Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR: THE CHAINED NIGHT

[ ITEM DIGESTED ]

[ ITEM HAS BEEN IMPROVED ]

"Oh!... So that's why it felt different."

Nikolai summoned the now-improved sword into his hands, fingers tightening around the hilt. Visually, the blade looked the same—no glowing runes or crazy changes—but something felt off. He gave it a few swings. It was a bit heavier, and the balance had shifted slightly toward the blade. He could feel it—sharper, deadlier.

"Huh... not bad."

Curious, he fed another identical sword to the mist. The digestion was quicker this time—only three seconds. With a whisper of Undead Will, the process finished, and the sword improved again. This time it looked longer, the edge glinting faintly in the fading daylight.

Excited by the results, he set to work.

One sword after another was tossed into the hungry mist. It devoured them without hesitation, and each time, the weapon grew deadlier. A sliver longer. A fraction sharper. A touch heavier. It was subtle, but the effect stacked. The blade became something else entirely by the time the thirteenth weapon was consumed.

[ ITEM CANNOT BE IMPROVED ANY FURTHER ]

"Well, that's disappointin'," Nikolai muttered, scratching the back of his head. "Guess even magic mist got limits, huh?"

He looked at the pile of weapons still untouched—twenty-plus swords and a few bows. Shrugging, he summoned the mist once more and held up an old bow he got from the many Undead archers he had killed. Might as well let the mist devour them.

The mist responded eagerly, wrapping around the weapon like a starving beast. After a few seconds, the bow was devoured by the mist while it was in his grip, and when it reformed, it felt... tighter. Stronger. He pulled the string experimentally—tension higher, draw weight heavier, and it hummed with power.

"Oh yeah," he grinned, "this gonna be fun."

He kept feeding it—bow after bow—and every time, the improvements stacked. Power. Range. Smoothness. The kind of weapon that could pierce a man's skull from a hundred paces easy. He chuckled darkly to himself as he played with the new toy. It was addicting—this slow, methodical evolution.

But just when things were going too good... it hit.

Like a wall.

The world spun.

Nikolai's breath caught in his throat, and he staggered backward.

"What... the hell?"

He tried to cast Undead Will again—nothing. A cold, dead silence in his soul where the magic once stirred. Another attempt. Again—nothing. The world blurred, his legs gave out, and he hit the dirt with a soft thump.

[ YOU ARE EXPERIENCING MAGIC EXHAUSTION ]

[ REST IS REQUIRED ]

"Wha—"

Darkness claimed him.

SNORE.

---

The night breeze brushed against his cheek like a mother's soft touch. Nikolai groaned, stretched, and blinked groggily at the dark sky overhead. He rubbed his eyes, sat up, and yawned so hard his jaw cracked.

He was still just outside the cabin.

The trees whispered, and the stars blinked down at him.

"Best nap all week," he muttered, cracking his neck.

Then, realization.

'Wait a minute... it's night?!'

Just as he stood, the trees around him groaned—and from the shadows emerged ten draug, their rotted bodies reeking of earth and ancient death. Swords gleamed, bows were raised. They rushed in without a sound.

Nikolai's heart kicked into gear.

Undead Will.

The exhaustion from earlier had passed, and the magic surged back into his body like water through broken stone. He summoned his improved bow, drew the string, and let loose.

The first arrow blasted the head clean off an approaching archer—splinters of bone and brain matter spraying across the forest floor.

'Damn. That's fifteen improvements for ya.'

The remaining archers let their arrows fly. With a sharp breath, Nikolai switched to his shield and caught the volley with practiced ease. The moment the last arrow clanged off the metal, he was already moving—another shot, another skull shattered.

He noticed something about the bow—it spawned arrows when he drew the string. Infinite ammo. But only one at a time.

He couldn't fire again until the last arrow hit something.

Fair trade.

The melee draug were closing in fast now—too close.

He switched again.

The sword appeared in his grip—longer than his arm, heavy as hell, but its reach was superior. The blade gleamed, and he charged.

Their eyes locked for a brief moment—and then he leapt.

A high jump, front flip, and he landed behind them with a crunch of dried leaves.

Thunk.

