An indeterminate amount of time passed before Narvel slowly opened his eyes. He found himself sprawled on his back atop a wooden floor that creaked softly under his weight. Above him, white, billowing clouds drifted across a vast sky—so different from the dark, oppressive clouds he had grown accustomed to in the Hollow Forest.
The sunlight was clear and warm, casting a gentle golden glow over his body, and the entire atmosphere felt both surreal and serene.
"What happened? Where am I?"
With great effort, Narvel attempted to sit up, propping himself on one arm.
That was when he felt it—a heavy, unnerving pressure resting on his abdomen.
In that instant, fragments of the earlier ordeal rushed back to him: the strange, inexplicable sights, and the crushing pain in his stomach that had heralded his collapse. It was the same sensation that had made him feel as though his lower body had been wrenched from his upper half.
In a state of mounting panic, Narvel's gaze fell to his stomach, and he scanned downward from his torso to his legs. Relief mingled with dread as he realized that his body was still intact. However, that relief was quickly eclipsed by a horrifying sight: an eight-foot-long, pitch-black object lay across him, its presence accentuated by a curved blade at its top that stretched about four feet long.
It was a scythe.
"Is this the object that knocked me out?" He reasoned. "Thank God the bladed part didn't touch me."
Determined to free himself, Narvel attempted to push the weighty body of the scythe off his own. At that moment, a sharp gust of wind surged unexpectedly through the space, slicing into the palm of his outstretched hand. The pain was instantaneous and searing, as he felt a razor-like sting run through his flesh the moment he made contact with the cold, dark metal.
"Argh!" He cried out, instinctively trying to pull his hand away.
To his horror, he discovered that he couldn't move his hand from the scythe's grip. The weapon clung to him as if it were fused with his very skin. Fear and confusion surged through him as he frantically tugged at his arm, but nothing changed. Soon, he realized that blood was flowing rapidly from the injury, as though the scythe were not only restraining him but also siphoning his life force.
"Voidscale, help me!" Narvel pleaded desperately, his voice cracking under the strain of panic and pain.
Yet, the creature he called for was nowhere near him. Voidscale had retreated to a safe distance from both Narvel and the ominous weapon, clearly terrified of the scythe's malevolent aura. At that moment, Narvel's desperate call for help seemed to be a summons to share in his impending doom.
Voidscale responded by transmitting its thoughts directly into Narvel's mind—a stark, dismissive message, something along the lines of "Do it yourself!"
"You black lizard, don't let me get my hands on you."
As the strength in his limbs began to waver, Narvel truly believed that he was doomed to die in this unfamiliar, hostile place. In his despair, he even entertained the thought of slicing his arm off to escape the deadly grip of the scythe. Just as hopelessness and the thought of cutting his arm settled in his mind, he was able to pull his arm back.
With a concerted effort, Narvel pushed the scythe off his body. Gritting his teeth against the searing pain and the loss of blood, he managed to crawl on his buttocks, dragging himself away from the menacing presence of the scythe. Every movement was labored, but eventually, he rolled to a stand, creating a cautious distance between himself and the mysterious, deadly instrument.
"What the hell is this thing?!" Narvel exclaimed, his voice echoing in the silence of the room. In response, ethereal whispers swirled around him, and before his eyes, luminous runes sprang to life, writing:
Name: Ebonveil
Type: Inheritance (Bounded)
Grade: Unique
Abilities: [Shadow Harvest] [Reapers Mark]
[+10% strength. +10% speed. +10 Dark Element.]
Narvel's eyes widened as he read the inscriptions. He struggled to fully comprehend the significance of what he had just witnessed when, without warning, the scythe surged forward and shot toward his neck.
There was no time to react—the weapon struck him with precise, unforgiving force.
Yet, as the scythe made contact with his skin, something extraordinary happened. Instead of drawing blood or causing harm, the blade transformed. It turned into a tattoo that etched itself onto Narvel's neck. The mark was dark and intricate, resembling a halo of twisting thorns. Slowly, it sank beneath his skin, concealing itself from the public eye as if it were meant to remain hidden.
As the tattoo took hold, Narvel felt a rush of energy, unlike anything he had experienced before. An unfamiliar, yet soothing force coursed through his veins, mending his injury at an astonishing rate. Within seconds, the pain subsided, and the chaotic moment of violence was replaced by calmness. Everything had returned to normal, or so it seemed.
'Where did the scythe go?' Narvel pondered in astonishment. In answer, the scythe reappeared before him—a spectral image that floated momentarily in the air, suspended as if caught between worlds, before descending softly onto the worn wooden floor.
Reflexively, Narvel reached out and caught the heavy weapon. Its weight was immense—approximately 57 kilograms—making it a considerable strain for him to lift, yet he managed to grasp it firmly with one hand.
