Maddened Fist.
He had seen it listed among his skills before entering the chamber, but he hadn't paid much attention to it. Unlike his unnamed technique, this one had a structured and defined title.
Narvel had brushed it aside at first, assuming it was just another latent ability that hadn't truly awakened yet. But now, standing before the statue again, he could feel it. This wasn't just a skill that hadn't truly awakened, it was something deeper, something that carried room to grow. He hadn't scratched the surface, stumbling only to the entry-level.
The name itself hinted at a path and a style of expression that might help him evolve further. But that was a thought for later. Right now, the only thing that he felt deserved his focus was the enemy in front of him.
Maddened Fist, paired with the strength amplification from his [True Double], brought out a force that surpassed what his current boosted physical stats could ordinarily deliver. Normally, his fists wouldn't have left much more than a few marks on the surface of the statue. But this time, four hollow dents had been carved into its chest.
Still, even as the impact landed and the cracks appeared, something tugged at the edge of his perception. Something was missing from the blow. He didn't know what it was yet, but he could feel its absence. As though a crucial element hadn't synced in with the rest of the technique, and the result, while powerful, was incomplete.
Unbeknownst to Narvel, his successful imitation of the statue's technique did more than surprise his opponent—it stirred the chamber itself.
The statues that had once stood dormant along the walls, their stony silence undisturbed for who knew how long, now, began to shift. Not their bodies, but their eyes. Massive heads turned subtly and all so softly that the grind of stone on stone was barely audible beneath the tension of the fight.
Some of them were so tall, they'd likely shatter the ceiling of the catacombs if they attempted to stand fully.
But they didn't move. They only watched.
Narvel didn't notice them, nor could he afford to at the moment.
Not willing to let the statue recover or analyze what had just happened, he rushed forward with his fists moving in a seamless blur. A storm of phantom fists rained down, each one layered over the last, creating a suffocating rhythm that echoed in the chamber.
The strikes surrounded the statue's body, striking from all angles and leaving behind deeper fractures across its surface.
His assault caught the statue off guard.
It was still recovering from the realization that Narvel had copied its technique to such a degree.
But that daze only lasted a moment. After being hit several more times, it reoriented and countered, throwing out a series of jabs—each one precise and each one colliding with Narvel's punches.
This time, Narvel didn't hear the crunch of bone or feel joints pop out of place. His body held, reinforced by both the [True Double] and Maddened Fist. Still, pain surged through his knuckles and wrists with every impact, as though he were slamming bare fists into reinforced steel. The shock ran through his arms, but he held firm.
Then it returned that familiar weight, that cold pressure.
The moment it enveloped his figure, his [Deep Thought] attribute activated again. That guiding clarity flooded in, blurring the edges of everything except the fight. Narvel was pulled into that same combat immersion state, where each motion, each switch of the enemy's form, could be read and sometimes countered.
His mind sharpened, pushing him to the edge where instinct and intellect met.
And the fight began again, more brutal and focused than before.
Fists flew wildly, each strike meeting the other with brutal force. Neither side backed down, the space between them echoing with the sharp clap of knuckles colliding mid-air.
But when the pain in Narvel's arms reached the threshold where his bones felt on the verge of breaking, he knew he had to break the rhythm. The back-and-forth had turned into a masochistic contest of endurance, and he needed to reset. With a swift retreat, he created some distance between himself and the statue.
The statue didn't hesitate.
As soon as the gap widened, the environment shifted. The air thickened, growing heavier and hotter. The temperature surged without warning, and a tangible wave of heat bore down on Narvel's frame.
The gauntlets on the statue's arms glowed molten red, their new hue pulsed with a dangerous intensity. That glowing armor around the fists wasn't merely for show—it radiated condensed power, giving the sense that heat and impact had fused into a single technique. A familiar technique. One that Narvel had drawn inspiration from.
Then the statue struck forward.
Instantly, more than a dozen phantom fists materialized in the air. Each one mirrored the original punch, moving with such fluidity and cohesion that they appeared just as solid and deadly. They descended in an overwhelming barrage, reminiscent of falling stars on a collision course with Narvel.
