Narvel didn't even get the chance to make it far before the first Specter caught up to him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the flicker of a ghostly form—too fast, too close.
Without pausing to think, he swung his arm, and Ebonveil's blade cut through the Specter with terrifying ease. Just like the first one before, it dissipated into a grey mist, its mournful form torn apart. The strange mist didn't get a chance to scatter—it was immediately drawn into Ebonveil, sucked in as the weapon thirsted for it.
There was no time to pause, no time to catch his breath.
Another Specter lunged at him from the side. Narvel twisted and lashed out again. The edge of Ebonveil found its mark, carving through the creature's midsection. It vanished like the others, its essence absorbed.
But they kept coming.
The third came barreling in, mouth agape in a soundless scream, and he slashed through it. The fourth arrived right behind, nearly grazing his back. He spun just in time to strike, but as he turned, he saw more—dozens of them. A relentless flood of twisted, semi-transparent wraiths, all homing in on him with mindless hunger and furious purpose.
They overwhelmed him.
Within seconds, Narvel disappeared under a storm of writhing, glowing figures. Their chilling forms passed through his body, their very presence biting at his soul, scraping his life force away with every second of contact. The air turned frigid.
From a distance, Voidscale hovered tensely in the shadows, its eyes wide with alarm. The little beast trembled. Its instincts screamed that its master was in grave danger.
And if Narvel died here, so would it.
Voidscale prepared to act. It would launch itself in, claws and teeth bared, reckless or not—but then, before it could move, Voidscale saw something.
A surge of dark energy burst outward from Narvel.
Not totally from him directly, but in conjunction with Ebonveil.
The blade erupted with a strange pulse, and from within the storm of specters, tendrils of black, crackling energy slithered out like whips. They snaked through the crowd of ghostly enemies, cutting through their bodies with terrifying precision. Wherever the dark tendrils passed, the specters turned into wisps of grey mist—each one drawn into the blade like smoke caught in a vacuum.
Voidscale floated frozen, watching the eerie dance.
As for Narvel, his body was swaying. His face had turned deathly pale, almost corpse-like. It was as though the very blood in his veins had been sucked out—drained, drop by drop.
And in truth, that's exactly what had happened.
If not for the steady stream of energy that Ebonveil continued feeding him from the creatures it consumed, Narvel would've collapsed already. He would have been little more than a husk, offered up as food to the specters.
The energy being fed into him didn't just restore his stamina—it filled his body with a burning resilience, propping up his fading strength, stitching together fraying threads of his soul, and sharpening his fading awareness.
Even so, it wasn't enough to fully negate the effect of the Specters' touch.
Every time one of them phased through him, he felt something being torn away—a fragment of himself, a thread of vitality. His body remained upright, but his mind staggered through waves of hollowness.
Yet, because of Ebonveil, what was taken from him was partially restored.
And then, for the first time, Narvel felt it.
A connection—not just with the scythe, but with the element it embodied.
Darkness.
He clenched the hilt tighter as something inside him stirred. Ebonveil seemed to awaken a dormant skill within him. It wasn't graceful. It wasn't controlled. It drank up every trace of the dark elemental energy that lingered in him and left him dry—but in exchange, it bought him breathing space.
A sharp burst of force exploded from the weapon, casting away the closest specters. The pressure lightened. Not entirely, but enough to let him breathe again.
He gasped.
Still surrounded. Still injured. Still terrified.
But alive.
Words formed out of drifting, glowing runes before him, hovering with an ethereal shimmer in the heated air like embers suspended in time.
Common Specters killed – 43.
However, not a single one of them dropped any gene fragments. That left a pang of disappointment in Narvel's chest. After all that exertion, and all the damage to his body, he had expected something more than just numbers.
Name: Narvel Naver Anderson
Age: 19
Race: Human
Gene Fragment: 2 (Sundered)
Level: Awakened (19%)
Class: —
Gene Class: ???
