Mummy

Max pushed forward through the sandstorm, his skin stinging under the relentless assault of the wind. Every step felt like trudging through knee-deep water, the shifting dunes threatening to swallow his footing. The heat clung to him, mixing with the coarse grains scratching against his face.

Then, out of the haze, something caught his eye—a shape partially buried in the sand.

He moved closer, crouching down to get a better look. A body.

The corpse was fresh—no signs of decay, no scavenger marks. The sand had started to settle over him, but the way it clung to the skin told Max he hadn't been dead for long. Max brushed some of it away, revealing a face frozen in a grimace.

'No wounds. No dried blood. No signs of a struggle.'

He frowned. If the man had been attacked, there'd be injuries. If it was dehydration, his body would show the signs—sunken skin, cracked lips worse than what Max saw now. But there was no foam around his mouth, no evidence of vomiting or seizures that came with severe heatstroke.

'If he was alive when the storm hit, he might've suffocated…'

Max checked his own face covering, tightening it. The sheer force of the storm was enough to fill a man's lungs with sand, and once it got in deep enough—he'd choke, his airway clogging until he suffocated.

He reached for the body's pockets, patting them down for anything useful. Empty. No ID. No storage cube. 

'No supplies, either?'

That was odd. Even a rookie wouldn't come this deep into a dungeon without basic gear. Either he lost his pack before he died, or someone had already looted him.

Max exhaled sharply, standing up.

"Sorry," he muttered under his breath. There wasn't much else to say.

He couldn't afford to linger. The storm wasn't letting up, and he wasn't keen on testing how long he could last breathing in this much sand. With one final glance at the corpse, Max turned and kept moving.

Max pressed forward, his steps sluggish as the sandstorm battered him from all sides. Each gust carried fine grains that stung his skin and forced him to keep his head low. He took another step—

Clang.

His foot caught on something solid, nearly sending him sprawling. Regaining his balance, he looked down, brushing some of the sand away with his boot.

A jagged piece of metal jutted out from the ground. The dull sheen of rust coated its surface, its hilt barely recognizable.

An old sword.

'Rusty, nearly falling apart... has to be ancient.'

Max crouched and reached for it. The moment his fingers brushed against the corroded metal—

Whoosh.

The wind around him shifted. Not gradually, but all at once. A circular void formed in the storm, as if an unseen force had swept the sand away in an instant. Within the cleared space, something unnatural was revealed.

Bones.

Shattered armor. Rusted weapons. Skulls half-buried in the sand.

A battlefield.

Max's breath caught in his throat as he slowly stood up, scanning the eerie scene. Skeletons, some still clutching broken weapons, littered the ground. The silence pressed against him, thick and absolute.

The storm, which had howled relentlessly moments before, had gone completely still.

'What is happening?'

The air felt heavy, suffocating in its stillness. Not even the faintest breeze stirred the sand. It was unnatural. Wrong.

Max tightened his grip on his dagger, instincts screaming at him.

Max tried to move, but his boots sank deeper into the sand. A sickening realization struck him—quicksand.

Before he could react, the jagged sword he had touched shifted. The sand beneath it stirred, and something began to rise.

At first, it looked like a corpse. Wrapped in decayed, tattered linen, its sunken eye sockets were hidden beneath layers of aged fabric. But this wasn't just a dead body. The thing moved.

The mummy knelt in the sand, fingers twitching before gripping the rusted sword like it had never let go. A dry, rasping breath hissed from beneath its wrappings.

Then the ground rumbled.

Around him, more figures began clawing their way free from their sandy graves. Their bandaged forms shuddered and twisted as they emerged, gripping weapons corroded by time—broken spears, chipped axes, curved blades with edges dulled by centuries.

One by one, they rose.

Max's muscles tensed as he yanked his legs, trying to break free from the quicksand's grip. The mummies stood motionless at first, their heads tilting toward him in eerie unison.

Then, as if something unseen had commanded them—

They charged.

Max's breath came in short, sharp bursts as he clawed at the sand around his legs. The grains slipped through his fingers, filling back in as quickly as he dug. The warriors were almost upon him—ragged bandages fluttering, rusted weapons raised, hollow sockets locked onto him.

His foot budged—just barely. That was enough.

Max activated Nightstalker.

Gone.

He reappeared behind one of the mummies, dagger flashing. The blade sank into its spine, severing through brittle bones and dried flesh. The creature stiffened, then collapsed in a heap.

Max didn't stop. He twisted, lunging toward the next, slicing through its throat with brutal precision. The mummy gurgled as its body crumpled, hitting the sand in a lifeless heap.

But just as he turned his attention to the others—

Rustle.

His instincts screamed at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement.

The first mummy—the one he had just cut down—was rising again. Its broken body reformed, bandages pulling together like sinew, the rusted sword clutched once more in its bony grip.

Max's stomach twisted.

Max's heart pounded in his chest as he felt the weight of the mummies pressing in from all sides. They were relentless—swarming, attacking, and regenerating faster than he could take them down. His mind raced, calculating each movement with the precision he had honed over time.

