Chapter 4: Voidscale

The Hollow Forest was a nightmarish expanse of towering, skeletal trees that stretched endlessly beneath the crimson sky. The trees were unnaturally tall, their twisted, blackened trunks resembling the bones of long-dead giants. Their gnarled branches clawed at the sky like desperate fingers, and their bark was slick with a faint, oily sheen that glistened in the dim light.

The forest floor was a carpet of ash and broken bones that crunched softly under Narvel's boots.

Bioluminescent fungi dotted the ground, their faint blue glow casting shifting patterns of light that seemed to move when he wasn't looking. The air was thick with the pungent stench of decay, and a low, constant hum filled the silence—a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Above, the dense canopy blocked out most of the red sky, but occasional beams of light pierced through, illuminating patches of the forest in an eerie, otherworldly glow. These beams shifted and danced as if the forest itself was alive and watching.

It took Narvel a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the environment. His entire body was tense, his grip tightening on the hilt of the machete.

The whispers in his head had gone completely silent as if subdued by the invisible power of the forest.

A rare calm seeped into Narvel's mind, allowing his body to adjust, but it also amplified the throbbing pain in his broken pinky. Glancing around to ensure he was alone, he gripped the injured finger and counted to two before snapping it back into place.

A sharp, searing pain shot through his hand, worse than when he'd first yanked it the wrong way. He gritted his teeth, stifling a cry, but the pain quickly subsided, replaced by a dull ache and a strange sense of relief.

It was as if his body had been drowning in a sea of tension and had finally been pulled to the surface. Here, in the Hollow Forest, in the Crucible, Narvel felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders—a discomfort he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying.

Slowly, he could tell that his injured finger was healing, and his body was growing stronger. Yet, none of this brought him true peace. He shifted uneasily, his instincts screaming that something was wrong.

'It's nighttime,' he reasoned, his unease deepening.

A memory surfaced—his first time in the Crucible when he was just ten years old. Unlike most Novas, who entered with their consciousness, Narvel had been dragged here entirely, body and soul. He had appeared in the Hollow Forest then, too.

That first time, it had been daytime. He remembered crying uncontrollably, running blindly from monstrous shapes he couldn't fully comprehend. He had spent an entire day scrambling through the forest, hungry, exhausted, and terrified, until he stumbled upon a glowing orb about a week later. The orb contained Ember, and when he touched it, he discovered he could use its energy to return to Earth.

His second entry had been at thirteen, forced by the relentless whispers in his mind. Desperate to retain his sanity, he had fled into the Crucible. For two harrowing weeks, he had scrambled for survival, unlocking an ability in the process.

Eventually, he found the corpse of a small monster, its body containing another orb, the same kind that had saved him before.

Suddenly, Narvel heard whispers—gentler, emotionless ones, unlike the corrupting voices he was used to. As they spoke, glowing runes appeared before his eyes, shifting into words he could understand:

Name: Narvel Naver Anderson

Age: 17

Race: Human

Level: Awakened (19%)

Class: —

Gene Class: ???

Title: —

Strength: 4

Speed: 6

Dexterity: 11

Intelligence: 13

Mental: 8

Wisdom: 13

Charisma: 8

Will: 23

Attributes: ??? [Mind's Eye] [True Double]

Constitution: ??? [Realmrender]

Talents: [Telekinesis (weakened)] [Deep Thought]

Skills: —

Comprehensions: —

Pet: Voidscale

Seeing this familiar information, Narvel noticed a few changes since the last time he'd seen his stats. His Will had increased by 12 points, and he had awakened a new talent: Telekinesis.

He had always known he could move things with his mind, but until now, it hadn't appeared in his stats. He had unlocked the ability one evening after enduring one of his most potent whisper attacks. Desperate to silence the voices, he banged his head against a tree until the whispers subsided. In the aftermath, he had unintentionally pulled a branch from the tree with his thoughts.

Using the ability strained his mind, and fearing the whispers' return, he had avoided it ever since.

His gaze drifted to the pet listed in his stats, and a frown crept across his face.

