Chapter 12: Forged in Flame and Iron
"Okay, Artom, what hairstyle do you want?" Nikolai asked as he poured water from a chipped tin mug to moisten the boy's thick black hair. They were in the bedroom, where a long cracked mirror leaned against the log wall, reflecting the warm amber glow of the oil lamp. The small wooden stool creaked slightly under Artom's weight. The twins were so excited that they woke him up before the sun rose from the horizon.
The cabin, humble as it was, had surprisingly yielded a pair of scissors and a box of rust-speckled razor blades. Nikolai had let the mist devour the rest of the blades for safety's sake—anything sharp was a potential threat, and he wasn't about to risk having such weapons within arm's reach of curious children. But he could summoned the said blades for a little family grooming.
"I want it to be just like yours," Artom said with a proud grin, pointing at his father's rough, shaved sides and modest goatee. "I also want a beard," he added, poking at his chin, where no hair had any intention of growing anytime soon.
"Me too!" Igor chimed in from the corner, bouncing on his heels.
"You'll get beard when you older," Nikolai said, chuckling softly. "But haircut, da, you get like papa."
He wasn't a professional barber—hell, he wasn't even a halfway decent one—but Nikolai would've carved hair with a bone if it meant making his sons smile. Thankfully, his own hairstyle was simple: shaved sides, short top, nothing fancy.
With a steady hand and careful eyes, he shaved the sides of Artom's head, making sure not to nick the skin. The boy was patient, eyes wide with anticipation.
"Alright," Nikolai said as he brushed the tiny hairs off his son's shoulders. "Here you go—Nikolai Volkov's Special Haircut, now worn by the mighty Artom Volkov!"
Artom grinned wide and turned to the mirror, his little fingers touching the new cut. "Looks so cool!" Igor said, clapping his hands.
"You ready to get your special cut, Igor Volkov?"
"Yes!" Igor shouted, throwing his hands in the air.
Nikolai couldn't help but laugh. For a moment, things felt normal. The past horrors faded away, replaced by the tender rhythm of family life. Just a father and his sons.
Later that day, while his sons played outside—chasing each other through the misty yard with wooden sticks—Nikolai sorted through a pile of salvaged weapons. Rusty swords, chipped axes, broken shields—the spoils of many hard-fought battles.
"Papa, what are you doing?" Igor asked, walking in with a small dead bird cradled in his hands. He gently laid it down by the door, a gift for the mist.
"Making something for you two," Nikolai said, prying wooden handles from rusted iron blades. "You two can fight now. You strong. You need protection."
Artom poked his head through the window. "Are you making armor for us?!"
Nikolai only smiled. That was all the confirmation they needed.
"YAHOO!" Artom whooped, disappearing from view.
"I'm not real blacksmith," Nikolai muttered as he pulled out a crucible he had made days ago from scavenged ceramic and stone, "but I can try."
He had no forge, no anvil. But necessity was a mother of invention. Using fire pits and a bellows fashioned from animal hide, he melted the salvaged metal in the crucible he made from many trails and error. While the metal turned to liquid, he took blocks of clay and carved into them with a wooden beak-shape—one designed to act as a stabbing weapon. The carved cavities were then filled with molten metal. Once cooled, the clay was broken away, revealing crude but deadly beak-blades.
For the armor, he kept it simple. Chainmail shirts and trousers made from linked metal loops, reinforced with salvaged leather. He added shoulder guards, secured with straps, and left holes at the back for their wings. The talons were made the same way as the beaks—cast in clay molds and fitted onto sock-like leather pieces that could be fastened to their ankles.
When he finished, he laid the armor out on the floor and stared at it, sweat dripping from his brow.
"Not bad," he muttered. The kids clapped wildly behind him.
Just as he raised his hand to offer the armor to the mist for devouring, a notification appeared.
[ BLACKSMITHING LEARNED ]
[ YOU CAN NOW ALTER YOUR ARMOUR ]
A jolt of pain pierced through his skull. He gritted his teeth as foreign knowledge rushed into his brain like a tidal wave. Schematics, measurements, construction techniques—how to bend metal and mold it like clay.
"Whoa," he said, breathing hard. "That's… new."
