Narvel didn't understand what was so amusing about his desire to see Joseline. To him, she wasn't just important—she was one of the reasons he was still moving forward. Her presence, or even just the thought of her, mattered deeply. Yet somewhere inside him, a quiet voice whispered that making such a request might bring regret.
"Young fellow," the statue said, the echo of his earlier laughter still lingering faintly in the chamber, "there are countless beings who would offer blood, essence, or lifetimes to receive a boon from me. And here you are, weighing whether to use that opportunity simply to meet someone. Is it the wife you speak of?"
"Yes," Narvel admitted, his voice softer than before. "Though it's a little embarrassing to say, she's part of the reason I want to grow stronger. She once called me a burden. Said my strength, or the lack of it—would hold her back."
"I figured as much…" the statue mused, his tone losing its earlier humor. "So tell me, do you believe seeking her out this way is truly wise? Or do you still lean toward power?"
"I thought you said true power comes from within."
"I did. And I meant it. But that doesn't mean you should walk the path without tools. Trump cards, inheritances, techniques—they are not true strength on their own, but they can become part of it. So long as you don't depend entirely on them, so long as you use them as extensions of your will, then they will belong to you."
Narvel's brows pulled together slightly. The way the statue spoke—layered, winding, almost riddled—left him needing a moment to process. He wasn't sure if it was the age behind the words or something else.
"Then tell me," the statue asked, his voice firm but not unkind, "what kind of power do you truly seek? How strong would you like to become?"
Narvel fell silent, his thoughts running deep. He didn't answer immediately, letting the question settle in his chest. After a few long seconds, he looked up.
"The type of power I want," he said slowly, "is the kind that would allow me to live my life in peace. To wake up without fear, without being hunted, without losing those I care about."
He paused again. What came next felt heavier, and for a moment, he hesitated.
"As for how strong… I want to be stronger than you."
A stillness fell over the chamber. The statue stared at Narvel, stone-carved features unreadable, yet somehow layered with interest—as if he were peering into an unusual artifact that had just revealed an unexpected quality.
"I never imagined a beginner would look upon my strength and see it as lacking," the statue said, his voice low.
"I didn't mean it that way," Narvel began quickly, unsure if he had crossed a line.
"I know." The statue's gaze softened, his next words carrying the weight of reflection. "I am not satisfied with my strength either. The power to live peacefully… it's something I have yet to grasp as well. You've asked for something difficult."
A small smile touched the corners of the statue's lips, though it was the kind of smile born of bitter truths rather than joy.
"But even if I cannot hand it to you, I can show you where to look. I can point you in the right direction, but only you can make the journey. Whether or not you succeed will depend on your talent and your resolve. So I ask you this: will you take a step forward toward the strength you seek… or will you choose a one-way path to the person your heart longs for?"
The question hung in the air for a few seconds before Narvel spoke. It took all he had in him to make this decision. He didn't want to have any regrets in the future, nor did he want to be called a burden by someone he cared for.
"I want power."
"Good!" The statue's deep voice echoed through the chamber, stirring faint vibrations in the still air. "My disciple did not make a mistake… and for that, I am glad."
With a slow wave of his hand, a weathered piece of parchment lifted from the base of the throne and drifted toward Narvel. Its surface was old and brittle, yet somehow, it pulsed faintly with a dormant energy. The air around it shimmered slightly, as though the knowledge it held resisted being forgotten.
Narvel caught the paper carefully, almost instinctively sensing its value. When he glanced down, he could see faint inked passages across its surface—some written with clarity, others nearly hidden.
"That is a cultivation art," the statue said, settling back into his throne as though recounting something long buried. "It's one you can begin preparing for now, but cannot fully practice until you reach the peak of the Sunmoon level. Still, it can serve as a guiding flame, lighting your path when your progress threatens to falter. Do not underestimate what you hold."
Narvel examined the parchment again, trying to decipher the scripts. There was a strange pull to the markings as if they spoke to something beyond words.
"I discovered that art in an ancient ruin, back when I still roamed this world with reckless hunger," the statue continued. "Even my father, as powerful and revered as he was, could not draw anything useful from it."
