Chapter 30: Instintive Nudge

Without wasting much time, Narvel charged at the nearest Uncommon Specter—the spear-wielding statue. The Specter met his approach with a swift and deadly thrust, angling the spear low and tight, aiming for Narvel's abdomen with chilling precision. Its movements were almost deliberate, almost martial in nature.

At the same time, the halberd-wielding statue lunged in to join the fray. It dragged the wide blade of its halberd across the stone floor, sending sparks flying as it twisted the weapon in a brutal arc. The edge shrieking as it neared Narvel's legs.

In that brief, compressed moment, Narvel realized dodging one would leave him open to the other. Logic dictated a defensive move or a calculated trade-off. And yet… there was a rising itch under his skin.

An urged, birthed from some sort of thrill.

It confused him.

He had never seen himself as the type to enjoy this type of chaos, this testing of power. He had always been petty, even vengeful, but never one who reveled in a fight for its own sake. Fights were something to be avoided… unless absolutely necessary.

Now, though, something inside him stirred. A reckless desire to see just how far his strength could go. A buried wildness rising with each heartbeat.

Still, Narvel suppressed the urge and his reasoning took hold as he pushed off the ground, shifting his weight to narrowly avoid the halberd's sweeping arc, the blade whistling just beneath his leap.

In the same breath, he raised Ebonveil and smacked the shaft of the incoming spear aside. The force of the strike cracked the stone weapon mid-length, snapping it with a sharp crack.

Not wasting the momentum, Narvel reached forward, grabbing the fractured end of the spear with the intent to wrench it from the Specter's grip. But the moment his fingers curled around it and pulled, it felt like he had just tried to uproot a mountain.

The statue didn't budge.

Instead, it flung him into the air with the strength of a being far beyond his weight class. Narvel's body twisted in midair from the force of the counter.

'My strength still doesn't compare to theirs… My speed, yeah. But strength? The gap's massive.' A frown appeared on his face.

He gritted his teeth as the thought ran through his mind.

Back before he entered the Crucible in pursuit of Joseline—before this spiral into Camelot and this madness—Narvel had already been powerful enough to leave cracks in reinforced walls with a single blow. Now, with his newfound strength surging through him, he felt even more capable.

But against these Uncommon Specters? It still wasn't enough.

He speculated that their strength stats were at least 10 points above his if not 20. But when it came to their speed and dexterity stats, his was probably similar to theirs. But this didn't make him feel better about himself.

Because thinking about it, they were made of heavy stone, and being slow wouldn't be a surprise, however, he thought to himself that he had gotten faster only to realize that he was just fighting slower beings.

The excitement from his recent growth disappeared and he was filled with dejection.

'If I tried hitting them with just my fists… would I even leave a mark?'

That question lingered in his mind as he spun mid-air, narrowly evading another jab—this time the broken spear was being wielded like a makeshift staff. The Specter moved with inhuman precision, launching blow after blow, each one coming with terrifying timing.

The first jab was missed by inches.

And then came the second which brushed past his side.

Then the third came straight for his shoulder.

He twisted his body, arching mid-fall, and narrowly dodged the final strike before landing. His boots scraped against the stone ground. But before he could fully recover, the halberd was swinging again, coming from a wide and deadly arc that forced him to squat low.

The blade whistled over his head, carrying a gust of wind that kicked up dust and bits of debris from the floor.

Narvel dropped one hand to the ground, regaining balance, then pushed off the floor, flipping and darting several feet backward, putting space between himself and the advancing Specters.

As his feet touched the ground, he was already moving again. His form blurred slightly from the speed, and in a blink, he was rushing toward the halberd-wielding statue, determined to test something.

This time, he didn't use Ebonveil.

He raised his fist and his muscles tightened before he unleashed the strongest punch he could muster directly to the chest of the stone statue.

Boom!

The impact was brutal, or so it seemed.

Dust exploded outward, and the Specter paused slightly. A faint fissure appeared across its chest and glowed briefly. But then, like water closing over a breach, the crack sealed up just as quickly as it had formed.

Narvel's eyes widened.

So, he had been right. Ebonveil wasn't just helping, it was doing the heavy lifting. Without the weapon, his damage was minimal and superficial at best. If he were to rely only on his fists, he'd be in for a much longer and riskier fight.

That realization sparked a flicker of irritation in him. He was strong now—no doubt, at least stronger than his previous self, but the gap between his strength and theirs, coupled with their durability, was still painfully clear.