Another volley of arrows slammed into his shield as he landed. He shoved forward, cutting through the archers with ruthless precision. The first archer barely had time to scream before Nikolai's blade ripped through its throat, sending the head tumbling into the dark.

Another arrow whistled.

He grabbed the nearest corpse and used it like a meat shield—thump—the projectile embedded into the draug's ribcage.

One more swing—shlick!—and the last archer was down.

The melee draug were still staggering toward him.

Seven left.

He cracked his neck. "C'mon, you dead shits. Make it interestin'."

They didn't.

The fight was short. Brutal. Blood and rot splattered across the grass as Nikolai tore through them. Limbs fell. Heads rolled. When the last one fell twitching, he stood amidst the corpses, panting, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

"Man, these guys are weak," he grumbled, stretching his arms. "Better send somethin' stronger next time, yeah?"

He shouldn't have said that.

From the woods, something answered.

CLINK.

Chains.

A metal whip coiled around his waist and pulled—hard.

"What the—!?"

Before he could react, he was yanked off his feet, dragged screaming into the shadows.

Branches clawed at his skin as he tumbled through the underbrush. When he finally stopped, he was flat on his back, staring up at a mountain of rot and steel.

It was huge. Eight feet tall. Wearing rusted Viking armor, heavy shoulder plates, and a massive iron gauntlet. Maggots writhed where its face should be, feasting on the last bits of flesh clinging to the bone.

The chain retracted with a rattle, and Nikolai was pulled upright, eye to eye with the monster.

"You are one ugly motherfucker."

The draug's gauntlet clenched.

SLAM.

The blow landed square on his chest, sending him flying. He hit the ground with a THUD, stars flashing behind his eyes. Before he could breathe, he was yanked up again.

SLAM.

And again.

SLAM.

And again.

SLAM.

The air wheezed from his lungs. He couldn't feel pain—not fully, thanks to Undead Will—but the disorientation was real. His world was spinning.

Then it lifted him again.

Nikolai didn't move.

A final slam—this one meant to finish him.

But he rolled.

At the last second, he dodged the fatal blow and sprang to his feet, summoning the sledgehammer in both hands.

"Eat this!"

He brought it down on the creature's shoulder with all his might. The metal armor cracked, and the undead's arm exploded in a wet burst of bone and gore. The hand still gripped the chain, though—tight as ever.

He tried to pull the chain free. Nothing. It was like iron welded to his body.

"Blyat! Let go!"

Fine.

If the thing wouldn't drop the chain, then he'd hack off the whole arm.

He summoned the sword and lunged—but the draug blocked with its gauntlet, delivering a backhanded whack that hurled Nikolai into a tree.

CRACK.

He slid down the bark with a groan.

"...that's gonna hurt later."

The chain pulsed—dim gray light seeping from it.

And he felt it.

Drain.

Something cold poured from his gut. His limbs weakened. His vision blurred again. Magic—it was draining his magic.

"Aw, hell no!"

He couldn't go through exhaustion again.

He charged, sledgehammer raised high.

The draug swung—he ducked and slid right under its legs. From behind, he smashed the hammer into the back of its knees. Something popped. It screamed—wet, guttural—and crashed down.

Nikolai didn't stop.

He lifted the hammer and swung again—right at the skull.

CRACK.

The head exploded like a watermelon under a truck. Maggots flew in every direction. The body twitched once, then went still.

Nikolai stood, panting, covered in black gore.

The chain around his waist still glowed faintly.

And it still wouldn't budge.

"CYKA BLAT!"

He yanked. Pulled. Scratched. Nothing.

[ ITEM DEVOURED ]

[ DIGESTION TIME: 1 WEEK ]

He froze.

Then laughed.

"About damn time you did somethin' useful, smoke."

The mist had swallowed the chain on its own. Took a week to digest, but that was fine. Anything that nasty had to turn into something powerful.

He limped back toward the cabin, every muscle screaming. The pain now flowed freely—without the spell dulling it, he felt every slam, every crack, every bruise.

The bodies of ten regular draug and one monstrous undead lay scattered across the clearing. He'd burn them tomorrow.

Tonight... he needed sleep.

As he staggered inside and fell face-first onto the floor, he had no idea that his actions—tonight and in the past week—had stirred something in the forest.

And that something... was coming.