose your fertility, and the matter of carrying on the family line will no longer be relevant to you."

A barely perceptible commotion arose in the audience, but it quickly subsided.

He raised his second finger:

"Secondly, it requires a strong will. Every injection of this stuff is like throwing your soul into a meat grinder and churning it up. It amplifies the dark side of your heart, your fear, your anger, and your desires!"

"Once you can't hold on, your will weakens, and you're seduced by power, you'll no longer be a demon hunter. You'll degenerate into something more twisted and terrifying than a demon—a human-demon! At that time, your comrades-in-arms will be the ones to clean house."

His sharp gaze swept over several witchers who were clearly purely technical or reconnaissance types, including a young man wearing thick glasses.

"And your colleagues who don't possess any mysterious powers and rely solely on physical skills, marksmanship, and brains, like 'Archiver' Kevin, even if you can hack into the Pentagon with a computer and hit a fly a thousand yards away with a sniper rifle, you're still helpless against an ordinary Black-Eyed Demon. Your assessment would only be beginner."

"Because we can't effectively kill them, but this medicine might change that."

He then raised his third finger: (End of Chapter)