"Voidscale," Narvel called, and a swirl of starlike dust materialized before him. Moments later, he felt something light alight on his shoulder—a five-inch lizard with snake-like features. Its scales were a deep, dark purple, and its grey, slit pupils glared at him in clear displeasure. Narvel understood the creature's mood all too well.

He had summoned Voidscale just hours into his first day in the Crucible, and it was largely thanks to this companion that he'd managed to survive on his own in his first and second entries into the Crucible.

Since his last entry, Narvel hadn't bothered to summon Voidscale—a creature born of his inner ego, a serpentine shadow with scales that shimmered like liquid obsidian. Its body was no thicker than a wrist, coiled tight as a spring, and its eyes glowed a faint, unsettling grey, mirroring Narvel's hazel irises but sharper, colder. Tiny horns curved back from its skull, and its claws, though small, gleamed like shards of onyx.

Narvel had nearly forgotten about the creature, having sworn never to return to the Crucible. Though attempting to summon such a creature on earth would be dangerous and stupid, Narvel was also aware that if he did that, the corruption from the whispers he would face would eclipse whatever he had experienced in the past.

Voidscale, aware of this betrayal, had become a silent sulking presence in the back of his mind.

"Alarms are ringing in my head," Narvel said, staring into Voidscale's unblinking eyes. "Scout the area. Tell me what's wrong."

Voidscale snorted, a sound like steam hissing through teeth, and turned its head away with deliberate slowness. It coiled tighter on Narvel's shoulder, its forked tongue flicking dismissively.

"Rebelling now?"

Narvel grabbed the creature and flung it into the air. Voidscale vanished mid-arc, dissolving into a wisp of smoke, only to reappear instantly on his shoulder. It chittered angrily its sound like glass scraping stone, as its tail lashed at Narvel's neck.

"You tried to steal Ember from me last time," Narvel hissed. "I forgot you because of that. Now we're even."

Voidscale bared needle-like fangs in a mockery of a smile. The creature was selfish, distrusting, and cunning—a mirror of some of Narvel's traits. It thrived on chaos, its loyalty as brittle as the ash beneath their feet. Yet it was bound to him, a fragment of his soul given form, and its stubbornness was as predictable as his own stubbornness.

Suddenly, Voidscale froze, its claws digging into Narvel's shoulder, piercing through his clothes and into his skin. The creature's grey eyes narrowed as it stared into the shadows ahead.

Narvel followed its gaze.

About five yards away, perched on a thick branch of a skeletal tree, was a figure. At first, it was hard to make out its features, but the glowing yellow eyes—piercing and cold, locked onto him like twin lanterns in the dark.

The branches above swayed, and a beam of crimson light pierced through the canopy, illuminating the figure. It was a humanoid creature, its back turned to Narvel, but its head twisted unnaturally, like an owl's, to stare directly at him.

'An Ash Stalker.' Narvel's heart palpitated and he finally understood why his instincts were raising alarms in his mind.

The creature's body was made of ash, its form semi-transparent and constantly shifting as if it was barely holding itself together. Its limbs were elongated and jagged, ending in claw-like fingers that seemed to drip black liquid. The yellow eyes burned brightly, their glow cutting through the dim light like twin flames.

Narvel's grip tightened on his machete as the Ash Stalker tilted its head, its gaze unblinking. The air around it shimmered faintly.

His mind raced. He knew these creatures—Ash Stalkers, never hunted alone. They moved in packs, herding prey into traps with calculated precision. The fact that only one had revealed itself meant the others were already circling behind him, hiding in the shadows of the skeletal trees.

He didn't glance back. Instead, he lunged toward the yellow-eyed Stalker perched ahead, its ash-swirled body jumped down while letting out a loud screech from its mouth. The creature wasn't surprised to see that Narvel didn't try running in the opposite direction, as it had seen many that didn't give in to their fear.

Narvel sprinted, moving at his top speed immediately. His boots crunched through the bone-littered ash. Blackened tree trunks blurred past as he weaved through the forest as the Stalker's guttural hiss echoed behind him.

The air reeked of burnt ozone as he moved, and the faint crackle of ash moving behind him grew louder—a sign that the pack of Ash Stalkers was chasing after him.