With reverent care, he allowed the mist to devour the armor. Within a minute, it was gone, digested into its smoky essence.
He extended his palm toward the remaining heap of weapons. The mist slithered over the metal, consuming it all. Closing his eyes, Nikolai activated Undead Will. The pain returned, brief but sharp. When he opened them again, he felt lighter… and stronger.
"You two ready to try your new armor?" he asked with a grin.
[ BLESSINGS HAVE BEEN GIVEN ]
Artom and Igor transformed, shifting into their monstrous raven forms, and summoned their new armor. It materialized over their black feathers with a metallic shimmer. The chainmail shirts and trousers gleamed dully, the shoulder guards sitting firm. The most striking feature was the razor-sharp metal beak that now covered their faces—elegant, deadly, and uniquely their own.
"That metal beak took lot of metal," Nikolai grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "Better not break it."
"We love it!" both boys shouted in unison, hopping and flapping with joy.
But the surprises didn't end there.
Curious, Nikolai tried his hand at crafting a spear. He cast a pointed spearhead and fastened it to a thick wooden shaft. Once completed, another Voice arrived in his head.
[ BLACKSMITH SKILL UPDATED ]
[ YOU CAN NOW ALTER YOUR WEAPONS ]
He blinked in disbelief.
"Now this," he muttered, "this is good."
He got to work.
Using the new skill, he altered his standard sword, stretching and thickening it until it was unrecognizable. The end result: a hulking greatsword, two meters long, twelve centimeters wide, and five centimeters thick. It was ridiculously heavy, but the mist-born strength in his arms made it feel like a toy.
"Why waste metal on sword like this?" he mused aloud. "Because… why not? It badass. And my boys agree."
[ NEW ITEM CREATED: GREAT SWORD ]
Every time he drastically changed a weapon's shape or purpose, the mist registered it as a completely new item. He experimented further, modifying his sledgehammer to be larger and heavier. The added mass made it a devastating weapon, capable of smashing through bone and steel.
Some weapons, however, he left unchanged. Daggers, throwing knives, and his old axe—he couldn't think of practical ways to improve them. But he kept them close.
Two years passed this way.
The enemies never changed. Draug, undead orcs, and the occasional giant Draug wandered into their territory like moths drawn to a flame. But they weren't a challenge anymore. Not to him, not to his sons.
With the Orcish Physique enhancing their bodies daily, they only grew stronger with time. Nikolai began to wonder if anything could challenge them anymore.
Except… the dragon.
That ancient, rotting wyrm that slumbered in the dark depths of the forest. It had attacked only once, but its presence lingered like a shadow over their small world.
They would have to kill it eventually.
They would need to be stronger.
Much stronger.
{ In Asgard }
Odin, the Allfather, bore many titles—over one hundred and seventy, depending on which tales you believed. But there was one title not written in the sagas: the Perverted Aesir.
In his youth, Odin had been the most desired of the gods. Wise, powerful, and alluring, his exploits were the stuff of both legend and scandal. Even after centuries, marriage to the formidable Frigg hadn't entirely quelled his flirtatious nature. While he honored his vows (mostly), he still had a habit of "complimenting" every young maiden that crossed his path.
But now, in his golden hall, Odin sat not as the playful lover—but as the Ruler of Asgard, reading troubling reports.
"The village of Fredilig," he said, scanning a parchment handed to him by Chief Valkyrie Brynhildr, "still not solved?"
"No, my lord," Brynhildr replied, her armor gleaming with divine light. "For two years, the undead have assaulted the village. Every night, they come from the forest. Every dawn, they vanish without a trace."
Fredilig was one of the last villages in Midgard to still worship the old gods. The Christians had tried for a century to convert them, but the people of Fredilig remained loyal.
Now they were under siege.
"Draug do not behave like this," Odin muttered. "They guard treasure, crypts, burial mounds. They don't… raid villages. Not like this."
"These Draug are not alone," Brynhildr added. "Undead orcs have been seen with them. That's two pantheons, sir."
Odin frowned.
"Just what is happening in that forest?" he whispered, fingers tightening around his spear Gungnir. "I pray it is not what I fear."
.....
Author's Note:
A major time skip is coming next chapter. Buckle up.
See you soon.