With the silence that followed Narvel's final slash came a crushing wave of confusion. He stood motionless for a moment, his body tense and eyes wide. Then, as though reality finally returned, he dropped like a stone and hit the ground hard. He hadn't braced himself for the fall.
"He could have dodged that… why didn't he?" Narvel muttered to himself, breath shaky.
At the height of their clash, when the chamber seemed on the verge of collapsing with the weight of their battle, Narvel fully believed he would lose. With every passing second, every exchange, he saw the gulf between himself and Amadeel widen.
The gap wasn't just in power—it was inexperience, control, and purpose. The moment Amadeel broke through, his aura became heavier, fuller, and refined in a way that Narvel could not yet comprehend.
He had managed to keep Amadeel unsteady using the chaotic dark energy in tandem with Ebonveil, but it had never felt enough to win. Victory in this form wasn't just unexpected—it felt undeserved.
The joy, the pain, all of the adrenaline, and even the strange, fragile sense of camaraderie he had developed during the fight all began to twist inside him, weaving into a single thread of anticlimax. The confusing blend of feelings boiled over, and blood filled his mouth before spilling out onto the stone beneath him.
A loud, weary sigh echoed through the chamber.
It came from the statue seated upon the throne.
"In the end… it seems I pushed my only true disciple to his death, all because of my own wishes," he murmured with a deep and hollow voice. "Had I left him alone all those years ago, would he have found peace in the void behind death instead of suffering here beneath my pride?" His gaze dropped toward Amadeel's broken form. "He didn't disgrace my name… but he didn't win either. He simply chose to leave."
Suddenly, a titanic aura burst forth from the throne.
It surged across the chamber, then outward—beyond the catacombs, beyond the sky—reaching the edge of Camelot and blanketing the entire continent in its oppressive presence. The heavens cracked. Space itself split open at the seams, tearing to reveal a void so black it felt ancient and hungry. The sky dimmed, and the stars above were swallowed.
The ground split into jagged lines that ran for miles. Volcanoes erupted in distant corners of the land, pouring molten fury into the open air. Tidal waves rose far beyond their natural bounds, towering toward the skies as if to drown the world. Even the beasts—those ancient, powerful creatures that rarely stirred—sank into their hiding places, shivering beneath the weight of what they felt.
The origin of it all was the statue. His rage surged into the very bones of the world. Narvel could feel it too. He didn't just sense it, he could taste it, thick and acrid. It crawled into his lungs and crushed his thoughts.
He trembled, body spasming under the pressure, veins bulging, and blood bursting from beneath his skin. But the fury wasn't directed at him.
The aura ripped through his forced fusion with Ebonveil, severing the bond violently. The dark energy recoiled from him, and he dropped to the ground, convulsing. Foamy blood spilled from his lips and his consciousness flickered.
Seeing this, the statue exhaled again.
His aura withdrew like a beast obeying its master's call and the world regained its calm. The skies stitched themselves shut and the shattered earth began to mend. Slowly, the remnants of his wrath were erased, as though they'd never happened.
"I came as quickly as I could. What happened here?"
A voice rang out as an old man in a neat, slightly worn blue robe stepped forward. His hair and beard were silvery-grey, yet his face carried no trace of age. His presence felt calm, but beneath that calm, immense power stirred.
"Mage," the statue said, his voice tired now. "I've lost my last disciple today."
The Mage's eyes followed the crumbling remnants of Amadeel's form. Then he saw something, a pale mist rising from the wreckage. It drifted silently and slowly toward Ebonveil.
The statue noticed it too. He lifted a hand as if to halt it… but then, he let it fall.
'This is part of the boy's gain… and his weapon too. Though they should have lost, they've won something far greater."
The Mage's eyes narrowed as he looked down at Narvel's ruined body.
"Is he the one who caused your disciple's death?"
"Yes… and no," the statue answered slowly. "How could a boy still at the Awakened stage kill someone who had stepped into the Rare Class? The child played a role in this, but he wasn't the true cause. Amadeel had already made his choice. He just needed someone to show him a door he could walk through."
The Mage stepped closer, fingers twitching to summon the Ember that filled the chamber. But the moment he tried, it was taken from him by the statue. If left alone, the Mage would have erased what was left of Narvel.
"I forced the burden on Amadeel long ago," the statue continued. "Even after everything we lost, I thought I was making it up to him… but in the end, it seems as though I punished him for refusing to betray me. He didn't have the heart to tell me he couldn't bear it any longer."
He closed his eyes. Silence fell.
