Ignoring the people he had left outside, Narvel got dressed in silence. He sat on the edge of the bed and allowed his thoughts to drift toward what Sersi had told him about the people who had left the city only to return as Huskmasks.
The matter had just started to weigh heavily on his mind. Though he had been planning to leave the city when the sun was up, he was seriously considering rescheduling for tonight.
Yet now a lingering doubt gnawed at him—the unsettling thought that the old man he had seen outside might not be a guardian as he had assumed, but a predator. One is possibly responsible for the mysterious disappearances of those who tried to leave.
His second reason for wanting to leave this night was just as pressing.
Even the inn room he had rented, a place that should have been a temporary refuge, had proven to be unsafe. Someone had managed to sneak into it without a sound and hide in his closet, an act that, no matter the reason behind it, made his blood simmer with anger.
He didn't care about the explanations the man could have offered.
The very fact that someone had invaded his privacy was enough to justify the fury he felt, and it was enough to make him want to snap the intruder's neck without hesitation.
'Do I just wait here in the city until the so-called Anchor Mayor returns?' Narvel thought, staring blankly at the peeling wallpaper. 'But that will waste too much time. Besides, the real danger inside this Anchor is still largely unknown.'
He leaned back slightly, and the bedframe groaned. 'I'll try leaving tomorrow. But if I sense even the slightest hint of danger at the gates, I'll retreat and think of another way.'
With that resolve forming clearly in his mind, he set aside the troubling matter for now and shifted his focus to another pressing concern—his current strength.
Narvel knew he had grown stronger since waking up in the catacombs, but he wasn't sure just how far he had come. His previous method of estimating the strength of others had relied heavily on instinct, giving him only a surface-level understanding of their capabilities. It had been enough to guide him in simple confrontations, but it was not precise enough to gauge whether he could truly overcome an opponent.
He had been measuring their strength based on the feeling of danger they exuded toward him.
It was a method rooted more in survival than in any clear knowledge of cultivation stages or technical power gaps. Yet now he was beginning to wonder—were his instincts adjusting based on his old understanding of himself? Was he still subconsciously thinking within the limits of his previous strength?
If that was the case, then he needed to find his true limits quickly. His instincts could only be as reliable as his own self-awareness allowed them to be.
'Though I trust my instincts well, it is still not enough to leave it at that,' he reflected. 'Instinct can be wrong if I become complacent. I have to keep refining my understanding of myself if I want it to stay sharp—at least, as sharp as possible.'
The instinct he was considering wasn't the heightened form he experienced during battle when fully immersed in combat. That state was different, far more refined and sensitive, a hyperawareness that could not be maintained constantly and was filled with wonders. No, this was something quieter, more natural, an instinct that moved within him subtly, much like breathing.
And now he was beginning to understand the difference.
One trained and shaped his progress deliberately; the other simply existed within him as a kind of internal instrument for measuring threat levels.
If most Novas had been able to peer into his thoughts at that moment, many would have been shocked, and some would have dismissed him as a lunatic.
More so because Narvel was still technically just an Awakened Nova.
Ordinarily, only after advancing to the Sundered stage would a Nova begin to clearly perceive differences in strength among others. Unlike Narvel, most would rely on the established hierarchy, assuming that anyone at a higher level was automatically stronger.
Yet Narvel didn't think that way.
He focused only on the tangible sense of danger he could feel from others. Levels and titles meant little to him. He didn't dismiss them entirely, but he didn't treat them as absolutes either.
It was a bold, almost reckless approach—and one that few would dare to adopt, especially given the vast gulf between the stages. Normally, an Awakened, even at their peak, would struggle just to survive an encounter with a weaker Sundered Nova without external tools or assistance.
And yet, here Narvel was, refusing to bow to that reality.
Refusing to accept limits that others had long accepted without question.
Looking down at his fist, the one that had clashed directly with the sharp fingers of the innkeeper, Narvel noticed a faint red line tracing across his knuckles. Her attack had managed to split a small section of his skin, drawing a thin line of blood.