That last statement made Narvel raise his head in confusion.
The statue noticed. "Yes, I meant what I said. My father could not obtain anything from it and neither could I. That alone should tell you how rare and extraordinary the knowledge on that paper is. In truth, it was he who eventually confirmed that it was a cultivation art and not just a scroll of forgotten philosophy. I chose to give it to you because something within me says that you are… suited for it. Whether by fate or by nature."
Narvel's grip tightened around the parchment. His heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity. "But I can't use it until I reach the Sunmoon realm?"
"You can begin studying it," the statue said. "You can try to grasp the intent, the principles buried within. But you won't be able to cultivate it, not yet. To step into the realm beyond the Sunmoon, you must carry both the sun and the moon within you. That is to say, you need a core—a vessel strong enough to hold and refine a purer form of Ember."
He paused for a moment, watching Narvel closely.
"Even if you manage to comprehend fragments of what's written, your current self will lack the means to put them into action. You must first create your Sunmoon—your own balance of yin and yang. Only then can the energy this art demands find a home within you."
"I see. Thank you… uncle," Narvel uttered, the word leaving his mouth with a hint of hesitation. Calling the ancient figure 'uncle' felt strange, surreal even, but there was an unexpected warmth to it as if he'd just stepped across an unseen threshold.
"That is good," the statue responded with a nod, his stone gaze softening. "I will be leaving now."
As he rose from the throne, the chamber around them dissolved into a spectacle of brilliance. The stone walls, the relics, even the air's weight—all vanished. In their place, Narvel found himself standing in the open sky.
Wisps of clouds stretched beneath their feet like a soft sea of white, while above them, a magnificent sun bathed everything in a golden radiance. The brilliance wasn't harsh but warm and absolute, and it didn't seem natural. It all felt connected to the statue, as though it was a manifestation of his being.
The throne behind him had vanished.
His once rigid, stone-carved features shifted before Narvel's eyes, becoming flesh—warm, solid, and living. A man who looked as though he was in his thirties now stood where a statue had been, bearing the weight of endless years in his eyes, and yet, in this light, there was clarity in him.
"Also, Mage," the man turned slightly, his tone sharpened, "do not involve him in the political games your kingdom is playing. Send him far away. Let him grow, let him struggle, and when his strength is his own, he will return—then he can claim the vengeance he spoke of."
He turned his gaze back to Narvel, and a faint smile touched his lips. "If fate permits it, we shall meet again, young fellow."
And with those final words, he vanished.
The sun, the sky, and all that light scattered as if peeled away by invisible winds. In the blink of an eye, Narvel found himself standing under the night sky, and once more within the dense forest that circled the entrance to the catacombs. The air was damp, and the earthy scent of leaves and bark grounded him. It was quiet, save for a few birds in the distance.
'What sort of power has he obtained to be able to affect the world so much with just his movements?' Narvel thought, still stunned.
A calm sigh nearby pulled him back to the present.
"You do not know the type of being you have befriended," the Mage said, his voice low and even. "Nor will you ever truly understand unless you ascend beyond a certain threshold. Until then, his depth will remain a mystery to you."
As he spoke, the Mage reached into his sleeve and retrieved a wand—a slender piece of pale wood, etched with small glyphs. With ease, he began to draw symbols into the air. Glowing pink neon trails followed the motion of his wand, coalescing into runes that shifted and spun. These symbols wove themselves into circles, forming intricate patterns that floated and layered atop each other like living diagrams.
"What direction do you wish to go?" he asked, eyes still locked on the glowing runes.
"I…" Narvel began, but the Mage interrupted, still focused on his crafting.
"Keep in mind, I can only send you a few hundred kilometers from here. Choose carefully."
Narvel nodded, thinking quickly. "The nearest Anchor would do… Sir."
"There's no need for such formalities," the Mage replied with a dry chuckle. "Frankly speaking, if things unfold the way I suspect, I might be calling you sir in the future. But until then…"
The circles of runes pulsed, tightening their formation around Narvel. One by one, they folded inward, then spiraled outward again with a soft hum. The light consumed his figure, wrapping around him like a cocoon.
And in a breath… he vanished.