Chapter 5

The night was thick with an eerie stillness as Atlas Von Carstein stood amidst the tombstones in the castle's graveyard. Moonlight filtered through the branches of gnarled trees, casting long shadows over the burial ground where both enemies and fallen comrades lay in eternal rest.

Atlas's crimson eyes gleamed with determination as he held his hand aloft, fingers curled into a claw-like gesture. The AI Chip had only recently finished optimising the spell and transmitted the mystical knowledge straight to his brain. This would be his first attempt at magic mastered by vampires for centuries, taking his first steps to tame the wild winds of magic. With this ability, he could summon forth the fallen warriors, raising an army of undead to serve his will – or at least the start of one.

Taking a deep breath, Atlas focused his mind on the ancient incantations he had memorised, reaching deep within himself to bind the winds of magic to his will. Magic, like air, floated throughout the world that those with the gift could leverage to achieve the impossible. However like a fickle wind, magic had currents, rises, falls and even storms that mages had to navigate. Atlas simultaneously tried to weave the magic into the fine strands necessary and used his thoughts reaching out to the spirits of the departed buried beneath his feet. He chanted the words of power, his voice echoing through the silent graveyard as he called upon the dark forces of necromancy to do his bidding.

But as he reached the climax of the ritual, a surge of raw magic erupted from his outstretched hand, the energy crackling and sparking with chaotic intensity. Atlas staggered back, his body convulsing with pain as the spell spiralled out of control. Backlash injured not only his body but his spirit too.

The ground beneath him trembled, tombstones shuddering in their resting places as the earth split open with a deafening roar. But instead of the obedient undead rising from their graves, all Atlas summoned was chaos and destruction.

With a cry of frustration, Atlas fell to his knees, blood oozing from his palms where the magic had burned him. He had failed, his first attempt at wielding the power of necromancy ending in disaster.

Thinking about the spell, he recognised his error. Raw magic, while powerful, had to be shaped into something useful. Most spells required fine control, where the chaotic winds of magic could be shaped and bent to one's will. That control was his weakness. He had a spell framework stronger than others due to the AI chip, however he still lacked the physical skills of casting.

"Status." He ground out through gritted fangs.

Beep!

*Hosts Status* (Reminder 5 is average for humans)

*Strength – 18 *

*Agility – 25 *

*Physique – 17 *

*Spirit – 9 (7)*

*Lore of Vampire Spells* (Levels show skill – 10 is full mastery)

*1. Raise dead. (Level 1)*

He could see the spell had cost him two units of Spirit, meaning he could only perform it a maximum of three more times before having to rest and recuperate. Atlas heard his maker's words ring in his head like a bell.

"Magic has a price."

Atlas refused to be deterred. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he forced himself to stand once more, his determination unshaken. He would master this spell, no matter the cost.

Time and time again, Atlas repeated the ritual, each attempt bringing him closer to success but also pushing him to the brink of exhaustion. He poured all his energy and focus into the incantation, willing the magic to bend to his command.

And then, on his final attempt, something shifted. The air hummed with power as Atlas channelled his will into the spell, the magic rather than fighting him, seemed to submit to his desires forming the mystical runes while his words flowed effortlessly from his lips. This time, when he reached out to the spirits of the dead, they answered his call.

With a deep rumble, the ground parted once more, but this time, instead of chaos, a single figure emerged from the earth. A skeleton clad in ancient armour, its bones bleached white by centuries of decay, crawled its way out of the dirt, its empty eye sockets fixed on Atlas with an eerie intensity.

As the skeleton stood before him, silent and obedient, Atlas could feel an invisible connection linking him to animated bones, making it subservient to his will and commands. While this was a simple and solitary skeleton, he could already see what he had raised was not the typical fodder that most was limited to – he had no need for zombies. With his mastery of necromancy growing stronger by the day, there was no limit to what he could achieve. And as he looked out over the graveyard, he saw not just a resting place for the dead, but a vast resource waiting to be called upon when needed.

A sense of triumph surged through Atlas as he beheld his creation. Despite the pain and setbacks, he had succeeded in raising the dead. And now, with his newfound power, he knew that day would come when he would command an army unlike any other, a legion of undead warriors ready to serve at his command.