Snapping back into motion, he placed a foot on the Specter's thigh, using the solid stone as a platform. He pivoted sharply, launching himself into the air just as another jab came for him, and aimed at the same leg he stepped on.

The broken spear pierced the statue's thigh, emerging out the other side with a crunch of stone, but the Specter that was hit didn't even flinch.

Like a puppet devoid of pain, it simply pulled the spear free, and the gaping hole in its thigh closed in a smooth ripple.

Still airborne, Narvel twisted his body again—this time raising Ebonveil high. The blade gleamed ominously as he brought it down in a diagonal cleave, the air howling with the speed of his strike.

Crash!

Ebonveil met the halberd-wielder in a downward slash, cutting through the statue easily. The entire form of the statue quaked under the power of the hit before dividing into two and crumbling into stone fragments.

With its death came the drifting of grey mist, curling like smoke in the air before streaming straight into Ebonveil's blade. The weapon pulsed as it proceeded to swallow the essence greedily.

Narvel landed lightly on the stone floor, with his boots pressing into the ground.

He was already shifting his weight to move as muscles coiled like springs ready to leap when a strange feeling struck him.

A quiet, subtle nudge from somewhere deep within. An odd intuition whispered through him, telling him not to use Ebonveil in the next fight.

He should use his fists.

The sensation didn't come with any reason or logic. It was pure instinct, rising in his chest like a tide, pulling at his arms to drop the weapon. Narvel hesitated and was confused.

Why now?

But even as he questioned it, another surge followed as his [Deep Thoughts] talent activated on its own, like a quiet voice confirming the strange pull in his gut. Something inside him was trying to communicate… something beyond words.

And yet, it made no sense. Narvel knew for a fact that his fists would barely be able to harm the statues. Using them again against this statue bordered on idiocy. Still, the feeling wouldn't fade. It lingered and was persistent.

He clenched his teeth in frustration. He'd always trusted his instincts and they had never led him wrong before. But this one? This felt ridiculous.

And yet, he couldn't bring himself to ignore it.

"Damn it…" He growled under his breath, irritated by the absurdity of his decision even as he committed to it.

With a small yell of defiance, he raised Ebonveil high then drove it into the ground beside him, embedding it into the stone floor. He turned to face the statue.

The last Uncommon Specter, wielding its broken spear like a crude staff, noticed the gesture. As though enraged by Narvel's barehanded approach, it stomped once and lunged forward, raising its weapon high above its head in a crushing overhead strike.

Narvel sprinted toward it without hesitation, diving beneath the sweeping blow. The broken staff slammed into the ground with a heavy crack that sent a web of fractures through the stone.

Sliding low and emerging from under the Specter's elbow, Narvel twisted, planted his feet, and threw two strong punches at the joint—both aimed with brutal precision.

Boom! Boom!

The force behind his strikes stirred a burst of dust around them, and visible cracks rippled through the statue's elbow. Chunks of stone even chipped away but still, it wasn't enough to break through the whole thing.

With a hiss-like vibration, the statue swung the same damaged arm backward, trying to swat him away like a pest. But Narvel moved again, rolling across its back in a smooth motion, and popped up on the opposite side.

He then struck again with two more punches fired off in quick succession into the other elbow of the statue, creating new webs of cracks across the joint.

And just like before… the damage began to seal.

Narvel watched it happen—the wounds healing before his eyes—but something about the process felt slower than before. Or maybe it was just that he was seeing more or feeling more. The battle continued this way.

With him avoiding and dodging the attacks of the statue, before retaliating with kicks or blows.

Each punch and kick felt more connected to something.

Every hit was less about damage and more about breaking through, not just the statue's form, but something deeper. [Deep Thoughts] pulsed within him, sharpening his focus, drawing him into a rhythm that felt familiar yet unfamiliar, like muscle memory he was unable to grasp.

And the more he fought, the more aware he became.

He started reading the Specter's motions—its weight, its timing, its predictable strength. He wasn't just exchanging blows anymore; he was beginning to use the creature against itself. At one point, he shifted mid-strike and allowed the Specter's momentum to throw it slightly off balance—enough to land another jab to the ribs.

But he still couldn't finish it off.

His fists couldn't break the Specter entirely, at least not yet.

And yet… a smile crept across Narvel's face.

He was enjoying this.

His chest rose and fell with steady breaths as his knuckles ached. His arms tingled, but there was something alive in him, something raw and untamed, as though the act of combat, this specific kind of combat was unlocking something sacred buried in his blood.

He didn't understand it completely, but he could feel it and wanted to welcome it.