Narvel didn't know how to react, nor did he fully understand what he had gotten his hands on. All he had come here for was to find a way to an Anchor, and this decision had subjected him to so much in just a few hours.
"A few hours? How long was I out for, and why does it look as though the sun has receded?" It suddenly hit him that he must have been knocked out for over a day.
Slowly, he took in his surroundings, noticing that the wooden floor beneath him was in fact the massive, gnarled branch of the colossal tree he had intended to climb. Beneath this ancient branch, dark, heavy lumps of clouds clung together in a surreal display.
"How and when did I climb this high?" He muttered to himself, his voice barely audible amid the strange silence.
Everything about this tree had presented him with more questions and mysteries than he had ever encountered before. "I need to go back home," he thought bitterly, though he knew that returning required an orb filled with Ember—a resource he did not currently possess. His only other option was to search for one of those orbs by climbing back down, no matter how far, or to continue onward to find the Anchor close to the Hollow Forest as he had originally intended.
At that moment, a low, guttural growl emanated from his stomach.
"Grrr!"
Narvel's hunger was sudden and overwhelming. His hand instinctively went to his stomach as he wondered;
"How long was I out for that I'm this hungry?" Almost as if in answer to his unspoken plea, leafed branches from other parts of the tree began to extend toward him. In an astonishing transformation, the leaves congregated and morphed into a single, brilliant apple—the reddest fruit he had ever seen. It was as though the tree itself had been listening to him, responding not to the questions he had asked but to the protest his hungry stomach had made.
After all, he had witnessed, such a marvel did not stun Narvel into inaction; however, he was hesitant to take the fruit. He recalled wondering whether this enigmatic tree bore fruits, and now he had been given an answer, albeit in a form that was as puzzling as it was enticing.
With a resigned sigh, he let go of Ebonveil. At that moment, the scythe vanished from his sight, transforming once more into a tattoo that etched itself upon his skin.
Narvel stretched out his hand toward the apple, which dangled from a thin, flexible branch.
As he plucked the fruit, the branches retracted seamlessly to their original positions, as though satisfied that he had taken what they were offering. An inviting aroma wafted from the fruit, its scent rich and alluring, making Narvel's stomach growl even louder and causing his mouth to water in anticipation.
He resolved to take a bite out of the fruit, but before he could, Voidscale appeared unexpectedly and sunk its teeth into one-half of the gleaming apple.
"You thieving bastard!" Narvel shouted his tone a mix of annoyance and disbelief. Reacting quickly, he clutched at the serpent's neck and flung the creature away, determined not to lose any more of the precious fruit. Without hesitation, he devoured what remained of the apple, the sweet, tangy flavor exploded in his mouth.
No matter how quickly he tried to swallow, the pressure within him remained unyielding. Something deep inside kept urging him not to waste a single drop of this precious nectar—whether it was his greed or some instinctive drive, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that he wasn't about to let any of it go to waste.
Even the tiny amount of juice trickling down his throat filled Narvel with an immense surge of energy, a vital force that seeped through every fiber of his being. The energy seemed to purify his body as it coursed through him, instantly satiating his hunger and quenching his thirst. It was as though the fruit's essence was not merely nourishment, but a transformative power that revitalized him from the inside out.
Voidscale, too, appeared to be experiencing the same phenomenon. The serpent struggled to retain the fruit's juice in its mouth, mirroring Narvel's desperate attempts to hold onto every precious drop.
As Narvel fought to keep the juice from escaping, glowing runes began to materialize before his eyes:
+0.5 strength
+0.5 Speed
+0.5 Stamina
…
+1 strength
+1 Speed
+1 Stamina
…
This continued for nearly half a minute, the increments in his stats fluctuating between 0.5 and 1 point with each passing moment.
By the time Narvel finally swallowed the last of the juice, he felt as though he had nearly ingested a bomb—a volatile surge of power that pulsed within him. If Voidscale hadn't taken a bite from it, he would have eaten the fruit at a moderate pace.
Had he taken the fruit at a more measured pace, this overwhelming rush of energy might have been avoided. But knowing that Voidscale's nature was not much different from his own, he wasn't willing to take any chances.
With a frustrated glare directed at Voidscale, Narvel felt as if the beast had robbed him once again. Before Narvel could gather his thoughts or react further, his character stats materialized before him;
Name: Narvel Naver Anderson
Age: 17
Race: Human
Level: Awakened (19%)
Class: —
Gene Class: ???
Title: —
Strength: 8
Speed: 12
Stamina: 18
Dexterity: 15
Intelligence: 17
Mental: 8
Wisdom: 13
Charisma: 8
Will: 29
Attributes: ??? [Mind's Eye] [True Double]
Constitution: ??? [Realmrender]
Talents: [Telekinesis (weakened)] [Deep Thought]
Skills: —
Comprehensions: —
Pet: Voidscale