Satisfied with his efforts, Atlas turned his attention to other matters. As the hunger clawed at his insides, Atlas Von Carstein prowled through the dimly lit corridors of the castle, his senses keenly attuned to the rhythmic pulse of life that echoed through the stone walls. The scent of warm blood hung heavy in the air, tantalizing and intoxicating, drawing him inexorably toward his prey.

In the dimly lit chambers, human thralls moved about their duties, their faces bearing expressions of fear and resignation as they went about their tasks under the watchful gaze of their vampiric masters. They knew their fate as servants to the undead, bound to serve in exchange for the promise of immortality—a fate that Atlas had once feared but now embraced with grim determination.

With a predatory grace, Atlas moved among them, his steps silent as shadows as he selected his target. His crimson eyes glinted with hunger as he cornered a young servant girl, her eyes wide with terror as she realized the danger she was in.

"Please," she whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Have mercy."

But mercy was a luxury Atlas could ill afford. With a swift movement, he closed the distance between them, his fangs elongating as he bared them in a silent threat. The girl trembled, her pulse racing beneath her delicate skin, a primal instinct driving her to flee even as she knew it was futile.

In one fluid motion, Atlas seized her wrist, his grip like iron as he pressed her against the cold stone wall. He could feel the steady thrum of her heartbeat beneath his fingertips, a steady rhythm that called out to him with a siren's song.

Closing his eyes, Atlas gave himself over to the primal urge that gnawed at his insides, his fangs sinking into the soft flesh of her neck with a hunger that bordered on desperation. The taste of her blood was like fire on his tongue, warm and sweet and intoxicating, flooding his senses with a rush of euphoria that left him dizzy with pleasure.

For a moment, he lost himself in the ecstasy of the feed, his mind consumed by the primal need to consume and survive. But even as he drank, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind, reminding him of the delicate balance he must maintain.

With a supreme effort of will, Atlas forced himself to pull away, his fangs retracting with a soft hiss as he released his hold on the trembling girl. She slumped against the wall, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"Go," he rasped his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

With a trembling nod, the girl fled, disappearing into the shadows as if she were nothing more than a ghost. Atlas watched her go, his heart heavy with the weight of what he had done. The hunger still raged within him, a primal force that threatened to consume him whole, but for now, he had sated its demands.

As he turned to leave, his thoughts turned once more to the graveyard and the army of undead that awaited his command. There was much work to be done, and Atlas knew that he could ill afford to rest until his power was absolute and his enemies lay broken at his feet.

Using the AI chip to collate the knowledge from the ancient tomes and scrolls stored within the castle's vast library, Atlas found more information about necromancy. Skeletons might be effective against unarmed or poorly trained peasants, but a knight could cut a swathe through even a large host. He was determined to understand the intricacies of summoning and controlling more powerful undead.

Atlas learned of the different types of undead that could be raised through dark magic. He discovered that there were three main categories: lesser undead, greater undead, and higher undead.

The lesser undead were the most basic form of reanimated corpses, little more than mindless puppets animated by the necromancer's will. They lacked intelligence and autonomy, existing only to carry out simple tasks and obey commands. These creatures were often used as foot soldiers in armies of the undead, their numbers bolstering the ranks of their masters; such as his first skeleton.

Greater undead, on the other hand, were created from more powerful corpses or imbued with special skills or attributes. They possessed greater strength and sometimes even retained fragments of their former selves, allowing them to carry out more complex tasks and even wield weapons or perform magic. However, they were still bound to the will of their creator and lacked true autonomy.

Finally, there were the higher undead, the most formidable and rare of all. These creatures were not merely reanimated corpses but had souls of their own, allowing them to think, feel, and even cultivate their powers over time. They were capable of independent thought and action, making them powerful allies or dangerous adversaries depending on their allegiance.

Unfortunately for Atlas, he had not yet learned the secrets of creating higher undead, nor did he possess the bodies of formidable enemies needed to craft greater undead. For now, he would have to make do with raising lesser undead to serve his purposes.

With each incantation, Atlas felt the dark energy surge through him, coursing through the earth and awakening the dormant spirits of the dead. Each cast extracted its cost from him, however resting and feeding helped his recovery. Soon, a small unit of lesser undead stood before him, their hollow eyes fixed on their new master. He was no master mage, but he had mastered this spell better than many veteran vampires.

Death had never been this fascinating to him.