"That boy… Narvel…Amadeel called him a friend. And in return, he gave Amadeel a gift I couldn't. A simple truth, and the strength to choose for himself. He did what I was too much of a coward to do… what my heart wouldn't let me do. Oh, how much wrath will their world suffer… when I return?"
His voice cracked, and in an instant, the statues surrounding the chamber ignited with a wild aura that contained a rage of their own. Each one exuded enough pressure to crush mountains. The Mage winced, unprepared for the intensity.
Then the statue saw something strange.
A red hue seeped from the dust that once was Amadeel and moved toward Narvel's broken form.
The statue stared, stunned. His stone features softened with disbelief.
He's… absorbing Amadeel's innate aura?
Unlike the ethereal mist that Ebonveil had consumed earlier, it bypassed the weapon entirely and flowed directly into Narvel's chest, as though it had found its rightful destination. The moment it entered, Narvel's heartbeat which was already fading into silence suddenly thundered back to life with a loud and heavy sound, echoing like war drums within his broken frame. Each beat pulsed with a force far beyond anything a Nova of his level should be capable of generating.
The flood of power surged through him, lacing itself into his blood, waking every cell. His wounds began to mend as fractured bones realigned, torn muscles wove back together, and ruptured organs began to seal. Yet, just as suddenly as it had started, the process slowed. Something inside him resisted. A blockage as though there was an unknown wall between him and complete recovery.
The statue observed quietly for a moment, deep in thought. Then, with a voice that resonated through the chamber, he spoke.
"As a friend of my disciple, wouldn't it be shameful for me to watch you cripple yourself?"
He raised his arm and made a subtle gesture.
In response, a tide of Ember poured toward Narvel—tiny particles glowing with golden and silver hues, the elemental essence of life and balance. The Ember surrounded Narvel's broken body, covering him from head to toe like a second skin, and began working through his flesh, bones, and spirit.
To the eye, it was as if his form was undergoing arcane regeneration. But something unexpected began to happen. The healing energy, meant only to stabilize him, began to sink into him deeper than intended.
His body responded not just by healing, but by also absorbing the Ember in an entirely different way—integrating it, refining it, expanding something within. His frame trembled as the Ember continued flowing into him, being devoured like sustenance.
He wasn't just healing. He was evolving.
The Mage's brow furrowed, his gaze sharp and calculating. "This child… is abnormal."
"He is far more than that," the statue responded with its eyes narrowed, trying to pry deeper into Narvel. "He's crossed a line that should be impossible. Without a foundational rebirth of body and soul, without cultivating a balance between yin and yang, sun and moon... he's pierced through a boundary even seasoned warriors falter before. The Eclipse barrier has shattered before him, and yet, he lacks a proper Cultivation Manual. No formal teachings. No blueprint for progress."
The statue's voice dropped into something heavier. "It's almost as though someone designed him—an experiment in flesh."
The Mage's eyes gleamed with interest. "You wouldn't mind if I took the boy as my disciple, would you?"
The statue let out a sound halfway between a scoff and a chuckle. "You? What could you teach him? Spell castings? Rune weaving? The boy's path is not of mysticism or arcane law. He was forged for war. The hunger in him is one of combat, not calculation. If anything, your teachings would only dilute what he could become. Not even your master or your King would be suitable to teach him"
He leaned forward slightly, his gaze sharp, almost dissecting.
"There is something buried inside him… something terrifying. I've seen power disguised before, but this—this is deeper. It's ancient and it doesn't belong to this world."
His thoughts swirled as a theory took root.
'Did he encounter an otherworldly being in the past? Was he granted a boon…'
"The boy claimed he was sent here by a librarian," the statue said finally.
"I'll look into it," the Mage replied without hesitation.
"Do as you please. Your kingdom's political games are of no concern to me. This place is not mine to govern, and soon, I'll leave it behind."
The Mage turned to him, eyes narrowing. "So you are departing at last?"
"Soon," the statue said. "I'm not yet fully restored, but nearly. Or rather, I was merely waiting. Convincing myself that the right moment had not yet arrived. But now… thanks to this child, I see clearly. My wounds were never of the body. Nor the soul. They were wounds of the mind. Scars left by guilt, loss… and the pride I refused to let go of."
He paused, then gestured toward the depths of the chamber.
"Once I reclaim the legacy my ancestor hid in these catacombs, my men and I will move for the Crucible Beyond. That is where the next war will unfold."
The Mage nodded solemnly. "Then it is time."
"It is. But I will wait," the statue added, voice softening. "Before I leave, I must see this child awaken. I made a vow to grant him any request if he bested my disciple."
He leaned back on the throne, still watching Narvel as the glow of the Ember slowly settled, and the boy's chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm.
"And I intend to keep that promise."