Chapter 3

Author's Note: Well first of all, thank you guys for reading this new and improved version of my fanfiction, please do give a comment and a review to keep me motivated.

Chapter 3: The Calm Before the Scream

Is there anything better than potatoes? Yeah, probably. But when you're stuck in a monster-infested forest with nothing else but potatoes and a pinch of salt? You make it work.

Nikolai sprinkled some of the salt over the steaming tubers and took a hearty bite.

"Blin... that's good."

He'd gotten lucky this morning. Really lucky. Turns out those fifty crispy corpses he roasted yesterday were planning to stay in the cabin for a while. That explained the big wooden crate he found stuffed full of canned food—beans, meat, some mystery paste in a metal tin. Enough to last two years, maybe more.

But he wasn't touching any of it. Not yet. That was for later. Much, much later—like famine-level desperate later.

The calendar nailed above the bed said March 23rd, 1998. Not that the year helped much when monsters were real and the dead walked around like they owned the place.

Breakfast done, he stood up and dusted crumbs off his black robes. Today was for exploring.

The forest wasn't so bad in daylight. The sun cut through the branches, painting golden lines across the soft moss. Birds chirped above like they didn't know the horrors that crept in after dark. The air smelled fresh, clean—even peaceful.

Nikolai sniffed the breeze and nodded to himself.

"Good. But still need pants."

The robe was nice and all, but it left everything down below swinging loose. That was fine inside the cabin, but out here? One wrong breeze and he'd be mooning a squirrel.

He pushed deeper into the woods until he heard running water. A stream. Clear and probably drinkable—but more importantly…

"Food."

Fish. Lots of them. Fat ones, silver and lazy, gliding beneath the surface like they had no idea what hunger was.

He pulled out the old bow he'd looted off a dead draug, nocked an arrow, and aimed for the fattest fish in the group.

SWOSH!

The arrow cut through the air like a whisper.

SPLASH!

The fish thrashed once as the arrow struck home. Nikolai didn't wait—he dove in, grabbed the shaft and yanked it, fish and all, from the water. It flopped wildly in his hands until he silenced it with a quick stab from his summoned black knife.

Big fish. Good meat. It'd do for dinner.

He looked down at the arrow jutting from the fish's side and frowned.

'Since when can I shoot like that?'

The thought gnawed at him. He didn't remember anything before waking up in that hellish temple—just his name, age, and that he was Russian. But the way he moved, the way he fought last night, and now this... It didn't feel like luck.

Had the cult trained him? Was he some kind of warrior? Assassin? Sacrificial dog?

His stomach grumbled again.

"Doesn't matter."

He had fish. Time to go cook it.

---

{ Two Hours Later }

"Looks like I gotta sleep naked tonight."

His robe, soaked from the stream, was drying by the fireplace. He dug around for clothes but found nothing except old bloodstained rags, none of them fit to wear.

He wandered into the bathroom and caught his reflection in the tall mirror. He blinked.

His skin was sun-baked and rough. Brown eyes stared back, sharp and alert. A small goatee was sprouting on his chin, and his slicked-back hair had the sides shaved down military-style. A mole sat just below his lip.

But the scars... the scars were the real story.

Two vertical ones traced from his temples down past his jawline, like someone carved war paint into his flesh with a blade. Four thin scars crossed his lips, shaped to look like fangs. Then there were others. Dozens more. Blade wounds, burn patches, claw marks that raked down his back like he'd been mauled by something massive.

Thirty blade scars. Five burn spots. One monster's worth of claw damage.

And below the waist—

"Damn, I'm packin'."

He chuckled, then shook his head.

"Focus."

Dinner was calling. He roasted the fish with a little salt, and it tasted amazing—maybe because he caught it himself. Every bite was a reminder that he was still alive, still surviving.

---

Nightfall changed everything.

The forest twisted into something darker. Something hungry.

Another group of draug came shambling toward the cabin, drawn to the scent of a living soul like wolves to blood. But Nikolai wasn't the same boy who stumbled out of a crypt a week ago.

"Hey! Debil! I came prepared."

He stormed out wearing scavenged armor from a slain draug—chainmail shirt, rusted helmet, and finally, thank the gods, some damn pants. Skjoldehamn trousers, to be exact.

