Chapter 5
Chapter 5
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[Somewhere inside the Forest]
A man knelt within a circle of jagged boulders he had carefully erected, each stone etched with jagged, writhing Nordic runes that shimmered faintly under the moonlight. These were not the friendly or protective kind. No, these were symbols of forbidden magic—runic language buried and outlawed for centuries, magic so vile that even its mention was taboo.
His breaths came out in rasps, and blood crusted around the edge of a deep gash on his left leg. Every movement sent fire lancing through his nerves, yet he pressed on.
"All that's left... is to feed it," he growled, his voice like gravel soaked in venom.
He hobbled toward the center of the circle where a towering monolith stood—an unnatural slab of blackened stone carved with a mix of ancient Nordic inscriptions and foreign, alien sigils that pulsed in slow rhythms. It looked less like something built by man and more like something exhumed from a grave no one was meant to find.
With trembling fingers, he pulled out a gleaming blue crystal from a pouch on his belt. The gem shimmered with captured light, humming with raw magical potential. He placed it into a groove on the monolith's face, and it clicked into place with a low, mechanical thunk.
The man inhaled deeply, steadying his shaking limbs. Then, closing his eyes, he began to pour his magic into the crystal. It resisted at first, but soon, the lines carved into the monolith lit up in a ghostly gray hue, pulsing like veins under diseased flesh. One by one, the other stones in the circle began to respond, their carved runes glowing with the same deathly light.
This was no ordinary ritual. It was a practice so sacrilegious that entire villages had once been razed to keep its secret buried. Each time it was performed, it tore a piece of the caster's soul from their body, feeding it to the ritual in exchange for power. The pain was excruciating—far beyond flesh. It reached into your very essence and hollowed you out.
To him, it felt like being flayed alive from the inside. His breath hitched, his body convulsed, and blood began to trickle from his nose and ears. The world spun violently, but he held on.
He was used to pain. Used to sacrifice.
With the runes activated and the soul offering taken, he moved to the next part of the ritual. The activation of the magical circles embedded in the earth beneath him was less costly, but still demanding. Sweat poured down his brow as he spread his arms.
"Duo Magic," he whispered.
His voice cracked. His lungs ached. His vision blurred until it was nothing but red and black smudges. He swayed on his feet but forced himself to remain upright. He couldn't stop—not now. Not after everything. Not after what they did.
"You'll all pay," he hissed. "For her… for him... for everything."
He clenched his fists, knuckles white, and screamed the final incantation with all the strength he had left.
"SANCTUARY OF THE DEAD!!!"
The earth trembled violently. The air grew cold as smoke erupted from the ground around the monolith—dense, foul-smelling mist that clung to everything it touched. It coiled around his legs like hungry snakes, hissing and pulsing with necrotic energy. But it didn't rise higher than his knees.
From that unholy fog emerged five figures—twisted, rotting corpses with glowing blue eyes, skin stretched tight over bones, and mouths full of jagged teeth. Draug. Undead warriors pulled from the depths of the void, their weapons rusted but deadly, their armor fused into their bodies.
The man fell to one knee, barely breathing. But he smiled—a dark, satisfied smile that split his gaunt face.
He pulled a folded map from his pocket, marked with red circles and black ink. With slow, practiced care, he scratched a blood-red X over the current site.
"Just twenty more…" he whispered, stuffing the map back into his coat.
But in his hurry, his wallet slipped free and hit the ground with a soft thud.
He picked it up with trembling hands, his breath catching in his throat. He opened it slowly, reverently—like it was the last relic of a forgotten age.
Inside was a worn, creased photograph. A man, a woman, and a smiling baby boy—locked in a moment of joy that would never return. The man in the photo was him, younger, happier. The woman's eyes sparkled. The child's laughter could almost be heard if he stared long enough.
His smile faded. Tears threatened to fall, but he forced them down with a sharp breath.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I failed both of you."
His fingers trembled as he closed the wallet.
"But I promise… I will deliver justice. For you. For our son."
The kindness in his expression died. It was replaced by an expression as cold and dead as the draug that stood beside him.
He remembered it all. The screams. The flames. The judgment. How they had called him a madman. How theose Zealous Christians had tied his wife to a stake and called her a witch. How they had laughed while everything he loved burned.
