Stepping into the chamber, Narvel didn't rush to boost his strength with his attribute. This time, he had a different intention.
He wanted to try something new, something uncharacteristic of their pattern for the past eleven rounds. He intended to speak to the statue and request that it fight with everything it had, just as he woul.
The statue had grown accustomed to his presence—Narvel coming and going—and it had embraced each battle with something close to satisfaction. Just as Narvel grew through the trials, the statue too had evolved with every exchange.
Somewhere in the repetition, they had begun to sharpen one another.
And the statue liked to replay those moments. Even without expression, Narvel could tell that it relished those past clashes, analyzing them in its own way, adjusting, refining, and preparing counters. It was as much the student as it was the teacher.
But this time, things were already different. Narvel had entered the chamber with Ebonveil in hand—his first time doing so in this repeated series of duels.
The statue rose to its feet at the sight, meeting his gaze with an almost knowing stillness. It didn't rush forward. It simply watched, and Narvel felt a faint tension in the air, an unspoken understanding that had formed between them.
He stopped farther away than usual, halting several paces before his normal attack range.
"We've been fighting for a while now," he began, his voice steady, "and I've noticed a few things."
He paused, waiting to see if the statue would react. It didn't move, it didn't tilt its head, didn't raise a hand—it just stood there, patient and waiting.
Narvel continued.
"I realized that you're not like the other Uncommon Specters. They're more... direct. Brutal. Simple in their intent. But you, you've got something else. At first, I thought it was just battle awareness, like some remnant instinct of a warrior was embedded into your form. Every time we fought, you adapted, refined your moves, extended the fight as you pleased, and then grew sharper. It felt like I was being used as a whetstone, just as I was using you to sharpen my battle skills."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"But then... you started doing things that didn't quite add up and made me scratch the thought that all you had was battle intelligence. You passed up chances to finish me, even when I was vulnerable. Every time I fled the chamber, you didn't pursue… though that could have been because you can't leave the chamber, or you choose not to, nonetheless, there were instances where you could have caught up to me and impeded my retreat. But you didn't. And that's when I started thinking—if you were only driven by combat instinct, your goal should be my destruction, not... this."
His gaze locked with the statue's again. "You've got a trump card or two, don't you? Techniques you haven't used. I don't know what it is, but I know it's there. Moreover, you feel more alive than dead—more human than not."
Narvel's words hung in the air for a moment.
Then, finally, the statue gave a slow nod.
It wasn't clear what it was agreeing to, whether it was his reasoning, his conclusions, or simply the acknowledgment of their connection—but it was something.
And that something was enough.
Narvel let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, the tension in his body easing as he exhaled. A quiet relief settled into his bones.
"I see... so you're not like the mindless Specters. But you are still a Specter, right?"
The statue nodded again, calm and certain.
"Alright then. How about this—we make the next round our last. I'll be honest, I've enjoyed our fights more than I expected. But the pressure I once felt from you, the one that filled me with the desire to fight you... it's gone. You do not incite such within me anymore." Narvel felt as though he was insulting the statue by this, but it was the truth… at least it was his truth.
"And without that pressure, I won't grow. There's no doubt in me that there are still more things I could learn from you, sure, but my instincts are telling me it's time to part ways. That the path of your fists is no longer mine to walk."
He raised Ebonveil slightly.
"I need to forge a different path for my fist. Still, I'm grateful. Even if you never intended to teach me, I learned all the same. So... thank you."
And with that, Narvel fell silent. Sincere and still, he offered a respectful nod.
Then a voice interrupted.
"What an interesting fellow."
It was raspy, almost brittle. A whisper broken at the edges, as if the speaker's throat had been scraped raw by age or injury. The sound was quiet, yet it carried enough weight to shake the entire chamber.
Narvel froze.
The moment the voice touched his ears, it was as though his blood had been replaced by liquid ice. His consciousness staggered, pulled down by an unseen gravity, and the line between reality and illusion blurred. Wonder collapsed into terror, and reason became mist.
His chest tightened with an unrelenting pressure—something primal. The instinct to kneel surged through his body, not out of reverence but out of an overwhelming fear that devoured all resistance. His knees buckled slightly, threatening to give way.
Even the terrifying vision he had once witnessed in the Hollow Forest—the faceless couple—couldn't compare to this. That had been haunting. This was oppressive and dominating.
It was only a voice, but it had already shattered his will. His mind was only a few fragile threads away from snapping.
"You do not need to bow to me as you are not a subject of mine, young fellow."
When the voice returned, it no longer sounded as destructive.
Instead, it was gentle, even soothing, as if it had reached back in time to heal every wound it had just caused. The words washed over him, mending what had been broken.
Narvel blinked.
He realized he had nearly dropped to his knees. His torso was bent, one leg dipped lower, but something had held him up. Some force in the world had intervened on his behalf—enforcing the will of the speaker as if it were law. He wasn't meant to kneel, and the world had made sure of it.