In his hands, a summoned black sword glowed with dark energy. A stolen round shield strapped to his arm. He looked like a medieval mercenary fresh from hell.

The draug didn't stand a chance.

Steel clanged, bones cracked, black blood sprayed across the mossy ground. Nikolai moved like a whirlwind, fast and merciless. When it was done, no undead remained.

He took a breath. Wiped the blood from his blade.

Then went to sleep like it was just another Tuesday.

---

The days blurred together.

Wake up. Eat. Hunt. Chop wood. Bathe. Eat again. Kill undead. Sleep.

Rinse and repeat.

It wasn't boring, though. He got to enjoy the scenery, fill his belly, and split some skulls. In his free time, he trained. His body fought on instinct, but polishing it never hurt.

And every evening, the voice came.

[ DIGESTING TIME: 30 SECONDS ]

The voice was creepy, but after hearing it every night, it almost felt... familiar. Like a roommate with a haunted throat.

Tonight was different, though. He'd fed the mist a zombie. Not a sword, not a shield. A creature.

The timer ticked down:

10...

9...

8...

He gritted his teeth.

3...

2...

1—

[ ITEM DIGESTED ]

"BLYAT!!!"

Agony exploded in his skull. It felt like someone drove a red-hot spike through his brain, twisted it, and set fire to the ashes.

"UROD! DEBIL! MOTHER@#%$ER—"

For thirty seconds, he screamed every foul word he knew, possibly inventing some new ones along the way.

Then silence.

And a message.

[ NEW SPELL LEARNED: UNDEAD WILL ]

What the hell did that mean?

He didn't know, but he knew how to cast it. So, after catching his breath, he did.

"UNDEAD WILL."

... ... ...

Nothing.

Or—no. Not nothing. Calm.

Cold, perfect calm. His breath slowed. Heartbeat faded into background noise. No fear. No pain. No anything.

He stopped the spell. Everything rushed back—the aches, the terror, the confusion.

He gasped.

"So that's what it does..."

The spell turned off emotion, dulled pain. It made him dead inside. Like a zombie. It would help in battle—no fear, no hesitation—but it could also kill him if he ignored wounds too long.

Still, a useful trick.

He let the mist devour the axe next. He'd need it later and didn't want it rusting away.

But the mist had other plans.

[ ITEM DEVOURED ]

It ate his armor. Helmet, chainmail, pants—everything.

He was naked again.

"Seriously?"

He sighed, stepped back into the cabin, and waited.

[ DIGESTION TIME: 10 MINUTES ]

And he braced for the headache...

But then he had an idea.

"UNDEAD WILL."

Nothing. No pain. Just peace.

The timer hit zero.

[ ITEM DIGESTED ]

No screaming. Just a weird mental flash, like reading a book by flipping through it in half a second and somehow remembering every word.

He summoned the armor. Same shape, but now pure black.

Before sleep, he had the mist devour the axe, the bow, and a sledgehammer he found.

No headaches—thanks to the spell.

---

The next morning, after fish and potatoes, Nikolai cleaned up.

He dragged all the draug corpses into a pile. They stank. Then he sorted through the weapons they dropped.

Fifty rusted swords. Twenty-three busted shields. Seven dull axes. Ten half-broken bows.

"Trash."

He'd already had the mist devour better versions. No point repeating.

But then—

[ DEVOUR!!! ] [ DEVOUR!!! ] [ DEVOUR!!! ]

Every ten seconds.

"Shut up! I don't got anything else, alright?"

It was like having a toddler in his brain screaming for candy. Constant. Annoying.

"Man, being a dad is hard," he joked.

The mist didn't appreciate that.

[ ITEM DEVOURED!!! ]

It snatched the sword from his hand.

"BLYAT! What the hell?!"

Was it trying to punish him?

He shrugged. Pain wasn't a problem anymore.

[ DIGESTION TIME: 5 SECONDS ]

"FIVE?!"

He slammed the spell active.

"UNDEAD WILL."

No pain. Just cold.

Five seconds passed.

[ ITEM DIGESTED ] [ ITEM HAS BEEN IMPROVED ]

"Oh... so that's why it felt different."

He grinned.

Black mist, talking voices, undead armies, and now magic?

Things were getting interesting.