One of the mummies swung its rusted sword. Max ducked, but the blade whistled past, just missing his neck. Another strike. He sidestepped and slashed, but the creature was already stepping back, too quick for his attacks to land cleanly. He needed a different approach.

Max's eyes locked onto the kneeling mummy, the one at the center of the cluster. It had to be the source, the one that was controlling the resurrection of the others.

Max's hand clenched around his daggers. The air around him seemed to thicken as he took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment, and then—

Nightstalker.

He shot forward, faster than the eye could follow, vanishing into the sandstorm's haze. His form blended with the shifting winds, a mere shadow to the mummies. In an instant, he was there, right next to the kneeling figure.

He struck.

The daggers sank deep into the mummy's chest, but—

No.

The skin was tough, leathery, and his blades stuck, grinding against the wrinkled, desiccated flesh. The mummy groaned, its body shifting unnaturally as it stood.

Too late.

Before Max could react, the creature's cold, bony hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat. His body was lifted off the ground, and with an almost casual flick, it threw him into the sand.

Max's back hit the earth with a brutal thud. The air whooshed out of his lungs. He gasped, the impact rattling his teeth.

Max's arms and legs burned with the strain, but he didn't give in. He rolled, using the momentum to stand, barely avoiding the swipe of a mummy's bone sword. His breath was ragged, but he didn't have time to slow down since the mummy was racing at him again. 

Max's body was a blur of motion, every fiber of his being focused on staying one step ahead of the relentless assault. His legs moved like pistons, shifting him just out of reach of the mummy's sword as it swung down with terrifying precision. The air around him crackled with the force of each strike, the sand swirling in chaotic gusts as the battle raged on.

The mummy's sword came down again, a swift arc that would have cleaved him in half if not for his quick reflexes. Max twisted his body, his shoulder and back burning with the effort, and he managed to slip under the blow.

but the momentum forced him down onto the sand. He didn't have time to think.

The mummy loomed over him, its eyes hollow, its face a grotesque mask of decay. It raised its sword high, intent on finishing him.

Max's instincts kicked in. His dagger flew up in a desperate, almost instinctual move, deflecting the strike just enough so it didn't hit his chest, but the edge of the blade sliced into the sand instead. The shock of the hit rattled his wrist, but he didn't hesitate. His other hand shot out, the dagger plunging into the mummy's exposed neck with a sickening crunch.

The mummy hissed, its grip on the sword faltering. Max didn't let up—he stabbed again, targeting the vital points, his blades flashing in the sandstorm like twin beams of death. Each strike was precise, driven by pure desperation.

But the mummy wasn't finished.

With a low, guttural growl, it swung its sword down at him again, the force of the blow so powerful that Max was forced to dodge sideways, just out of the way. His ribs screamed with pain as a fist connected with his side, the force nearly knocking him back down. He gasped, the air knocked out of his lungs. The mummy's fist swung upward in a vicious arc, catching Max in the chest.

A feint.

Max's mind raced as he fought to regain control of the situation. The sword strike had been nothing but a distraction. The real danger came from the strength of the mummy's fists, its brutal power catching him off guard.

He stumbled back, struggling to find his footing, his breath ragged as pain shot through his ribs. The mummy didn't wait. It was already raising its sword again, preparing for another deadly strike. 

'I'm gonna have to use Nightstalker fully… Hope I don't pass out from exhaustion,' Max thought, his body already burning from the relentless movement. The sand was sticking to his skin, his breath ragged and uneven, but he couldn't stop.

Max's vision sharpened as he activated Nightstalker, his body becoming a mere shadow, too fast for the mummy to follow. He shot forward like a blur, hitting vital points—bam—his dagger slicing across the mummy's ribs, bam, another strike to its shoulder, bam, he hit its leg, cutting deep. The creature was swinging its sword wildly, trying to anticipate where Max would strike next, but it couldn't keep up.

Max stayed one step ahead, his movements fluid, a dance of death that blurred the line between reality and shadow. The mummy's sword lashed out again, but Max was already gone, only a flicker of darkness remaining in the air where he had been. His dagger found its mark each time—an attack to the stomach, the chest, the joints—weakening the creature more and more with every strike.

The mummy tried to retaliate, its sword cutting through the air, but Max had already closed the distance. He launched forward, his foot planting firmly on the mummy's chest, using it to pivot as he spun around and drove his dagger into the creature's neck. The blade sank deep, piercing the creature's throat with a sickening squelch.

The mummy's body shuddered, its sword dropping from its hand as it collapsed to the ground with a resounding thud. 

The mummy, its body creaking and groaning as if defying its own mortality, slowly pushed itself up from the ground. With a resounding thud, it dropped to one knee, its head bowed in an eerie semblance of respect.

Max, his body drained of every last ounce of energy, barely registered the motion. His limbs refused to cooperate, his vision blurred at the edges. The heat, the adrenaline, the exhaustion—all of it crashed into him at once. His knees buckled, and he staggered forward, only to collapse face-first into the sand with another thud.

His mind slipped away before he could even process what had happened. The last thing he heard was the sound of the mummy's slow, ritualistic bow. Then, darkness claimed him.