As soon as he opened his eyes, Narvel found the world drained of color, rendered in a stark black and white with no contrast. The room leaned into shadow, more black than white, though pale shades bled in from the faint glow of the only lantern still left burning. Its light flickered softly, struggling to push back the stillness.
Turning his head toward the side of the pillow, he noticed that Voidscale had stirred as well. It was alert, its eyes darting around the room, no doubt sensing the same creeping danger that pulled Narvel from sleep.
The world felt wrong. Off-kilter and disjointed, as if something had knocked the very fabric of reality askew. Narvel's movements were silent.
Even as he got to his feet and padded across the wooden floor, not a single creak followed him. He remained shirtless, but the cool air brushing his skin didn't matter now.
He moved toward the window and carefully pushed it open. Being two floors above ground level, he had a clear view of the street below.
It was empty. Still.
The same black and white veil cloaked the street, leaving everything frozen under the reach of glowing lanterns. The blue flame atop the city's central tower was the only color he could see, burning defiantly in the distance.
Street lamps bathed parts of the street in dim white light, but what they touched turned darker, casting sharp, unnatural shadows. Voidscale kept twitching and making movements that should've created noise, but no sound came.
If not for Narvel's ability to understand it without speech, he would've missed the urgent message it was trying to convey.
There was someone else in the room.
He approached the wardrobe cautiously and opened it.
Inside, standing unnaturally still, was a man with a cloth wrapped around his face. He was roughly Narvel's height, a bit more muscular, and utterly still—his presence more surreal than real.
But something was off.
Narvel reached out to touch the man's shoulder, only for his hand to pass through, hitting the back of the closet. The figure didn't react, or flinch. It stood there, more like a painted illusion than a living being.
'This is pretty much fucked up,' Narvel muttered internally.
Suddenly, a streak of white light zipped past the window, catching his attention. He turned back to the open window just in time to see a fight unfolding in the street.
A faceless monster clashed with three Novas.
The creature towered over them—emaciated, humanoid, with jagged claws and limbs too long to be natural. Its skin resembled cracked porcelain, and where a face should've been was a lipless mouth filled with razor-thin teeth. A crimson glow pulsed in the center of its blank visage, and its movements were swift and feral.
From his vantage point, Narvel judged it to be an Uncommon Class creature, likely at the peak of its level.
The three Novas it fought were all at the Sundered Level, and despite being outnumbered, the monster was holding its own. Its claws deflected their weapons with brutal force, drawing blood as it slashed at them.
Then, with a sudden, bone-jarring kick, it launched one of the men across the street and into a nearby building. The man crashed through the wall, blood flying from his mouth. The monster lunged after him, crouching low to drink from the blood that was sprayed out of the man's mouth. Some splashed onto its face, and a long, slick tongue slid across its cracked skin, savoring the taste.
The remaining Novas leaped backward, bracing for a possible transformation or surge in aggression. But nothing happened.
The creature vanished.
No—it hadn't disappeared. It had simply changed targets.
Its attention had locked onto Narvel.
'Finish with the ones you were fighting first,' Narvel thought dryly. 'Why jump to me now?'
He wasn't worried. The creature, for all its menace, didn't pose a threat to him. Its power was nowhere near his.
As it charged, Narvel moved. He leaped from the window and landed with ease on the street below, facing the creature head-on.
At that moment, it reached him.
Narvel closed his fist, channeling a fraction of his power into a blow. A subdued version of [Maddened Fist] struck the monster's abdomen.
No sound followed, but the air rippled violently.
The impact sent the creature flying backward, spinning and tumbling down the street. It crashed through several street lamps before skidding to a stop. It tried to rise—but its legs refused to move.
To the monster, it had been hit once.
In truth, due to the rapid nature of the [Maddened Fist], he had landed over four devastating blows in the same spot, crushing the spine beneath its armor of flesh.
The fight, for all its buildup, had already ended.
Those who were still conscious enough to witness the moment stood frozen in shock. Their expressions held disbelief, and their eyes were wide with silent awe. They could sense Narvel's aura clearly—he was still an Awakened Nova.