Slowly, Narvel stood upright.
His eyes turned toward the far end of the hall and he saw statues that he hadn't seen before—because they hadn't been there.
There were figures now. Statues, yes, but not like the one he had been fighting.
These were more refined, more intricate in design. They weren't hulking giants but human-sized, detailed down to the smallest folds in their stone-like robes. They didn't look carved; they looked painted into stone, as though captured in motion and sealed mid-moment.
There were eleven in total.
Five stood to the left of a grand stone throne. Another five to its right. And seated at the center, on the throne itself, was the eleventh statue.
And it was from that direction the voice had come—from the statue seated on the throne, its chin resting lightly atop a closed fist, which in turn was propped by its elbow against the throne's stone arm.
From the edge of his vision, Narvel noticed that every other statue in the chamber had dropped to its knees with their heads bowed low in silent reverence toward the seated figure. The once-motionless sentinels, both standing and seated, now knelt in flawless unison.
Even the statue he had fought—had done the same.
'When did they…' The thought hit him with a sharp chill. 'I didn't even hear them move.'
It dawned on him again that he was in a catacomb. A place wrapped in death, saturated with silence and old, lingering dread. He had been so focused on growth, on the exhilaration of battle, that he had momentarily forgotten the true nature of this place.
Stillness took over the chamber once more. No breath, no shift, not a flicker of movement. It was as though every being present had been carved from the same stone.
Then the voice echoed again.
"Your talent... I find it interesting. And this weapon of yours is somewhat troublesome. Its creator must have been a fearsome existence. Perhaps a powerful Nova from an era before mine... or one that came after. Either way, it is a weapon that stands as the bane of many monsters and beasts in this world."
Ebonveil remained quiet. Its usual tremors those low hum of anticipation or delight had vanished. The scythe now sat mute in Narvel's grip. As though it also feared the one who sat on the throne.
Narvel kept silent. He didn't trust his voice. He didn't want to risk a wrong word. Whatever presence was addressing him, he didn't want to offend it.
The seated statue understood this and wasn't offended. In truth, this was the very response it had expected.
"You said you wanted the next round with my disciple to be the last. Did you mean it?" The voice asked.
Narvel opened his mouth, ready to answer, but the statue spoke again before he could.
"Think carefully before you respond. If you say yes, I will not permit you to flee when your defeat is near. But if you win... I will grant you a request of your choosing."
"I meant it," Narvel replied, hesitation creeping into his voice. Now that he knew his opponent was this being's disciple...
"You hesitate. You fear that I may tip the scales against you for his sake?" The voice asked, calm but sharp.
Narvel gave a slight nod.
"True. I was once doting to my disciples. But that was before I became what I am now. This one... he is the last I accepted, and I had little left to give him. He chose to follow me till the end and became this. Yes, we are Specters now—but we were once far more. And we shall be again."
The statue turned its gaze toward the disciple in question.
"If you choose to make this your final bout, you must commit fully. As my disciple, you bears the duty of upholding my dignity. Do you agree?" The Statue asked.
The statue Narvel had fought rose from its bow, then gave a firm nod, its form radiating readiness.
"You see," the voice continued, "my disciple is a Pseudo Rare Specter. Gifted enough to gain such intelligence despite his low rank, but he cannot yet speak. Forgive him, young fellow."
Narvel's gaze locked with the statue's once more. The red glow that haloed its body intensified, pulsing as if in tune with its will. The shift in atmosphere was immediate, weighty and real. This time, the statue wasn't holding anything back.
Narvel's instincts had been right from the beginning. Had he activated his attribute and boosted his speed to force an all-out clash early on, he might've been killed in the first exchange. He was less experienced and skilled then.
Then something else caught his attention.
Turning his gaze back toward the throne, he saw that all the other statues had risen and seated themselves on the ground, encircling the chamber. Together, they formed a wide ring around the battlefield, their positions giving rise to halos that layered through the air like ripples in a still pond.
And they had done so silently. Not a whisper of sound. Not a scuff of stone. Just... motionless grace.
"Young fellow," The statue spoke again, "rid yourself of the fear you have. Fight with everything you have. You have my word—if you triumph over my disciple, no harm will come to you in this catacombs."
The words felt weighted with intent, laced with a strange warmth. It was as though something in Narvel had been loosened in his chest. His fear ebbed away.
He drew in a deep breath.
Clutching Ebonveil, Narvel activated his unnamed skill.
This time, it didn't explode out with aggression. Instead, it slipped from his shadow gently, as if unfolding from within, tendrils emerging like butterflies breaking from their cocoons.
They wrapped slowly around his limbs, coiling from shoulder to fingertip, thigh to foot. A quiet hum filled the air, and with it came a shift in pressure, different from all their previous bouts. The statue felt it. This time, it sensed not just power, but a real threat.
Not just from the scythe... but from Narvel himself.
"My name is Narvel," he said, voice steady and clear. "And thank you... once again."