He had begged Odin the All Father. Pleaded for help. Pleaded for revenge. However there was none, they instead crippled him, branding him a criminal for using forbidden magic to revive his loved ones and left to die in enemy territory.
Now, there would be no mercy in return.
"Odin… I will destroy everything you ever loved."
And with that vow, the man vanished into the mist, leaving the resurrected dead to follow in his wake.
He would be the one to bring about RAGNAROK.
And when that is done, the Christian God will be next.
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[Back to Nikolai]
Magic was still a weird thing for Nikolai. He wasn't a wizard. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he was smart enough to be one. But he had one spell. One nasty, beautiful, terrifying spell.
UNDEAD WILL.
It made him feel... nothing. No fear. No sorrow. No pain. Just cold, efficient calm. It turned off the part of him that hesitates in front of danger. It was like being wrapped in a blanket of steel.
It also made him feel like a god.
The problem? It drained his magic like a leech on crack.
But he'd figured out a system. A way to build up his resistance—his magic stamina.
"Nine minutes, forty-eight seconds," he muttered, arms crossed, sitting by a dead campfire. "Ten seconds longer than last time."
He grinned. Each time he drained his reserves, let them refill, and cast the spell again... he got just a bit stronger. A bit more control. Like working out—only the weights were magic spells and the gym was full of murderous zombies.
"Half an hour to recharge, though. Sucks."
His days had fallen into a brutal but effective schedule. After breakfast (usually canned meat that tasted like old boots), he'd gather the loot from the undead—armor, weapons, and anything else useful. Then he'd hunt for food, anything with fur or feathers.
After lunch, it was training time—grueling strength exercises, sparring against trees and invisible enemies, practicing every weapon the mist gave him. Then came magic training: casting UNDEAD WILL until he nearly passed out. He'd collapse, sleep it off, and repeat.
Rinse and repeat. Every day.
And yet, somehow, he wasn't bored. Not completely.
Because the black mist that lived inside him… it talked.
"So… why can't I summon two items at the same time?" he asked one day while staring at his reflection in a murky puddle.
He didn't expect an answer. It wasn't sentient. At least, he thought it wasn't.
[YES YOU CAN]
He blinked. "What?"
[YOU CAN SUMMON ONE ITEM FROM EACH OF FOUR TYPES:]
WEAPON
SHIELD
ARMOR
ACCESSORY
Nikolai blinked again, then laughed. "You serious?! I thought it was only one item total!"
He summoned the knife—then quickly tried to summon the sword. The knife vanished into black mist, and the sword materialized in his hand.
"No way… it switches if it's the same type!"
He grinned like a kid on Christmas. Without hesitation, he summoned his battered armor. It crawled over his body like living shadows, clanking into place. Then he summoned the sword. Still there. Then the round shield. Also stayed.
"YEAHHHH!" he yelled, throwing his arms up in celebration.
Finally—finally—he could fight like a proper warrior. He wasn't just some naked madman swinging a stick anymore.
The only problem? The armor was crap.
"Once that chain gets digested, I'm upgrading this garbage first," he muttered, kicking a dent in the leg plate.
Time passed. Days blurred. He fought. He bled. He grew stronger.
And then came the moment he'd been waiting for.
[DIGESTION TIME: 1 MINUTE]
Perfect. He had just wiped out a wave of undead bastards trying to give him more gear. He sat down on a rock, eyes glowing faintly from casting Undead Will.
A week had passed. He had pushed himself to the brink over and over again.
His reward? He could now keep UNDEAD WILL active for thirteen minutes straight.
He felt it in his body—his swings faster, his reflexes sharper. His thoughts clearer. His instincts screamed like sharpened steel.
He was becoming something dangerous.
Then—
[DIGESTION TIME: 5 SECONDS]
.
.
.
.
[ITEM DIGESTED]
[STEEL CHAIN OBTAINED]
[CURSE MAGIC LEARNED]
[NEW SPELL LEARNED: MAGIC DRAIN]*
[NEW SPELL LEARNED: GRIP]*
He blinked. Then laughed.
"Four gifts in one day? Damn. Is it my birthday?"
It wasn't. He didn't even know when his birthday was.
But tonight, he was celebrating. He cracked open a can of slightly expired stew and raised it like a toast.
"To new powers, dead enemies, and the creepy mist voice in my head."
He took a bite, savoring the metallic taste of victory.
He couldn't wait to test these new spells.
And tomorrow... the forest would tremble again.