But the sheer force behind his punch defied everything they knew about that level. That strike had carried power far beyond what any ordinary Awakened should have been able to wield.
Even Narvel himself was surprised.
He stared at his clenched fist for a moment, puzzled. The strength behind that blow hadn't just caught the others off guard—it had caught him off guard too.
Since waking up in the catacombs, he hadn't fully grasped how much had changed. Now, he was beginning to realize that he had been underestimating his capabilities without knowing it.
At the creature's side, the female Nova rushed forward, pulling a small pouch of salt from her belt. She poured it into her palm and began drawing runes on the cracked pavement next to the fallen monster.
The creature, though broken and unable to stand, attempted to crawl away using its spindly arms. But one of the male Novas stepped forward and, with a smooth slash of his blade, severed both of its limbs at the joint.
The woman began to chant—her lips moved quickly, but no sound could be heard. Whatever she was saying didn't need to be heard to take effect. Within moments, the salt began to shimmer, igniting with blue flames that coiled around the creature's body.
The monster screamed.
Even though the sounds had been muted, its scream could be heard. The force of the screech shattered several glass covers on the nearby street lamps, sending shards scattering across the ground. Its body crumbled into ashes, and from the remains, a single red ring glowed faintly on the ground.
A token.
A reward for the one who delivered the fatal blow.
The woman bent down and picked it up, her fingers briefly absorbing the residual heat from the flames before she turned and approached Narvel. Meanwhile, the other Nova moved quickly to assist their injured teammate, who still lay collapsed beside the shattered building.
"Thank you, sir," The woman mouthed. Her voice was still lost in the silence, but he read her lips with ease.
Even in a world drained of color, she had a striking presence.
Slender but strong, and her frame was built, the kind that came from practice and discipline. Her long hair was tied up in a tight ponytail that swayed gently with each step she took. She had high cheekbones and a thin, defined nose that gave her face a sharp elegance. As she drew closer, Narvel found himself noting her height with casual accuracy.
'Five foot eight,' he thought.
She was attractive in her own right.
Then, from the distant tower where the blue flames burned, a sound finally broke the silence—a deep, resounding tone that rolled outward in a wave. Warmth came from the sound and it spread quickly, chasing back the heavy stillness that had blanketed everything.
The black and white bled away from the world, as though melting under the warmth. Color returned, seeping back into every corner. The streets were still, but the silence no longer felt eerie. The world had begun to slide back into order.
"Though the fight didn't cause a commotion, some people should have been disturbed by the Huskmask's final cry," the woman said, her voice steady, though slightly out of breath from the earlier exchange.
Now that the world had returned to color, Narvel could get a clearer look at her. Her skin bore a natural tan, and her brown hair mirrored the tone of her eyes—both catching a soft glint under the steady glow of the street lamps.
"That was a Huskmask?" Narvel asked, his tone carrying a sharp edge of curiosity.
Given how many people had suspected him of being one throughout the night, it was oddly satisfying to see that there were, in fact, monsters bold enough to infiltrate the Anchor.
"Yeah," she replied, nodding. "That one was in its Monster form. They can mimic a human body—usually one they've consumed entirely or at least drained of blood. In that state, they walk among people, indistinguishable from the real thing unless you know exactly what to look for. Salt works most times, but not always, depending on different factors. This one had already raised enough suspicion with how it acted, so we kept watching it."
Narvel processed the information quietly. His gaze flickered to the dark spot where the creature had burned away. The ashes had long since scattered.
"How did the world change like that?" He asked. "The whole place turned black and white."
"It's the work of another Huskmask," she said, her voice dropping slightly. "One that's at the Rare Class."
Her eyes scanned the rooftops as though expecting something else to reveal itself.
"It's capable of overlaying a sub-dimensional space across a controlled radius. Inside that space, it manipulates everything—sight, sound, even perception of time in some cases. The silence, the color drain, the way sound vanished... that's all it's doing. It crafts a veil over the area, and unless you're strong enough, you won't even realize you're under its influence."
She explained it clearly, but there was tension in her voice now—a hint of worry that the real danger might not have passed.