"She's strong, but I also didn't go all out," he muttered, almost sounding defensive.
Yet it wasn't just a hollow excuse—it was the truth. He had only used a sliver of his real strength during that brief exchange. He was confident that if he unleashed his full power, he could kill her quickly and still have enough energy to confront the Vice-captain afterward without collapsing. A dangerous thought began to creep into his mind. 'Should I just go downstairs and kill the woman and that man?'
He shook his head and sighed, the motion heavy with weariness.
'Since when did I become such a crazed individual? And when has killing become something so easy for me to accept?'
The thought pressed harder against his mind, filling him with a strange sense of confusion. Growing up in Sector 8, he had been surrounded by death. The sector was little more than a sprawling slum where violence was a daily affair. He had seen people kill over scraps of food, over petty disputes, and he had seen neighbors he knew by face lying dead on the streets the next day. But despite all that, he had never personally participated in it.
And now here he was, seriously considering the act of taking another human's life—calmly, even casually. The frightening part was that the thought stirred no tremor of guilt within him. No voice rose from deep within, urging him to reconsider or recoil.
The more he dwelled on it, the more he understood that something fundamental had shifted within him. He also realized that tonight wasn't the first time he had clashed with another Nova. The first incident had occurred at the Rusty Anchor, shortly after he had returned, and much like this one, it had been interrupted by another party before it could reach a bloody end.
Narvel exhaled again, a slow, deep sigh that seemed to pull the tension from his chest but left a heaviness behind in his mind.
Deciding to set those troubling thoughts aside for now, he turned his attention to something more immediate—the paper he had been given earlier.
'The Cultivation Art is called Unfettered… it is an inheritance, but at the same time, not one…'
His thoughts began to swirl around the meaning behind those strange, almost paradoxical words. How could something be an inheritance and yet not be one at the same time?
Unknowingly, his [Deep Thought] attribute had activated again, slipping into motion as naturally as breathing. His mind became sharper, his focus deepened, and the chaotic web of possibilities regarding the Cultivation Art began to untangle itself slowly in the background of his consciousness.
The small room, dimly lit by the tired flicker of the single lantern he had lit earlier, seemed to grow even quieter as Narvel sank deeper into contemplation. Time slipped by unnoticed, and before he realized it, his mind was weighed down by fatigue and thought and surrendered to sleep once again.
The early morning light crept through the small cracks in the window shutters, thin beams piercing into the room and casting long, fractured lines across the walls and floor.
One ray touched his neck, warm and persistent enough to stir him from slumber. His brows furrowed instinctively as he woke up, his body still sluggish from the unexpected rest.
"How did I fall asleep again?" He muttered, his voice hoarse.
A suspicious thought flickered through his mind. Perhaps something had been placed within the room… an item, or maybe an incense subtle enough to lull a person into unconsciousness without alerting their senses. Yet just as he was about to press further into that suspicion, he paused.
An odd sensation coursed through him, a quiet but distinct feeling that his mental strength had grown stronger overnight.
Sitting up fully, he focused his mind and summoned his stats screen before him, his gaze sharpening as he began to scrutinize the familiar yet slightly altered numbers:
Name: Narvel Naver Anderson
Age: 19
Race: Human
Gene Fragment: 2 (Sundered)
Level: Awakened (31%)
Class: —
Gene Class: ???
Title: —
Strength: 37
Speed: 30
Stamina: 100/100
Dexterity: 37
Intelligence: 19
Mental: 45
Wisdom: 26
Charisma: 25
Will: 90/90
Attributes: ??? [Mind's Eye] [True Double]
Constitution: ??? [Nebula Field]
Talents: [Telekinesis (Flicker)] [Deep Thought] [Dark Element]
Skills: [Unnamed] [Maddened Fist]
Comprehensions: [Unfettered (Lesser Formation)]
Pet: Voidscale