The moment he recognized the technique, he dismissed any thought of blocking it with his fists. These weren't simple projections. They were enhanced, devastating blows, far more potent than anything the statue had thrown before.
Without hesitation, he summoned Ebonveil and activated both [Mind's Eye] in conjunction with [Deep Thought].
The world transformed.
Dots of shimmering light appeared in his vision and tiny luminous nodes hung in the air around the statue's fists and their phantom doubles. Everything slowed, suspended in a near-still frame. Each fist moved at a crawl. Narvel's breath hitched as warmth trickled beneath his eyes.
Blood.
His body was overloading, pushed beyond safe limits by the combined effect of his ability and talent. The sensory input was too intense. He had canceled the boost to his strength and redirected everything to speed. Even the 10% increase from Ebonveil was factored in. His movements became sharper, faster—but the strain was still immense.
Still, it worked.
He didn't need to use his unnamed skill this time. One blink, and he was gone, already dashing through the passageway, escaping the chamber.
Behind him, the lingering force of the statue's technique swept into the corridor, sending dust billowing in his wake.
Some might wonder, why hadn't Narvel just transferred his True Double to his speed stat and used Ebonveil to finish the statue off?
The answer was layered.
From the moment their battle began, he'd sensed something off. It was as if the statue was waiting for him to make that exact move. Every block, every exchange, felt premeditated—as though the statue had choreographed his reactions, setting traps with each step. That suspicion had never left him, and it was the reason he had chosen to allocate his double's power to strength alone.
Back in the safety of the passage, his breathing gradually returned to normal. After some time, once his body had begun to recover, he resumed what had now become his post-fight ritual.
He punched.
Again and again.
This time, he was chasing that elusive missing element that would elevate his strikes from mimicry to mastery. With the help of his [Mind's Eye], he could observe the statue's movements with far greater clarity.
Every shift of weight, every twitch in the torso or shoulder before a strike was projected vividly in his mind, allowing him to study not just the execution but the intention behind each blow.
It was during this process that he noticed something he had initially overlooked, the faint reddish glow that always surrounded the statue's fists. Through the enhanced perception granted by his [Mind's Eye], he was able to see the way this energy moved.
It flowed tightly around the fists, coiling and stretching with each punch, condensing into sharp points of impact. It wasn't just an aura; it was a form of energy, and it resembled Ember.
The realization struck him, but so did the limitation: he still didn't know how to move Ember, or take less of this new energy he just realized.
Even so, that didn't stop him.
He continued to throw punches, over and over, experimenting with form, torque, and flow. There were other small things he had picked up as well. The angle of the elbow at the moment of impact, the subtle bend of the knees during rotation, and the brief tension in the back before a release of force. He needed to integrate them all.
Eventually, he paused.
Sweat covered his body, and his arms throbbed with fatigue. He rested, gathering his strength and preparing to return to the chamber for yet another round with the statue.
Once his breathing stabilized and his strength returned, he left the safety of the passageway. Voidscale followed behind, watching him without saying a word. It had long since started wondering when Narvel would abandon this back-and-forth routine.
The answer? Probably when facing the statue felt as effortless as facing the Uncommon Specters… when the pressure was gone.
His new regimen had become a pattern. Fight, test what he learned, and then run when his stamina began to give out. Rinse and repeat.
He had repeated this cycle nine times already and was now running away for the tenth.
Each time, he picked up something new. Each time, he practiced, polished, and fused it into his punches. The process thrilled him. There was a raw exhilaration in pushing himself like this, to the edge and back again.
He had grown so absorbed in this strange rhythm of fight and retreat that he had nearly forgotten he was still in the depths of a catacomb.
But even this relentless pursuit had its limits.
After the twelfth round, Narvel began to notice something different. The statue's pressure no longer crushed him the way it used to. His body no longer reacted as sharply. And it was becoming harder and harder to enter that immersive combat state.
That was the signal.
He decided then that the thirteenth round would be the final one.
He wasn't done because he had learned everything. No, he was stopping because he could feel it. The statue had a trump card, a final ace it hadn't played yet.
And Narvel was determined to force it out.