Title: —
Strength: 8
Speed: 12
Stamina: 8/18
Dexterity: 15
Intelligence: 17
Mental: 11
Wisdom: 13
Charisma: 8
Will: 17/29
Attributes: ??? [Mind's Eye] [True Double]
Constitution: ??? [Realmrender]
Talents: [Telekinesis (weakened)] [Deep Thought]
Skills: [Unnamed]
Comprehensions: —
Pet: Voidscale
Narvel's eyes moved quickly through the information. His body ached, and his mind buzzed from the aftershock of the fight, but even so, the increase in his mental stats didn't go unnoticed. It had previously been 8 and now stood at 11—a 3-point jump, even though he hadn't felt the shift directly.
Then there was the new skill slot under his stats. It remained unnamed, a blank label—but it pulsed softly as if inviting him to brand it with a name of his choosing. He could feel its potential sitting quietly.
The silence didn't last long.
For a few seconds, the Specters hovered in place. Motionless.
As if the death of nearly half their kind stunned them into stillness. A heavy weight filled the air, an air of sorrow and quiet fury. Then, as though the collective realization hit them—They were losing—they howled in agony, in rage, in mourning, before pouncing at Narvel again.
The pressure was suffocating, but Narvel wasn't the same boy who had first walked into this tomb.
Now, a flicker of confidence surged in his chest. Excitement, even. Knowing that their deaths fed his growth and his energy … it was intoxicating. He adjusted his stance and held Ebonveil at the ready, a hungry gleam in his eyes.
Voidscale, who had returned to his side in a show of loyalty, lashed out with its claws at a Specter that got too close—only to discover its attacks passed through like smoke. It blinked, horrified. No damage. Nothing. With a panicked growl, it bolted again, not wanting to become a target of the wrathful spirits. There was no point sticking around if it couldn't even make a dent.
With no hesitation, he activated his [True Double] attribute, directing the sudden surge of energy into his speed. The result was immediate and overwhelming as his muscles coiled with explosive tension, and his vision sharpened. Everything seemed to slow for a heartbeat.
Then he moved.
In less than a second, he had already slashed his weapon six times in blurs of black steel and ghostly screams. Each arc of Ebonveil left a hollow in the air, and each hollow birthed a gust of wind—where once a Specter had been.
Realizing the temporary nature of his power boost, Narvel pressed the advantage.
He didn't wait for them to come. He went to them.
Like a storm crashing into a field of spirits, he cut through them as if they were nothing more than fragile veils of mist. The ghostly wails mixed with the sound of Ebonveil cutting through the air filled the cavern.
Narvel became a blur—spinning, leaping, slashing—each motion deadly and beautiful in its desperation. And in just over thirty seconds, he had destroyed over eighty Specters.
Their shrieks faded, leaving a ghostly hush behind.
Only a dozen or so remained, their haunting forms lingering at the far end of the carven. But the madness was gone from their movements. They no longer charged. They watched—faces twisted with something akin to fear.
Fear of him or more accurately, fear of Ebonveil.
They had come to recognize the weapon for what it was—an executioner of their kind. Its dark edge glowed faintly, pulsing with satisfaction as it absorbed what little remained of the grey mist from the Specters it had killed.
And even in his weakened state, that flow of energy into Narvel's body gave him just enough strength to press on.
His legs trembled and his muscles cried out. His breath came in ragged gulps that scraped the back of his throat but he didn't stop.
With great difficulty, step by step, he moved toward the remaining Specters, cutting them down one after another, their death cries barely audible over the roaring silence that filled the chamber.
Then, it was done.
Narvel's knees buckled, and he dropped onto the ground, landing heavily on his buttocks. He let out a shaky breath, his arms falling limp at his sides, Ebonveil clattering beside him.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, and for the first time since he entered this nightmare, he felt something close to peace.
Exhausted.
Weak.
But thrilled.
Somewhere in his heart, past the pain and exhaustion… he wanted to feel this thrill all over again.
With a thought, he looked at his stats and he couldn't help but feel another rush of excitement in his chest.