After the Zombie Tetramand had stood up he his skin had turned gray and his eyes were completely gray also which made him seem cold bloded and ruthelss after the transformation it had become more scary and make it look more formidaeble person .
Alan was left in confusion. How could he possibly hide this gigantic beast inside his room? If Uncle George ever came in—especially after hearing he'd been in a fight—he would definitely check everything.
No way I can explain this… let's leave that problem for later, Alan thought, glancing at the towering figure beside him. First, I should see what this guy can actually do outside.
He smirked to himself. If anyone stops me, I'll just say he's a mutant. That excuse works for everything in this world. Mutants can look like anything—from people who can't hurt a fly to those who could destroy entire universes.
Alan rummaged through his closet, pulling out shirts and jackets, but nothing even came close to fitting the massive body with four arms. After a while, he sighed.
"Yeah… this won't work. Guess we're going shopping," he muttered, glancing up at the silent creature.
Of course, Four Arms didn't respond—his undead servant simply stood there like a mountain of muscle, waiting for orders.
At the store, Alan tried his best not to look suspicious while the shopkeeper gave the occasional glance at his companion. Finally, he picked out what he needed: a long black trench coat, a wide hat, a pair of sunglasses, a mask, and gloves.
As he dressed the undead in the outfit, he chuckled. "Well, at least you look cool now. People might think you're just some huge bodybuilder with a fashion problem."
For the first time, Alan said the name out loud. "From now on, I'll call you… Four Arms. Easier to say than whatever your species is called, right?"
The massive creature gave no reply, but Alan still felt satisfied.
"Good. Four Arms it is, then," he said with a grin. "Let's test your strength. Shall we?"
Alan first stepped into the hallway, carefully scoping the area. He wanted to make sure no neighbors—or worse, Uncle George—were around.
The coast was clear. With a mental command, he ordered, Four Arms, come out.
The towering undead obeyed silently, stepping out of the room and locking the door behind him just as Alan instructed. That was another perk of his necromancer class: he didn't need to speak aloud. His summons could follow his will directly through mental commands.
Alan let Four Arms walk ahead of him, choosing to follow at a distance. He didn't want anyone connecting him with the hulking figure—such a link would only invite trouble.
After some time, they reached a desolate part of the city—an abandoned factory. Alan's memories told him it had been raided only a few weeks ago by the NYPD, uncovering a massive drug operation meant to supply networks across the country.
Uncle George himself had been in charge of that raid.
As Alan planned to test Four Arms inside, muffled voices drifted out from the factory. He froze and listened carefully.
"Shit… damn cops. How dare they raid Kingpin's den?" one gangster snarled.
Another voice joined in. "Kingpin ain't happy. I heard he's planning to hit back—going after the Stacy family directly."
Alan's eyes narrowed.
A third thug laughed. "Serves 'em right. Who told them to mess with the boss's business?"
Then a new figure stepped out of one of the side rooms, his voice low and uncertain. "But wouldn't the cops retaliate? George Stacy isn't just some beat officer—he's high-ranking. If we go after his family, won't they crush us?"
The group fell silent at his words, tension thick in the air.
The thug replied, "Whatever, let's see what happens. We are not the ones who call the shots."
Alan clenched his fists. So Kingpin's planning to target the Stacys… meaning Gwen, Uncle George.
Alan narrowed his eyes as he observed the thugs more closely. They weren't just loitering inside the abandoned factory to kill time. No—they were hard at work, digging into the concrete floor.
Soon, it became clear what they were doing. Hidden beneath the building was a secret stash, and they were pulling out packages one by one. Drugs.
Alan's mind clicked into place. So even after the raid, they left some behind. A backup cache.
If the cops had taken everything, Kingpin's men would've suffered a massive loss. But with this hidden supply, they could still salvage their operation. At the very least, retrieving these drugs would soften the blow and keep their punishment from the boss from being too severe.
Kingpin was the king of New York's underworld. The raid on his factory had hurt his business, but it was not enough to bring him down. Still, if Kingpin did not fight back, his enemies would think he was weak. They would attack more and more, and maybe even join together to take him down.
Alan knew this. That was why he made a choice—he would take care of these thugs first and of Kingpin afterwards. Not because he cared much, but because this body owed a debt. Uncle George had helped the original Alan's father. Now it was his turn to act.
"Four Arms," Alan said in his mind, "finish them."
Hearing the Command of his Master, Four Arms followed it.
With one huge jump, Four Arms smashed through the old roof of the factory. Dust and broken wood filled the air. A giant shadow stood in the middle of the smoke, tall and scary.
The thugs froze.
"Shit—it must be one of those vigilantes!" one of them shouted.
"Shoot him!" another yelled.
Bullets flew through the smoke. Sparks flashed. But when the dust cleared, the monster stood tall. The bullets had done nothing.
Alan watched through Four Arms' eyes. He had just learned something new—he could see through his undead and even use its mouth to speak if he wanted.
Four Arms rushed forward. One thug tried to run while shooting, but a huge hand grabbed him. With a loud rip, Four Arms tore the man in two. Blood and guts spilled on the floor.
The other thugs screamed. "M-Monster! He's a mutant!"
Fear took over. They ran toward the exit. But Four Arms was faster. He slammed down in front of the door, blocking it with his huge body.
The gangsters stopped. Their guns shook in their hands. Sweat rolled down their faces.